Trigun Touching a Soul, Again

_This tale is set approximately 34 years post-manga. Minor non-specific references to Rem, Tessla, and an ambiguity at the manga's end could qualify as spoilers._

"Vash the Stampede" character belongs to the incredibly talented Mr. Yasuhiro Nightow. I only borrow, with respect, intending to honor his work.

_Although his tale should be able to stand alone, it is also a sequel to JasperK's "Touching a Soul" posted here on fanfiction net. _

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_Absolute trust may, at times, have unexpected side-effects. That's especially likely when the trust is mutual, and neither party abuses it._

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**Touching a Soul, **_**Again**_

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_Year 0149 month 3 day 4, in the trackless wilderness of No Man's Land_

Vash sighed, feeling a vast sense of relief.

There was a welcome change in the scent of the air this evening. The thick haze, caused by sands borne upon heavy winds, was slowly fading and allowing the colors of the sunset to show through. The obnoxious howl of those winds was finally fading, too, and allowing a blessed quiet to descend over the open desert.

He carefully rubbed grit out of his eyes, and wiped caked sand and dust off his face.

An unusually violent sand storm had trapped him in this cave for nearly a week. A sandstorm this intense would afflict some part of the planet roughly once each five years. There had been no reason to expect one here, and now. Yet, unwelcome as it was, the storm had come.

The sudden change in the smell, combined with the clearer and quieter air, meant that the storm was finally blowing itself out. He'd been standing at the mouth of the cave, impatiently waiting for this change, ever since the eye of the storm had passed. That had happened two and a half days ago.

His bag was packed. Its cord's end was already gripped in his left hand, and the bag itself dangled behind his left shoulder. The bag's weight made the cord dig into his shoulder enough to be distinctly uncomfortable. That discomfort would likely grow into pain if he set out now, but he would not let that deter him.

The recent trail of rumors, about someone resembling Knives, had proven to be yet another false lead. Vash ached to learn the fate of his brother. Nearly three and a half decades had passed since he'd last seen him, when both of them were fairly thoroughly black-haired. He was growing almost desperate to know if Knives was alive or dead. This latest disappointment had been painfully crushing.

Vash knew the best cure for that pain, short of learning the answer. His heart and soul already ached to return to the one place where people called him family – the Seeds Village. The people there might not fully understand him, but they tried. They accepted him, monster that he was, and they always welcomed him warmly when he came.

While he was among them, he could relax. He did not need to make any pretenses, since they already knew exactly what he was. This was a rare privilege that he could not enjoy anywhere else. Their acceptance was life and breath to him. His need for their kindness rivaled his needs for food, water, sleep, clothing, and shelter.

As soon as he made the decision to travel toward Seeds, Vash had carefully verified that no one followed him. He refused to risk leading any trouble their direction. When he had satisfied himself on that point, he'd begun walking swiftly toward the village by the most direct route possible.

Four days into his journey, the sandstorm had hit.

It quickly blocked out all visibility, and threatened to choke him. The howling of its winds beat against his eardrums, and the sand-infused wind gusts beat mercilessly against his body. It was driving him off-course in an area with treacherous terrain. He could not continue traveling in those conditions.

Thankfully, he knew the area. He found the cliff, and groped his way along it until he reached this shallow cave.

It was mildly ironic that the so-called "Humanoid Typhoon" had been stopped by the natural version. He berated himself inwardly, again. He should have checked the weather forecasts before venturing out on such a long journey.

Yet he had been impatient. The call to return to Seeds Village, and to visit his friends and sisters there… it had been too strong.

That call remained strong. He pulled his neckerchief up over his nose and mouth, and adjusted his bag on his shoulder. It was time to resume his interrupted journey.

"I'm coming," he said softly. Since he wasn't projecting his thoughts or emotions, then not even the young independent plant girl could hear him. He smiled, and finished the sentence anyway. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

He stepped out of the cave, and began to walk across the sands. He drove himself at a pace that would have dropped most other mortals. His intense longing for the haven where his dearest friends lived permitted nothing less.

