DISCLAIMER: Lord, if only they were mine... but they're not. They belong to those folks at Mirisch, Trilogy, MGM, CBS, TNN

SPOILER: This follows immediately upon events of "Sins of the Past."

NOTES: First of all, let me say that I have no control over this story; it is writing itself. I don't know where it's going, or even if it's going any further than this. For now, though, this is what it wanted to say. There may be more; I hope there is. But that all depends on what it chooses to reveal to me. Thanks, as always, to Joan, just for being there; and thanks to Painted Eyes, who recognized that not every story *has* an ending. Finally, this is for Adrian, who recently reminded me of fields of blue, and how much I miss them. But, see? There are seeds, and then there are *seeds*!

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The dream was always the same.

He stood bare-headed in a vast, sprawling field, swept by wind and caressed by sun, surrounded on every side and for as far as the eye could see by a gently rippling, softly whispering sea of blue. It was not water that rose to his knees and lapped against his legs, though, but flowers, an eternity of flowers, so intensely blue it almost hurt his eyes to see them. Wave upon wave of them, an endless tide of brilliant purple-blue blossoms crowned by white tips that near sparkled in the sun.

He knew this place, was part of this place, just as it was part of him. His body had been fashioned from the earth upon which he stood, just as the rivers and creeks that watered it coursed through his veins and spilled out through his tears. The wind that swept like an unseen hand through the field, bending stalks of grasses and flowers in a gentle rhythm, was his breath, and the same pulse of life he felt in all about him thrummed and throbbed in the beating of his heart. He *was* this place, and it was him.

Once again, his dream had brought him home.

*Home.* The word whispered to him, sang to him, danced through his mind and slipped into his soul and severed every bond that would have held him. Suddenly set free, he threw back his head and cried out aloud, feeling every wild part of him rising up fiercely in response. He cried out again and began running through the field, arms out at his sides, eyes as wide and as blue as the field fixed upon the sky...

And all at once he was flying. Exultation surged through him, hard and hot, and as he climbed ever higher upon currents of air, he loosed the shrill, piercing scream of the hawk. Powerful wings pumped, carrying him aloft, and he was as he had always been, born of the earth but not bound to the earth, free only when he could fly.

But the dream was always the same.

From the sky he looked down, his sharp, all-seeing hunter's gaze catching every flicker of light and life below him, and, to his horror, his beloved field began to change. Amid the white-capped blue flowers flecks of red began to show, crimson blooms pushing through like blood upon the land. With each beat of his heart more red stained the field, and he looked down to see the drops falling from his breast.

His heart was weeping tears of blood.

With the loss of blood came loss of strength, and soon he was growing too tired to fly. Each pump of his wings required more effort, more than he had to give. He needed to find shelter, needed to rest, to heal, to wait for his heart to stop weeping. And he knew such a place, remembered it, felt its peace calling to him even now. Tired, so tired, he turned and willed his wings to keep beating, dragging himself through the air to the patch of land that had given him birth.

When he saw it, he wept with his eyes as well as his heart. A small cabin, never much, but always enough, and more than he'd ever wanted. Yet where once light would have shone from it, now it was dark, no longer warm, but cold and lifeless. He looked around and saw the graves that marked where the light and life had gone. Gone, all gone.

But still *here*. They had returned to the earth, were part of the earth, and now made that earth sacred. He could still feel them, if only in that earth. Needing them, needing what they gave him, what they'd always given him, he flew desperately to them, needing once more to take their strength into himself.

*You're a Tanner, boy. Don't ever forget that.*

He hadn't forgotten, he'd *never* forgotten, oh, God, it was all he had left, but he still remembered! With a weak, plaintive cry, he dropped from the earth toward the graves...

And was attacked by a seething, shouting mob that sprang suddenly from the earth. With vicious hands they grabbed at him, clawed at him, beat him, brought out their ropes and tried to snare him. Time and again they lashed him, always shouting, then one of their ropes landed around his neck and began to draw tight about his throat.

Lord God, he couldn't breathe!

