Hour Of Darkness
Chapter Twenty Two, Misery
John fell to the board, sliding on the thick coating of ice. He landed on his forearms and knees, gritting his teeth and putting his back to the howling wind. John fought back tears, fighting through the deepening snow to where George had fallen. A tear rolled down his cheek, freezing on his numb cheekbone. He stumbled over a high drift, risking a glance towards Ringo.
The elder Beatle was encased in a shimmering whirlwind of snow, a tornado whipping his blue, icicle-covered hair around his frostbitten shoulders. His clothes were stained with sweat despite the frigid temperatures, and soon Ringo's soaked clothes froze, crackling unforgivingly with every movement he made. His concentration broken for a split second, Ringo looked down, a look of disappointment on his blue hued features. He grabbed two handfuls of his shirt, and with one easy yank, ripped it from his body, exposing his bare, blue chest. Ringo kicked his legs, the pants disintegrating, falling to the floor in a shower of shimmering ice. John almost averted his eyes, embarrassed, but he noticed that Ringo wasn't naked; he was now wearing a pair of blue jeans, reasonably tight fit, and a white t-shirt, also of slightly tight fit. They seemed to glow softly in the darkness, not freezing and cracking like his previous wardrobe. With a nod of absent approval, Ringo turned his fiery gaze to John, who had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, lips turning an even deeper blue, shivering madly. Ringo's lips curled into his usual corrupt smile, and he brought his hands up swiftly, the wind rising to an even higher gale.
John leaned into the wind as Ringo vanished behind a screen of thick, swirling snow. John trudged through the drifts, having little if any luck conserving his body heat. He slogged forward to where George's remains lay, the ice and snow stinging his eyes and blinding him. John reached out with his numb fingers, blindly stumbling in the direction of George's body. He lost his footing, his feet shooting out from under him on the slick ice. With a mental cry, John thrust out his hands, landing face first in the snow. He didn't get up, didn't move, sobbing silently from exhaustion, numbness, and a feeling of utter helplessness. He clenched his fists in anger and frustration, the tendons cracking in the bitterly cold air. As he did so, John's long fingers brushed against a solid form. Surprised, John reached out further, groping in the blinding wind and trying to deduce what this could be. He crawled with great effort, kneeling next to George's frozen form.
George was curled in a fetal position, wings wrapped tightly around him. He shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering madly behind his blue tinted lips. With an incredible sigh of relief, John gathered him up, the two huddled together in the dish of white snow. It appeared that only the unreal shattered; Aramis was forged of magic, and thus did not really exist. George, however, was very real, and the ice shattering only freed him of his icy tomb.
John helped the shivering and frightened George to his feet, slinging George's bluish arm over his shoulder. George, de-transform. You'll conserve more heat.
J-jai gu-guru d-deva om… He was barely able to utter the syllables in the freezing cold, but George's torn and tattered wings disappeared nonetheless. He leaned heavily on John, head hung, hair coated in a thin layer of ice and snow. George's head nodded as he tired, hypothermia setting in.
George…stay with me, Geo! John said nervously, dragging his younger band mate through the thickening snow that was turning to ice. The wind continued to howl, Ringo's body shielded by the immense column of snow as he governed the storm with seemingly boundless energy.
George stumbled, almost dragging John down into the frozen drifts. John hefted him up laboriously, slapping his face gently. George! Come on, stay awake! All he got in response was a glazed stare. John took a deep breath of the stingingly frigid air, then tossed George's slight frame over his shoulders, continuing through the snow in Paul's direction. John wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do; he wasn't particularly fond of the idea of deliberately smashing him against the chessboard. Then again, it freed George, why shouldn't it work on Paul? John had to make a decision, and fast. Judging by George's present condition, Paul wouldn't last much longer. However, judging by Aramis's condition, or lack thereof, he wouldn't last very long that way, either.
John stumbled over another snowdrift, stopping to readjust George's shivering body to a more comfortable position on his shoulders. He thrust his foot into the next snowdrift, abruptly stubbing his toe on a hard, icy object. He swore profusely, hopping slightly in pain. John quickly cleared a dish in the snow, laying George in it for protection from the relentless gale. John began to dig, thrusting his hands into the snow, cutting himself on the sharp ice shards, but his fingers so numb it didn't seem to matter. He slowly cleared away around Paul's frozen form, Paul's mouth still agape in shock. With his bleeding and torn fingernails, John scraped at the ice covering Paul's neck, slowly revealing the ladybug encased in amber. It was still fluttering, slowly but steadily, as if Paul were in cryogenics; and in a way, he was.
John stood up, flexing his arms in the cold wind. After quickly checking George and seeing he was still awake, John leaned over, grabbing Paul by the shoulders and hoisting him up laboriously. He lifted the block of ice as high as possible, Paul's feet still touching the ground but the head and shoulders almost upright. John's arms began to tremble under the weight, his teeth gritted and a bead of sweat dripping down his cheek, freezing almost instantly. With a loud cry, John thrust the shimmering statue into the air, jumping back as far as possible as it crashed to the marble floor.