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_Year 0149 month 3 day 11, at Seeds Village_

He returned the guards' greetings, and glanced toward the chronometer behind them. 11:50 pm is what it read.

He recalled writing to Luida some months ago, and expressing a hope to visit around March 12. Even though he'd walked without pause ever since that accursed storm ceased, he'd only beat his estimated arrival date by ten minutes. He resisted an impulse to sigh from that disappointment.

He turned his weary steps directly to Shyla's house, barely glancing at the moons and stars overhead. He knew that Shyla's second bedroom was available for him anytime he wanted it. Weary in both body and soul, he wanted it very much!

Not surprisingly, given the late hour, all the lights in the house were already turned off when he arrived. So he quietly unlocked the door, let himself in, and then relocked the door behind him.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. He didn't know how she managed it, but somehow Shyla's house always smelled faintly of springtime. There was something refreshing about that. Already his weary soul felt slightly soothed.

Glancing to his right, he found her bedroom door slightly ajar. There were sheer curtains over her bedroom window. Since the heavy drapes were not fully closed, the bright moonlight shone in nearly unhindered through the remaining gap.

He touched the door gently, nudging it a little farther open. That permitted him to see Shyla lying on her side, facing the window. Her blankets were pulled up to her shoulders. Her plain face wore an innocent, peaceful expression that made him smile.

Walking softly to avoid disturbing her, he backed away from her door. He turned around, and quietly crossed the sitting area to his own room. He turned on the light and pulled his door nearly closed, but he left it unlatched. They had an unspoken tradition to never completely close interior doors between them. He would not be the one to change that.

He dropped his bag, and sighed in relief as the cord ceased to press against the sore spot it had made on his shoulder. He found his pajamas and pulled them out. He stepped into the bathroom, untied the cord that held his hair back in a ponytail, and quickly washed. Then he put on his pajamas, leaving his sand-encrusted and sweat-soaked clothing in an unruly pile on the floor. He would tend to those dirty clothes sometime tomorrow.

He left the bathroom and looked at the walls. He smiled again, seeing a pair of his own drawings framed and hung there. This desert-toned room, in Shyla's house, was the nearest thing he'd had to a home since the Great Fall. She always called this room "his room," and she always spoke of the house as belonging to both of them.

Vash sat on the bed, and then leaned backward for a moment. He closed his eyes and sighed in contentment. He hadn't meant to sleep yet, but he was so weary that he fell asleep almost as soon as his eyes were closed.

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_Year 0149 month 3 day 12, in Shyla's house at Seeds Village_

Vash's stomach gurgled so loudly that it woke him. He shivered from the night's chill, and blinked at the light shining into his eyes.

Internally grumbling at his own foolishness for not eating _before_ he went to sleep, he left his bedroom to make himself a snack in the kitchen.

It took only a few steps to reach the kitchen. He turned on the light.

On the counter, he found doughnut dough rising in a large glass bowl under a clean cloth. A large covered kettle on the stove held fresh oil. The doughnuts would surely be fried in that oil, later this morning. For the third time since he'd arrived here, Vash smiled. He could easily grow accustomed to being spoiled like this.

He looked into the refrigerator and found salmon paste, lettuce and homemade bread. Luida must have informed Shyla that he might be coming. Smiling again, he assembled a sandwich and placed it on a small plate. He took a glass from the cupboard and poured some apple juice into it. He took his food and drink to the table, and sat down to enjoy his late-night snack.

Ahh… that hit the spot! He offered up a quick, silent prayer of thanksgiving for the food, and that Shyla was such a good cook. He ate slowly, relishing each bite.

After eating and drinking his fill, he rose and took his dishes to the sink. He turned off the kitchen light and stretched. He felt ready to return to his room. With all of his bodily cravings tended, he hoped to sleep out the remnant of the night without further interruption.

Bright moonlight, probably coming from at least three moons, shone through the sitting-room window. That, combined with the swath of light coming from his room, was ample illumination for him to see the way back.

