Ouroboros
(Copyright 2011, NoCleverSig)

Author's Note: Just a quick note on the title. A ouroboros is an ancient symbol of a dragon or snake eating its own tale. It can mean a lot of things, but in this context, it means never ending cycles, cycles that go on for all eternity…Enjoy!

"More!" John Druitt shouted in Hindi to the small woman in white who was changing his bandage. "Give me more!"

"You've had too much morphine already, Mr. Druitt. You have to wait," she argued in broken English.

Druitt shot up from the bed, his gut throbbing from the bullet wound she'd redressed, and wrapped his hands around the woman's diminutive, dark neck.

"I said give me more!" he growled through gritted teeth, his blue eyes red with rage.

The nurse's brown eyes bulged, managing a nod as Druitt's long fingers tightened around her throat. He let go, and she fell over, scrambling to her feet to prepare the medication he'd demanded. She shot it into his vein, and his eyes rolled back into his head in anticipation of the quiet rush. She scribbled a note in the chart at the foot of his bed, took one last, scornful look at his pale figure, and hurried out of the room, slamming the door in her wake.

Druitt lay back down, his eyes shut. The smell of fried foods and oil drifting up from the noisy streets of New Delhi below, combined with the massive doses of morphine he had taken, made him wretch, but he had nothing left to vomit. He heaved bile into the bucket by the side of his bed and collapsed back onto the mattress, sweat from the pain and heat pouring from his brow. He opened his eyes and watched the white fan slowly spinning above him offering little relief, its swirling motion strangely hypnotic.

It creaked as it turned, its small silver chain clinking and bouncing with the vibration. Its individual blades were almost indistinguishable, blurring beneath his vision. He couldn't tell where one blade began and the other ended. It moved in an endless circle above his head constantly whirling but going nowhere, like a snake eating itself alive.

Druitt closed his eyes and sighed.

James was with her now.

His face contorted with pain and he groaned, grasping the sweat-soaked sheets of his mattress. The sting of that revelation was a thousand times worse than any idiotic bullet hole a Nazis could have plugged into his stomach. He hadn't needed the morphine for the wound. Oh no. Physical pain was something Druitt created, craved, needed. No, this ache, this… hollowness…was something different, something new, and something far more bitter.

He'd seen it in James Watson's eyes the moment he'd turned around, smelled her on his skin as surely as she had been standing there in his arms.

Damn him! Damn them both to hell!

Druitt wretched again. The medication flowed freely through his veins now, making his head spin and his body float.

He'd always wanted her, James had. He'd always been jealous of what they'd had, of Helen's love for him. He was right when he'd told Watson his passion for her poured off of him like a bad smell. It had. The stench of it still clung to Druitt's nostrils, worse than any blood-soaked rag in this God-forsaken hell hole he was healing in.

James was with Helen. His Helen. He touched her, held her, caressed her, and kissed her.

He fucked her.

What kind of man does that to a friend? What kind of a friend does that to a man?

He should have killed Watson then and there. Turned the knobs on his bloody iron lung and sucked the breath right out of him, but he couldn't. Something stopped that final act of retribution, something indefinable….

Then she'd walked in, and all he could think of was her. He knew she was coming. He knew he'd see her again soon, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of her standing in the doorway.

Her hair was red, a gentle auburn that made her blue eyes bigger, brighter. He smiled and said her name, unable to help himself at the sight of her. Despite that momentary weakness, he'd remained aloof, continuing his charade in front of the Nazis command. His efforts had succeeded. The look she'd given him, the one word she'd uttered, "Unbelievable…" had said it all.

But when they'd shot him, and when the Nazis bastards blew a hole in his stomach, she'd called his name.

John.

He'd heard it clearly. Saw her lurch toward him through the murky haze of the hot metal burning in his gut, not James, toward him! They'd held her back, bloody dogs. She would have come to him, he thought, his mind growing cloudy. If they'd have let her go, she would have come to him. She would have chosen him!

