[July 12th] [Bonanza-related] Through the Refiner's Fire, 1

[insaneladybug.livejournal.com]

Title: Through the Refiner's Fire, scene one
Day/Theme: July 12th - Sometimes you hear the bullets
Series: Bonanza (well, kind of; it's based off the guest-stars in an episode)
Character/Pairing: Carl Armory, Claire Armory
Rating: T/PG-13

I am utterly fascinated by the siblings in the season 7 episode of Bonanza, Her Brother's Keeper. (This is due in no small part to the fact that Wesley Lau played Carl.) I really wanted to see what might have happened to them after the end of the episode and eventually sort out their dysfunctional relationship and give them a happy ending.

This is only the first part of what may end up being a very long character study, however, so no happy ending here. Just the set-up and much angst and heartache and a bit of hurt/comfort.

It's a lot of fun getting into Carl's mind. Probably more fun than it really should be. But he's a much different kind of character than I've ever written for before.


By Lucky_Ladybug

“Claire! Claire!”

He stood in the doorway, gasping, gripping the frame as he fought to regain control of his breathing. Claire was already far away on the dimly lit street, heedless of or unwilling to acknowledge her brother’s attempt to follow. And with one of his attacks coming on, due both to the emotional strain of the argument and his poor physical condition, there was little he could do for the moment other than to helplessly watch her flight.

“She . . . she’s right, Carl Armory,” he breathed to himself in disgust. “You’re everything she said you are, and more. This is . . . this is pathetic. You’re pathetic.”

His lungs had been damaged since Claire had accidentally started a fire when they had been small children. And since the blaze had claimed the lives of both of their parents, Claire had vowed to always look after Carl and never leave him.

He had not made it easy for her. He knew that. Filled with dreams and get-rich schemes, he had dragged Claire into one mess after another. They usually ended up poorer each time, no matter what he tried. And if he tried to solve the problem by gambling, it only got worse.

He hated how he had brought her so much unhappiness and agony through the years. He honestly wanted her to be happy. And even though he was hoping to improve their financial condition when he arranged for her to become involved with wealthy men, he longed for her to find happiness too.

But that didn’t stop his age-old, childish fear of losing her to rear its ugly head any time she started to care about one of the men, or he her. In the end, no matter how he tried to break free of the mold, Carl could not bear the thought of Claire marrying someone. He would be left behind, put in a sanatorium somewhere for his bad health, and Claire would forget about him. He had never been able to restrain himself from begging Claire not to go through with it and not to leave him.

And she always gave in.

Most recently the cycle had happened in Virginia City, as Claire had ended up in a relationship with Ben Cartwright, a friend of Carl’s and a local millionaire. He had even asked her to marry him. But something different had happened that time, as well: Claire had finally snapped. She and Carl had gotten into a horrible argument. And when Claire had laid the truth bare (“You’re a liar!”), Carl had become so upset that it had brought on another attack—one so serious it had left him unconscious on the floor. Later on he had recovered enough to speak with Claire again, and in his panic and anguish he had once again begged her not to leave him.

They had left Virginia City silently in the night, to avoid Claire having to tell Ben No.

Perhaps she had really been afraid that if she saw him again, she would not be able to do it.

Carl straightened with a choked gasp; his breathing was easier now. And Claire was long gone around the corner. He started outside, pulling the door shut behind him. He would not be able to run. He would have to walk. But he headed down the stairs as briskly as he dared.

In Virginia City he had even descended to blaming Claire for his ill health. But that had troubled him then and had continued to trouble him since. Did he really blame her for the fire? For their parents’ deaths? For the damage to his lungs?

It would have been impossible not to, at least sometimes, in his darkest and most agonized moments. But he hated himself for those moments. He knew it had only been a tragic accident, brought on by a five-year-old girl feeling cold and longing for warmth. Claire no doubt regretted that moment every day.

It could have been so much different for both of them if it had not happened. Their lives would have been happy, even normal. But that fire had shaped and changed them—their personalities, their approaches to life, their destinies. After so many years of struggling in their dysfunctional and needy relationship, what was left?

Maybe there wasn’t anything left. Maybe the argument here, tonight, was the final nail in the coffin. Maybe the gun teetering over their heads, the gun that had fired repeatedly and endlessly into their relationship ever since that Dante’s inferno, had at last broken free and discharged the final, fatal shots.