Before he could return to his room, however, he felt a brief but extremely intense emotional spike from Shyla. He whirled, turning toward her room, and strained his senses to detect if she was in any danger.

The echoes of her emotions had shut off so swiftly and abruptly that she was probably awake, and deliberately suppressing her emotional emanations. She had been so swift to suppress her emotions that, if he'd been asleep at the time, he might not have noticed them at all. The sister plants in the orbs probably either did not notice it, or else assumed it was inconsequential because it had vanished so quickly. He sensed no distress from the local orb-sisters, who were all very fond of Shyla.

He felt proud of Shyla for having learned and exercised that much self-control. Yet he remained concerned for her. So he began to walk softly toward her room, to check on her again. He did not attempt to conceal his concern. He hoped that it might comfort her, if his guess was correct and she was awake.

He'd only taken a few steps when the girl appeared in her doorway. Because of the light shining through his doorway, he could see the tears streaming down her face.

She saw him through her tears almost immediately. "Vash?" she said.

Without waiting for a response, she lunged toward him. She stepped into his outstretched arms, leaned against his right side, and buried her face against his right shoulder. She put both of her arms around him. She clung to him so tightly that he was compelled to gasp for breath.

"What's wrong, Shyla?" he said softly.

He hugged her and stroked her golden hair, trying to soothe her as she sobbed. However, breathing remained a challenge. "Please loosen your hold enough that I can breathe?" he said gently.

(Sorry!) her thoughts replied. She did loosen her hold just enough that he could breathe more easily, but she continued to hold on to him very tightly. She also continued sobbing so hard that she couldn't speak even if she wanted to.

(Thank you,) he thought to her. (Please, let me know what's wrong… and if there's anything that I can do to help fix it?)

(Just let me hug you for a little longer, please?) her thoughts responded.

(That's no problem,) he thought back to her. His arms tightened around her briefly, pulling her more tightly against his side, and then he returned to his efforts to soothe her.

They stood thus for some time, before her sobs quieted. She looked up at him, and he gently cupped her tear-streaked face with both hands. He kissed her forehead, and then used his natural hand's thumb to carefully wipe away the tears from each of her eyes.

Her mouth formed a smile as her thoughts said, (Thank you.) Her chin quivered slightly, suggesting that she was still struggling to stop crying.

He tipped his head slightly to one side as he looked into her troubled eyes. "What is it?" he asked out loud. "I've not seen you this upset since we lost Naomi."

Her chin quivered more violently. Her eyes closed, and her arms tightened around him again for the space of a few heartbeats. Then she opened her eyes, loosened her hold slightly, and looked up at his face again.

He was mildly surprised to realize that she'd grown taller. The top of her head was no longer even with the tops of his shoulders. Instead, the top of her head was roughly even with his chin. He'd have to tip his head upward, just a very little bit, if he wished to rest his chin on her head while she stood at her full height.

Still concerned, he waited patiently. Would she answer his question?

Several more heartbeats passed, while both stood silently.

(It was a dream,) she thought to him. (A terrible dream, as real as life and death while it lasted. You were hurt so badly that you were dying. I could feel your heartbeat, all irregular and fading. I could hear and feel your breathing coming in gasps. I could feel your body growing cold. I could smell your blood pouring into the desert sands…)

She closed her eyes again, and fresh tears slipped out from under her lashes. (I'd rather die myself than lose you, especially like that!)

"Dear, sweet girl," he said softly. He blinked back tears, for her words had touched his heart. Yet he could not comfort her very well if he was also crying, so he tried to be calm.

"Look at me," he said gently. "You can see that I'm not dying. I'm right here, with you, and I'm just fine. We're both in your house, in Seeds village. We're completely safe from all harm. We're not in the desert, and I am neither injured nor bleeding."

Her arms loosened their hold on him until her hands rested at his waist. She opened her pale grey-green eyes again, and he saw in them a plea more desperate and intense than anything he had ever seen there before.

(Please,) she thought to him, (may I verify that you're all right… with _all_ of my senses?)

The few emotional echoes that escaped her containment suggested near-desperation. Her emotional scents were a blend of fear, hope, affection, and concern.