Panicked, he fought them, tried to flap his wings to escape but could not break free. They dragged him out of the sky, down to the ground, and over to a body. Terror rose up cold and sharp within him as they tied him to the body and began pulling tight the rope around his neck.

Oh, God, no, *no*! He hadn't done this thing! He'd killed, yes, but not this time, not this man, and he wouldn't die for something he hadn't done!

With a last burst of strength he screamed and broke the ropes, screamed again and launched himself into the air. Bleeding now from more than just his heart, he pumped his wings frantically and raced away from the furious crowd, propelled by his fear.

He flew over ground he'd once known, but didn't now, watching as his field of blue ran red with blood. His blood, the blood of the man he hadn't killed, the blood of those he had... So much blood, he was drowning in the smell.

*Ma... Mama, help me! I'm tryin', but, Lord God, I'm tired!*

Then he saw him, and knew she'd sent him, so her boy could rest. Fury filled him, and he dove toward the man running through the purple-blue flowers and painting them with blood. He now hoped the crowd was following him, wanted them to see the blood flowing from this man's hands and know it was all *his* doing. The man looked up, saw him, and started running faster, but not fast enough. Fury turned to rage, and he screamed again, extending his talons and swooping down to strike. The man was so close he could feel his heat, could hear his heart beating and the blood pumping through his veins, and the hunter in him rejoiced.

He had him, his prey, had only to reach down a little more...

An explosion sounded, and the man was torn from his grasp. And to his horror, he saw that the man who had painted the field with the blood of others was now drenching it with his own. He hovered above him, and watched helplessly as his hope, and his field of blue, drowned in a sea of blood.

=======

"NO!"

He awoke with a cry and jerked upright, hugging himself and shaking uncontrollably as terror rioted through him. For long, horrible moments he couldn't breathe, was gasping and gagging for air denied him by the rope around his neck. Sweat poured from him as he twitched and struggled for life amid the suffocating closeness of death.

"No!" he pleaded again, and with that plea came breath. He sucked it in greedily and raised shaking hands to claw at his throat, his fingers encountering nothing but flesh. "Oh, shit! Shit, no!" he whispered, burying his face in his hands, then running his fingers through his hair. "'S jist a dream!" he told himself, his breathing still harsh and ragged, his body refusing to stop shaking. He ran his hands once more through his hair, then lifted his head and looked around, trying to make out his surroundings.

A room. What the hell was he doin' in a room? How the hell did he get here?

He sat up straighter, crossed his legs and folded his arms tightly against his chest, trying to remember. On a bed, no less. Why wasn't he in his wagon?

He licked dry lips and glanced cautiously around, peering through darkness and shadows. Then he saw the window and willed his eyes to adjust to the faint light filtering through it while straining his ears to sort out the sounds that floated up to him.

Up. He was up. Upstairs. He glanced around, and picked out familiar shapes through the gloom. Boardinghouse. His room. The room he rarely used. But he wasn't sick, wasn't hurt...

Memory dawned then, and he relaxed slightly with a shuddering sigh. Larabee. Chris had insisted he sleep up here tonight, within the security of walls instead of the flimsy canvas of his wagon. Larabee had been just as shaken up as he'd been...

He heard it again then, and couldn't help flinching at the sound. The explosion, the gunshot that had blown it all to hell. And once more, he watched in helpless horror as the body fell to the ground.

Eli Joe, dead. Vin Tanner's last hope, dead. Both killed by his best friend.

*I know you wanted him alive.*

*Did what ya had to. Cain't clear my name if I'm dead.*

An anguished groan escaped him and once more he dropped his head into his hands, his body bowed by and shaking with despair. *Cain't clear my name if I'm dead.*

But now he was past believing he'd ever clear it, anyway.

=======

Out in the hallway, Chris Larabee stood in silence, clad only in his undershirt and black pants, one hand pressed to Tanner's door. Unable to sleep, he'd heard the muffled cries through the thin wall separating his room from Vin's, and had been struck through the heart by them. He couldn't forget the desolation he'd seen in Vin's eyes after Eli Joe's death, and knew he never would.

How could he, when that look had been his doing?