But Carl could not bear to think that. If Claire was leaving him . . . if he was alone . . . how would he go on?

It was Virginia City that they had been arguing about tonight. The wounds were still fresh and raw; it had only been a little over a week since their departure. And it was just tonight when Carl had realized that the Ben Cartwright fiasco truly had been different, on many levels. With anguish that increased every moment, he feared that he had lost Claire to Ben even if Claire never went back to Virginia City.

And it was his own fault, always his own fault.

His throat was starting to constrict. He gasped, struggling for a long, shaky breath as he reached the end of the property and started down the street. He could not let himself get upset. He could not have an attack now. Not now, with Claire running off to who knew where.

“Claire!” he cried in desperation. “Claire, come back. Don’t leave me! Please, you can’t leave me!”

Up ahead he heard two horrible sounds.

First it was a woman screaming.

Then it was the whinnying of frightened horses.

“CLAIRE!”

Against all common sense in his condition, he ran.

Claire was lying on the ground around the next corner, horrifyingly still. Deathly still. The driver of the carriage with the spooked horses was pulling frantically on the reins, fighting to calm them down.

Carl barely saw him. He dropped next to Claire, his heart twisting in anguish to see the blood and the bruises and the torn clothes. And the cruel mark on her forehead, where one of those blasted horses might have kicked her. . . .

He leaned forward, desperate to find some sign of life. “Please, Claire, please, no,” he rasped. “You can’t leave me this way, either!”

He was rewarded—she was breathing. It was painful and thready, but it was there.

“Thank God,” he whispered. “Oh, thank God.”

But how badly was she hurt?

He barely remembered to check for broken bones before he dragged her farther away from the road. He could not lift her, not when the act of picking up a stack of shingles for the roof in Virginia City had instigated one of his attacks. What if he collapsed while carrying her and harmed her worse?

“Help!” he screamed of the people who were gathering at the sounds of the commotion. “Someone get a doctor! My sister’s been hurt!”

A young boy perked up. “There’s a doctor a couple of streets away!” he announced. “I’ll get him!” He ran off before Carl could reply.

Dazed, Carl sank to his knees next to Claire’s limp and lifeless form. With trembling hands he took out a handkerchief, holding it against the wound in her forehead. Claire had taken care of him enough that he should have some knowledge of what to do now. But he had never been injured like this. And since Claire had not treated him for anything like this, he would be at a loss even if his mind was not currently a frightening blank.

It was becoming harder to breathe, too. His throat always started to close when something upsetting was taking place. Vaguely he was aware of the strangers beginning to crowd around, wanting to see what was going on. One or two asked if they could help.

“Yes,” Carl gasped. “Yes, please. I don’t know what to do.”

He stumbled and backed up, his heart racing. He drew a staggering breath, then another, fighting to calm himself. As the newcomers bent down and began doing what they could for Claire, Carl could only stand by, helpless—just another spectator in the crowd.

And he hated himself for it.
****
“Well? How is she, Doctor? Tell me, please. I’ve been going out of my mind!”

Carl threw his hands in the air in agonized frustration. Doctor Burns, an older, kindly man, straightened from the bed with slow and deliberate precision. He looked to the fearful blond, quietly adjusting his glasses.

“Your sister has suffered a terrible shock to her system,” he said. “The worst is that head wound. And I wish I could tell you more clearly, but the fact is that these things are always tricky. There isn’t much I can tell you until she wakes up and I can see how she’s taking it.”

“And when will that be?!” Carl demanded.

“Hours, maybe even days.” Dr. Burns sighed, gathering up the contents of his bag. “Meanwhile, there’s very little you can do other than to keep her comfortable and warm.” He walked around the bed, heading for the door.

Carl followed him through it and into the hallway of his and Claire’s house. “That’s it?!” he cried. “Doctor, that’s ridiculous! There has to be something, some way to heal her, to wake her up right now!”

Burns stopped without warning, nearly causing Carl to plow into him. “There’s nothing,” he repeated firmly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Armory. You’ll just have to wait. The rest should help repair some of the damage.” If it could be repaired. The wretched words hung in the air, unsaid but oh so tangible.

Carl slumped back, running his tongue over his lips. “. . . Doctor, she . . . she will recover, won’t she?” Did he really sound as pathetically lost to the doctor as he sounded to himself?