He didn't know what she meant to do. But he could see that, whatever it was she wanted, it meant everything to her right then. So he held his arms out to his sides and nodded.

"All right," he said. He smiled, hoping to help her relax. "Do with me as you will."

It took her a few tries, but she finally managed to whisper, "Thank you."

Although Shyla had hugged him frequently, ever since they met a little over 30 years ago, her hands had almost always rested near his waist on his left side. That was one of the few places on his torso where his scars were shallow enough that, through a shirt, his body should feel the same as anyone else's.

When she began to gently feel of his upper body, it wasn't long before her gentle touch encountered scars deep enough to be felt through his pajama top. Her hands abruptly stopped moving, and she looked up at him with wide, startled eyes.

"Didn't you say that you weren't hurt?" she asked, sounding almost frightened.

"Those are only old scars," he said reassuringly. "They've all been healed for many years."

"Will it hurt you if I touch?" she said, sounding less frightened but still concerned.

"No," he said, shaking his head a little to emphasize his answer.

"You said that before," she remembered, "when my fingertips brushed against a scar on your chest. But that felt like normal skin, not like a hole carved into your body. Are you _sure_ it won't hurt?"

"I'm sure," he said, and smiled at her. "Your touch is so very gentle that it wouldn't be likely to hurt even if these were fresh injuries."

She blushed, closed her eyes, and sighed. "Thank God," she said, so very softly that it was nearly another sigh.

She opened her eyes and started to feel of his upper body again. She slowly worked her way around his side and to his back. From behind him, he heard her gasp.

"Oh no!" she said sadly. "Your poor back has bad scars on it, too."

He could tell by her scent that it wasn't pity, nor was it revulsion, that she was feeling. It was a blend of affection and sadness. She ached because he had been hurt.

Her gentle, affectionate concern moved him deeply.

When she finished circling him and feeling of his upper body, she stationed herself again at his right side. She leaned close to sniff at his neck, and then sighed. Her scent spoke of relief.

"Good," she said softly. "You don't have any smell of either blood or sickness."

"No," he said.

He smiled again. He knew that she had been studying medical books very intensely during recent years, so he began to relax. He thought that she might be examining him based on the things that she was learning in those books.

There was no hint of either the cool, clinical detachment or the occasional curiosity that he sensed from most medical professionals, though. Instead, this plant girl radiated both affection and concern.

The expression in her face and eyes was still intensely vulnerable as she slowly moved her hands behind his head.

He remembered that she had asked to check his health with _all_ of her senses. Since she'd seen and heard him, and touched him, and even smelled him… that left only one sense she might wish to use.

She'd kissed his cheek before, plenty of times. He'd kissed hers about equally often. Expecting another such kiss, he bent his neck just a little to make his cheek more easily accessible to her. He expected that she would simply kiss his cheek, to satisfy her sense of taste.

However, she surprised him. She did kiss his cheek, as anticipated. However, she also very briefly licked his skin with the tip of her tongue just after she kissed him.

He felt heat in his face. "Do I need to worry that you might bite me, if you like the way that I taste?" he asked, attempting to reduce the awkwardness of the moment with humor.

"No," she said, sounding as if she was trying to reassure him. Yet she also smiled at the question. "I wouldn't bite you, no matter how good you taste. That would hurt you. I would never do anything that might cause you any pain."

She moved away from him, then, just enough that they weren't touching. "Thank you," she said softly, "for putting up with me and my foolishness."

She blushed a little, and looked down at the floor. Then she added, "May I hug you just a little longer, please? When I can feel your heartbeat and breathing, it helps to chase away the memories of that horrible dream."

He held out his arms to her in a manner that invited a hug. She immediately snuggled against his right side and put her arms around him. She rested her head on his shoulder, and sighed contentedly.

He thought about trying to tease her out of her melancholy as he enfolded her in his arms. He'd gotten her to smile once, briefly, when he'd asked if she might bite him. Perhaps … but it might be easier to cheer her up if he better understood…

She surprised him by answering his unspoken question, before he had even fully formed it in his mind. "I don't want you to be hurt or to die, Vash," she said softly, "because I love you."