He groaned softly and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the door near his hand, his shoulders slumping. The silence in that room was more haunting even than the cries had been. Instinctively, he knew Vin was awake, could almost picture the man huddled on the bed he so rarely used, wrapped in and racked by grief. He wanted so much to go in, to offer some measure of comfort, but hadn't the vaguest notion of how.

What could he possibly say? "I'm sorry?" Jesus, how useless was that? And what right did he have to clear his conscience when he'd destroyed Vin's last chance of clearing his name? His *name*, for God's sake, the only real thing of value Tanner had ever had!

But he *was* sorry; God, so sorry he ached from it. It was like a stone in his heart and a cold weight at the center of his bones, a weight that made his whole being hurt from the burden of carrying it. Vin was innocent, and Chris had promised he'd help him prove it.

Instead, he'd killed the only proof there was.

Straightening with an effort, his tired body protesting, he ran his hand almost lovingly over that door, then dropped it to his side. And, feeling much older than his years, he turned away and went slowly back to his own room, ignoring the bottle he'd brought up to help him through this night.

What right had he to the comfort of forgetfulness, when there could be no such comfort for Vin?

=======

He was up and out of his room before dawn, floating like a ghost through the darkness that still lay over the town. He hadn't gone back to sleep after the dream, hadn't been able to. He'd stayed in the room until the walls had begun closing in on him, until he'd had to come outside to breathe.

Damn noose was drawin' tight again...

He absently raised a hand to his throat and slipped his fingers under the collar of his shirt, needing reassurance that the rope was no longer there. He shuddered at the memory of its weight dropping over him, nearly choked as he felt the noose closing about him. Throat constricted, breath came in short, ragged, futile gasps, and he clawed frantically at the top buttons of his shirt, desperately needing air and not getting nearly enough.

A button popped, a second slid through its hole, the shirt parted and he sagged against the jail wall, closing his eyes and pulling in great draughts of blessed air, his whole body racked by violent tremors. The early morning air was cool, yet, even so, sweat beaded on his upper lip, soaked into the fringe of hair across his forehead and at his temples, and his heart hammered against his ribs like the hooves of a runaway horse.

*Hell, you know me, Chris. I ain't afraid of dyin'. I jist don't wanta go out like that, strung up like some mangy dog.*

*Strung up...*

*Vin Tanner, you're under arrest for murder in the sovereign state of Texas.*

*Strung up...*

*Murder...*

*Mangy dog...*

"No!"

He shoved himself away from the wall with a soft, hoarse cry and resumed his silent and solitary prowl through town. The first vague hint of dawn was beginning to show in the east, a pale, illusory lightening of the deep indigo sky that mocked him with its promise. Dawn had always meant hope; another night survived, a new day coming, and bringing with it one more chance. One more chance to put to right the mistakes of the past, to redeem the sins of the past and reclaim his future. A new day, a clean start, a fresh chance to clear his name.

*You got a chance ta finish this now.*

But not today.

*I know you wanted him alive.*

And not ever.

*Did what ya had to. Cain't clear my name if I'm dead.*

Dead. All dead; Eli Joe, his hope. Both killed by the single blast of a friend's gun.

He stopped, looked up, and found himself standing before the telegraph office. Looked up further, saw a body falling from the roof. A corpse.

Again, he heard the heavy thud of his last hope hitting the ground, and the final echoes of the gunshot that had killed it.

*I know you wanted him alive.*

But when had Vin Tanner ever gotten what he wanted?

He turned away and resumed his walking, ghosting through shadows, a shadow himself. Didn't know where he was going, didn't care. Wasn't like it really mattered. Couldn't go back; all he had waiting for him was a noose. Couldn't go forward; that'd just be running, and, Lord God, he was tired of running. Nothing to go back to, nothing to go forward to; he was well and truly stuck. Mired so deep in blood he had and hadn't shed that he'd never be free again.

Never be able to fly again.

Caught fast in the rope he could feel clear through to his soul, unable to summon the strength or the will to spread his wings, he lifted his head, raised desolate eyes to the vast expanse of the indigo sky...

And near wept for the loss of his fields of blue.