Druitt's eyelids fluttered shut. A rare breeze lifted the dingy white curtains draping the window. Suddenly the putrid stench of war lifted as well, and the sweet scents of jasmine, vanilla and rose filled the room.

He felt her before he saw her. She mopped his brow with a cool, wet rag. First his forehead, then his cheeks, finally easing the soft cotton cloth onto his neck. He opened his eyes, and she smiled at him, her long blonde curls cascading down her shoulders.

"You changed your hair," he said out loud.

She grinned at him knowingly.

"You like it this way."

He smiled back at her. She had always tried to please him, to make him happy.

"Thank you, Helen."

She nodded, dipping the rag back into the white porcelain bowl then wringing it in her hands, the gold ring glistening on her finger. Her hands were so small compared to his own, yet so sure. She folded the cloth carefully then laid it across his brow, the cool water dripping down his temples. She reached for his hand and held it in hers, bringing it to her cheek, closing her eyes, and resting his palm there.

"Why are you here?" he asked, confused.

"I told you I'd take care of you, John," she whispered, putting his hand back down on the bed, resting hers atop his.

"You did," he smiled, remembering. "If not for you, Helen, I fear I would have remained lost. Instead, I can now see that I am neither a freak of nature nor a devil, but a man... very much in love."

She returned his gaze, her blue eyes glistening. "And I am a woman very much in love," she said softly, lifting his hand to her lips and gently kissing the tops of his fingers. She leaned forward, her blonde ringlets tickling his cheek and neck, and pressed her warm, moist lips against his. She slid them across his mouth, her tongue urging his lips apart. When he obliged her, she entered him, caressing his cheek, his tongue, their lips quietly opening and closing onto one another's.

When she leaned back, he saw her and gasped. He'd forgotten how far along she was, how round her belly had become. She started, and he furrowed his eyebrows in concern.

"It's all right, John. The baby's just kicking. Here, feel it!"

She took his hand and splayed his palm across her protruding belly button. After a moment, he could feel a ripple cross the palm of his hand, and he laughed.

"That was a kick?"

"More likely an elbow," she beamed, pressing his hand there, not letting go. "Feel her, John. Can you feel her?"

He looked into Helen's eyes, his own beginning to swell with tears. "Yes, my darling. I feel her."

"We made her, John, out of love. We loved each other. She's proof of that. Remember, John. When the dark comes again, don't forget."

His eyelids fluttered, straining to keep open, the smell of roses and jasmine fading in the heat.

"I'll remember, Helen. I won't forget," he mumbled, the drugs pulling him into unconsciousness, his hand slipping from her stomach.

When he awoke, the air was still. The tattered, white window curtain lay unmoved against the peeling paint of the window frame. The atmosphere was thick, filled with the stench of chemicals, food, and gasoline.

Druitt turned to his side, heaving into the aluminum bucket by his bed, wiping his mouth with the sheet. He lay back down and stared at the ceiling, the pain in his gut returning.

She was with James, not him. Not here in this god-forsaken rat hole of a hospital. She was safe. He'd take care of her. He loved him for it.

He hated him for it.

Druitt looked up at the whirling fan, its arms still turning, its silver chain bouncing lightly at the movement, mocking him. It fed upon itself, twisting in an unending circle, the cycle beginning anew with each turn of the blade. For always, forever…for all eternity.

He closed his eyes, the pain returning as the medication ran its course, and yelled out for the nurse. She walked in and prepared the syringe. Druitt mumbled to her in Hindi, trying to clamp down on the urge to dig his nails into her throat and rip the flesh from her bones.

"More," he murmured, trying to hold onto the memory as the woman slipped the needle into his veins. He swallowed, moisture leaking from his eyes again. "Dear God, give me more…."

They had loved each other once. She was proof of that. The feel of her belly, the babe's movement, still burned against his hand. Druitt clenched it shut, digging his nails into his palm, tightening his fist until they cut him, and he bled.

END