She'd never said that before. She'd shared the emotion, and he had reciprocated. They both knew that they shared a strong bond of mutual affection. However, knowing it and hearing it spoken in words appeared to be two different things.

Her soft words echoed through every part of his body and soul. The accompanying sensation was not unpleasant… but it was sufficiently unfamiliar that it made him feel uncomfortable. His knees suddenly felt a little less reliable.

He glanced over his shoulder to verify the location of the couch, and slowly backed that direction. She followed. When he sat on the couch, she sat beside him… yet she continued facing toward the back of the couch and the wall, and she continued hugging him more tightly than usual. Her knees rested against the backrest of the couch near his right shoulder.

It was a transitional time of year, when the days could get very warm but the nights remained uncomfortably cold. As daybreak approached, the temperature continued to plummet. Neither his pajamas nor hers were thick enough to stave off the increasing chill of the night unassisted.

He reached behind them, and pulled the quilt off the back of the couch. He wrapped the quilt around both of them as she continued to snuggle against his right side.

He paid close attention to her scent and emotional echoes. He discovered that, since the worst of her fears were past, she wasn't burying her emotions as deeply as formerly. He was both touched and relieved to discover that there was not even the slightest trace of lust, desire, or romance in her emotional scents or echoes.

Shyla loved him deeply, yet she loved him simply as one soul to another. Her love had nothing to do with age, gender, or any of the other many differences between them. She only wanted to be near him, and to know that he was alive and well. At least for the moment, nothing else mattered to her.

Understanding this, and feeling it, sent more waves of acute awareness through every part of him. Both his body and his soul seemed to feel those ripples with equal intensity.

A slight tremor ran through him from scalp to toes. He assumed that was a shiver from the cold, and was glad of the quilt and the warmth of the girl against his right side.

She rested her head against his right shoulder. She kept her arms around him, facing him, and clinging to him. She didn't even begin to loosen her hold on him until she'd fallen asleep.

He gently moved her head under his chin, and adjusted her position, until she was resting her head on his left shoulder. After that, he would loosen the quilt he'd wrapped around them earlier. Then he could more easily slip his right arm under her knees, and carry her back to her bed. The quilt could drop quietly to the floor as he stood.

Or at least, that had been his plan.

However, it seemed as if he must have adjusted her too much or too quickly. She roused enough to make a small, wordless sound of protest. She clung to him more tightly again.

One of her hands had rested against his side before she fell asleep. It had slipped down below the hem of his pajama top when she relaxed. As she roused, her hand slid back up his body… but this time, under his pajama top. When her fingertips brushed against his skin, over the waistband of his pajama bottoms, she sighed softly and smelled of contentment.

Again, he felt ripples flowing over him, both body and soul. He wasn't used to being touched, not like that. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about it. He certainly didn't dislike it! However, he wasn't quite sure how much he ought to allow himself to enjoy these new feelings and sensations.

Rem had loved him like that… as one soul to another, with no conditions or expectations. She had also touched him in a similar manner. She'd hugged him, or ruffled his hair, or run her fingertips down the side of his face, or brushed the end of his nose with a fingertip… that sort of thing, the sorts of things that Shyla usually did.

Rem had touched him because she loved him so much that she couldn't contain it or express it only with words. It had been something he'd treasured in his memories of her.

He'd never dared to hope that another would come to love him like that. He'd not really believed that it could be possible.

Luida came the closest of anyone else, until Shyla, of loving him as Rem had.

Unfortunately, the Seeds village councilwoman also loved him as woman to man. While she neither sought nor expected that kind of relationship with him, she craved it so deeply that her love for him was burdened with pain. Now that he knew what to look for, he could catch those scents and echoes in her from time to time.

Luida buried and concealed her feelings, much like he often buried and concealed his own emotions. She had hidden her feelings so well, and for so many years, that he'd only recently learned of the depth of her attachment to him. It had taken a trick played upon the two of them, by a pair of clueless but well-intentioned youngsters, to pry an admission out of her.