Burns hesitated for a long time, longer than Carl was comfortable. “. . . I want to say she will,” he said at last, “but I don’t like to give people false hope. And the truth is, I’m afraid, that I honestly don’t know. If she has something to fight for, then maybe . . . maybe she’d be more likely to rally, and sooner.”

The color drained from Carl’s face. Something to fight for? She had nothing left. Carl had managed to take away every chance for her happiness, keeping her bound to a promise she had made out of stricken guilt and grief as a child and that neither one of them could relinquish as adults. And at last, in her utter anguish and despair, she had run out on him as she had longed to do in the past. She would probably welcome death, if it came looking for her. Finally she would have relief from the crushing burden she had placed upon herself from the time she was only five.

“Mr. Armory?” Burns had come closer, peering at him. “Mr. Armory, you look faint. Please, you should sit down.” He attempted to guide the younger man to a nearby chair, but was shrugged off.

“No!” Carl retorted. “No, that won’t help.” He fought to compose himself. “Thank you, Doctor, for . . . for everything you’ve tried to do. I . . . I’ll let you know when there’s any change, good or . . .” He swallowed hard. “Or bad.”

Burns was not convinced. “You’re sure you’ll be alright now,” he said. “You won’t do your sister any good if you come down sick.”

“I know!” Carl snapped. “I’m alright, Doctor. Claire will be alright.”

Burns sighed. “Alright then.” But he did not sound convinced. “I’m sorry I can’t stay here with you, but there are other patients who are expecting me tonight.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Carl nodded in impatience and walked ahead, leading the physician to the front door. “Go to your other patients.”

Burns followed him and, as he opened the door, stepped onto the porch. For a moment the elder man turned, searching Carl’s eyes as though he wanted to say more. But then, apparently feeling it prudent to not do so, he simply nodded and left. “Goodnight, Mr. Armory.”

“Goodnight.” Carl shut the door after him.

Not wanting to linger there, in the lonely entryway, he rushed back to Claire’s bedroom. He stood in the doorway, shaking, gazing at the woman lying so frail and motionless in the bed. Was she too cold? Was she hot? How would he have even the faintest idea on how to keep her comfortable when she was not awake to tell him?

Slowly he advanced, reaching to touch Claire’s skin with the back of his hand. She felt cold, far colder than she should. Was it from the temperature? Or . . . were his worst fears coming true? Was she still running from him, running as hard and as far as she could?

Running into the hands of death?

He let out a choked gasp of grief. “No, Claire,” he cried in his torture. “No, please. You can’t! You can’t do this!”

He went into the hall, seeking another quilt from the linen closet. He would believe it was the cold autumn night. He would insist upon it. That was all it was, nothing more. And he could help Claire get better from that.

He could not help her with the other.

He pulled down a thick comforter and returned to the bedroom. Still trembling, he spread it over Claire’s form and then sat in the chair by her side, tense, desperate, frantic for some indication that it had helped.

But when he touched her skin again, it was still cold. She was still breathing, yet even that seemed distant and far from him. Carl leaned forward, his hand resting on her shoulder through the heavy quilts.

“Oh, please, Claire,” he begged. “I . . . I know you have no reason to trust me, to believe in anything I tell you. Especially after Virginia City. But I . . . I can change. I will change. I’ll be everything I never was for you before. We’ll support and help each other; it won’t just be you helping me all the time. I know I’m sick. Nothing can ever change that. But I won’t gamble. There won’t be any more crazy schemes. I won’t lie. . . .”

He trailed off, his words catching in his throat. It was the same tired, hollow words he had said over and over to Claire after one of their disasters. He always meant them when he said them; he wanted to change. He didn’t want to keep hurting Claire. But then somehow, somewhere along the way, he managed to slip back into his old habits. A game of cards here, a get-rich plan there, a wealthy suitor for Claire, and they were sinking back into that old familiar rut.

What if, deep down, he really didn’t want to change?

The thought left him chilled to the bone. What if he was afraid that if he changed, if he became more responsible and more self-reliant, Claire would decide he didn’t need her and leave him? What if that was why he could not stick to his promises? What if that was why he dragged her down again and again to the depths of despair?

What manner of beast was he?

He dug his hands into his hair in horror and grief. “Dear Lord . . . !”

In the chill autumn night, he trembled and quaked from something far worse than the cold. Claire could no longer believe his words. And the more he played them in his mind, the more he understood why.

He could not believe himself either.