The ice shattered, flying every which way. John leapt to cover George, who sat dazedly in the snow as the sharp shards rained from above. One huge section flew high into the air, the sharp edge glinting in the dim light. John saw it, eyes wide, as it flew at them with incredible speed. John braced himself for the inevitably painful impact.
Instead, John was doused with an incredible shower of water, equivalent to a bucket thrown over his head. He sputtered, shivering as the ice water soaked his shirt. He blinked through the strands of wet hair hanging over his eyes as the entire landscape began to melt. The temperature rose steadily, the ice and snow liquefying into deep puddles that ran over the edges of the board. John stood up, planting his feet firmly so as not to slip on the slick marble. George sat up, tucking his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth gently, whimpering; his lips and skin slowly faded to their normal tint. John brushed the damp locks from his own eyes, ineffectually wiping his water-stained glasses on his soaked shirt. He squinted in Ringo's direction, trying to discern the sudden halt of the storm.
Ringo lay limp on the floor in a puddle, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face twisted in agony as he clutched his stomach and vomited to the side. Sitting up, Ringo moaned softly, the red in his eyes dimmed, almost black. John gingerly poked into his mind, tweaking his band mate's aura to discern the source of the problem.
Ringo was losing power…and fast. It was draining his system of all strength, and the upheld gale had all but dried up his power reserves. He was weak, almost human. Now was their chance.
George! Paul! He's weak! We can get him now, if…
John. George's mindvoice was tired and raspy. John turned on his heel inquisitively to look at his younger mate.
George was sitting on the marble floor, Paul's head cradled in his lap. John rushed to his side, frantically wiping the hair from his ghostly pale face and neck. The ladybug draped on the delicate leather across his neck had stopped fluttering. Paul was dead.
John stared in disbelief, then grabbed Paul's wrist and looked for a pulse. Finding none, he frantically put an ear to his chest, still finding no sign of life. He pulled off Paul's suit coat, flinging it to the side into an evaporating puddle with a splash. Again he searched vainly for a pulse, then stopped short, all breath gone from his lungs.
He's dead. George stared back in shock, still holding Paul's head in his lap. Paul's cheeks were sallow and waxen, dark circles forming around his eyes. George gently lay Paul's head and shoulders on the cold marble floor, standing up stiffly, fists balled at his sides. He glared coldly at Ringo, who still knelt on the floor, clutching his stomach. As George rose, Ringo lifted his smoldering eyes, peering through the hair that fell across his face. He grit his teeth as George regarded him disdainfully.
You killed him. John rose also, quickly flicking away a tear that rolled down his cheek.
You killed him, Ringo. John accused, choking back a sob.
****
No. This isn't right. This isn't happening.
But it is, young Richard. It is meant to be.
I…I won't…accept it…
You must. The deed is done. You saw the visions; you made the dream a reality.
But…I didn't kill him!
You did. You saw it with your own two eyes.
I didn't kill him! …I DIDN'T KILL HIM!!
****
I didn't…kill him…
John and George both started at Ringo's soft reply. Ringo slowly lifted his head, using the strength one might use to lift a ton. His eyes bored into John's.
His eyes were blue.
Sky blue, reassuring blue, a more beautiful blue than John had ever seen in his entire artistic life. Ringo staggered to his trembling feet, one hand splayed on the floor for balance, the other holding his aching stomach. His breath was shaky and wavering, but Ringo gritted his teeth and stood, feet planted firmly, arms at his sides. I didn't kill him.
George and John nodded dumbly, eyes wide. We know…we know. John soothed, taking a step forward.
Then why did you accuse? Ringo said, his mind voice a mere whisper, eyes brimming with tears. John stopped, the words stinging.
We…we didn't understand.
No one understands. Ringo's eyes flared. No one but Karine.
A deep, frightened silence fell on the board. John and George's jaws went slack in disbelief. Wha-what? George managed to stutter after a moment.
Ringo, what are you saying? John cried, a sick feeling settling in his stomach like a rock.
It is his choice. Karine slithered from the dark to stand next to the teetering Ringo, laying a hand on his shoulder. Ringo looked down at her gravely, the blue still clear in his eyes, yet his mindset somehow changed.
Unable to believe this sudden change of sides, John reached out with his mind, tickling the edges of Ringo's aura. To his chagrin, he found no twinge of Karine's dark mists, no trace that he was being manipulated in any way.
Ringo had officially changed sides.
Karine seemed to notice his confusion. Now that it seems that young Richard refuses to change sides, you are left with two options. One, you may take the Raenth and go, leaving Richard with me. Two, you may continue the battle, and hope that he changes his mindset. Agreed? What is your choice?
John leaned over to talk to George. We're not leaving without him, John stated simply. George replied with a doubtful expression.
How are we going to get him to see it our way? Knock him out and lay his hand on the Raenth so we can go home? George suggested sarcastically.
Exactly.
John, that's insane! We'd never get him floored! Besides, what about Paul?
John glanced to their still bandmate. If we can get Ringo back, he may be able to…
IF we can get Ringo back. There's no way in hell.
Are you suggesting we just leave him behind? John burst out angrily, eyes glaring. George shifted under the weight of his stare.
No…I…
Then there's only one solution. Before George could respond, John turned back to Karine.
Let's go.
On to Chapter Twenty Three!
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