There had been a few times, over the years, when he'd thought he'd seen some partiality from Luida toward himself. But he'd also thought that it must only be wishful thinking, because he was lonely. Since he'd learned the full truth of the matter, he tried to be more gentle in all of his dealings with her.

Somehow, learning how Luida felt had not diminished his trust in her. If anything, it had increased it. There was something wonderful about a friend who cared deeply, yet who made no demands and had no expectations.

And here he sat, holding another friend who blessed his life by bestowing unconditional affection upon him. The only differences were that this friend was still a child, and their mutual affection was not complicated by either romance or desire. He was glad of that.

As he looked down at her sleeping face with its innocent expression, his thoughts strayed back to Tessla. He often wondered if Tessla would have been like this girl, so gentle and trusting. Now he wondered if she had been equally affectionate, and if anyone had ever held her as he now held Shyla.

Rem would have, if the others had allowed her to do that. He wondered if Rem had been able to get in, and give Tessla the affection that she must have craved. He knew that Rem sincerely mourned the loss of the young plant girl. The presence of the white lily, that in the language of the flowers meant "purity," was a silent yet powerful testimony to Rem's mourning.

He bent his neck enough to kiss Shyla's forehead. "At first," he whispered, "I loved you because you reminded me of Tessla. Now that I know you, though, I love you more for yourself than for the ways that you remind me of her."

Perhaps he should share his memories of Tessla with Shyla. When he shared about Rem, she had cried over that loss as deeply as he did. Her tears had felt like a healing balm. Maybe sharing about Tessla would help that old wound to heal better, too.

A few heartbeats later, he felt Shyla's hand slipping down his side again. Her fingertips no longer touched his skin just above his waistband. He waited a little longer, while she slowly went completely limp. Then he slowly and gently finished adjusting her head and shoulders to be fully supported by his left arm. He slowly and carefully loosened the quilt. Finally, he slipped his right hand and forearm under her knees.

Still moving slowly to avoid waking her, he stood. As he'd expected, the quilt dropped to the floor. He waited another few heartbeats, and then he stepped over the quilt and carried her to her room. Her blankets were thrown back, from her abrupt emergence after her nightmare. She must have sensed him, and come to see if she'd only imagined his presence nearby.

When she found him, alive, after a nightmare where he'd been dying, she'd run to him and clung to him. He could understand that, a little. Had he dreamed of her death, he would have wanted to cling to her in just the same way.

However, in his estimation, she was more worthy of life than he was. He felt that her loss would be a greater tragedy than his own death. That was one reason why her heartfelt concern touched him so deeply. She didn't know how much he deserved a painful death.

He carefully lowered her onto her bed. He gently eased her limbs into what he hoped would be a comfortable position for her to rest. He reached for her blankets, and then he saw shadows left by the moonlight across her chest.

He caught the hem of her pajama top, at her sides, and gently tried to tug the top to rights. He expected that some wrinkle had caused the shadows. When the top was straightened, he anticipated seeing the shadows go away.

However, that is not what happened. The shadows remained. If anything, they became more clearly defined. The moonlight's angle accentuated the gentle curves just beginning to grow on her chest.

Her emotions remained open and uncomplicated. In her heart, Shyla was still a child.

Shyla's body, however, was beginning to transition toward womanhood. The evidence was there, right before his eyes. It could neither be ignored nor denied.

He sighed a little sadly. Sooner or later, this change would cause other changes. In time, those other changes would be likely to drive them apart.

He would miss the gentle child that Shyla had been. While he was somewhat curious about what manner of woman she would become, he would still miss her as she was now. He would miss her as she had been tonight.

He picked up the edges of her blankets, and, using that hold, he gently spread the blankets over her. He bent and kissed her forehead.

"Pleasant dreams, little sister," he said softly. "I shall always treasure you, even if one day you no longer view me as a friend."

Anticipating that, as her tastes matured, Shyla would grow away from him… he sighed sadly again.

"Be safe and well as you grow," he whispered, half praying. "Be strong and healthy. And please, continue to think kindly toward everyone if you can. Even toward me, little as I deserve it, when your thoughts wander in my direction. I shall always value your friendship, no matter how it changes as you grow… and even if it is only temporary."

He quietly returned to his own room, turned off the light, and sat down on his own bed. He found himself recalling the night, a decade ago, when he'd awakened to find her sleeping beside him.

He'd had a nightmare. By the time he awoke to find her there, though, that nightmare had partly faded away. She said he'd cried out in his sleep, so she'd come to comfort him. She'd laid herself down beside him and hugged him, until he calmed. Then she'd fallen asleep there.

She would be growing more aware of their differences, as she matured. So nothing similar to that was ever likely to happen again. He couldn't decide if he felt relieved or disappointed. There was a strange mingling of both feelings as he considered it.

He shrugged his shoulders. He was tired. If he let himself dwell on probable upcoming changes, he was likely to grow depressed.

He lay down and pulled his blankets over himself.

He'd promised Rem that he would never again attempt to take his own life. He'd kept that promise, though at times he had nearly regretted it. Many times, he viewed his life as an obligation that he must fulfill.

Especially during the years when Knives was doing so much harm, he had often felt that his only purpose in life was to restrain his murderous brother. He'd been astonished when he realized that he'd survived that last battle against his brother. Since then, he often felt like continuing to live was an obligation that he owed to Rem.

Taking care of Naomi and Shyla became his purpose when he lived in the village with the two of them. Taking Shyla to Seeds had been his next goal.

Had this young plant girl become his reason to live? He wasn't sure. If she had, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing… or not.

Vash felt certain that the girl herself was good, though. He considered that helping her through her childhood was time well spent.

He was convinced that when she reached maturity, she would no longer need him. As that thought passed through his mind, his body and soul quivered again.

He pulled the blankets more tightly around himself, hoping to warm himself up more quickly so that he wouldn't shiver any more. He felt a little strange, but figured that was probably only side-effects of exhaustion.

As he drifted off to sleep, pondering Shyla and the changes as he anticipated they would happen, he felt tears on his face. There were both tears of gratitude that she loved him so much as she currently did, and selfish tears of misery for the anticipated time when she would cease to love him at all.

His dreams during those dark, early morning hours were of trying to protect Shyla from people with angry, hate-filled faces. In the dream, he was not entirely successful.

He woke and thought he felt another brief, intense emotion-spike from Shyla. He rubbed at his eyes, put a robe on over his pajamas, and wandered out into the sitting room.

Shyla was also coming out of her room. She also wore a robe over her pajamas.

"It was real," she said, smiling suddenly as she spoke. "You really are here!"

"Yes," he said, and smiled warmly at her.

Suddenly she was in his arms, against his right side, and hugging him tightly. "I'm so glad!" she said enthusiastically. "Everything is always _so_ much better when you're here!"

Again he felt ripples moving over him, body and soul. He kissed her hair, and offered up a brief, silent, prayer of thanksgiving for the girl as she was this morning, and as she had been last night.

He would treasure these memories, always.

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**Note on Plants**: _Vash, on his first birthday, appeared like a human boy around 8 or 9 years old. Vash makes a comment at Jeneora Rock suggesting that nothing had changed in 150 years… if that was literal and not rounded (or not rounded much), then he would have been about two years old at the time of the Great Fall (he looked much the same as he had on his first birthday in those pictures). At 80, Vash had not yet reached his full height. Using those images as a guide, I have attempted to extrapolate how a young female plant might grow. Physical and emotional maturity levels tend to be linked. So, in her 30's, I'd imagine that a plant girl would be a lot like a human girl in the earliest stages of adolescence. No matter how intelligent a person is, their emotional maturity will impact their behavior and their general understanding of life. Vash, knowing this, would probably bear those limitations in mind and treat her accordingly._

_If anyone is curious, there are several more stories about Vash and Shyla. Those stories are all listed and linked in my profile here at fanfiction net. _:)


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