Thoughts became hazy and his mind soupy, but strangely fluid at the same time. It was as if he had ceased breathing and no longer struggled. Reality faded in and out until Fillion lost himself to the racing thoughts and swirling sensations.
A gasp sounded nearby and the clatter of footfalls rushed in his ears. The sound brought on a strong ache in his head, and he winced. Cool, soft hands touched his face and he opened his eyes to the blurry image of an otherworldly woman with pale skin, glowing in the candlelight, radiant hair that shimmered like threads of gold, and a white, flowing dress, edged in iridescent lace and ribbons. The garment was so beautiful he reached out and fingered the lace, and the angel’s lips, red and full, parted in a wide-eyed expression. She leaned forward, dabbing his face with her sleeve, and her silky hair brushed over his cheek with the motion. Peace washed over him and he offered a shaky smile before closing his eyes once more.
“I’m ready, angel,” he said, convinced he was dying. Strange thoughts flitted across his mind and his body began to shake. It began as small tremors, but soon he convulsed.
“Fillion!” the angel cried. Her voice was warbled and strangled, as if pained as she stood by and watched the life drain from his body. A cool kiss touched his forehead and a sigh left his quaking body. “Is he truly dying?”
“He grew sick in the rainforest until he could no longer stand.” Leaf’s voice seemed louder than usual and Fillion covered his ears and groaned. What was Leaf doing here? Fillion’s mind disappeared behind a giant wall in a foreign land of images and sensations. Where was he?
“Skylar,” the angel’s said, her musical tones wrapping around Fillion. “I wish to call upon your services.”
“Anything, Your Highness. I am your humble servant.”
“Please fetch the Herbalist and the Naturopath.”
Footsteps clapped on the wooden floor and Fillion groaned again, covering his head.
“First, let us move him.” Leaf’s booming voice elicited another stab of pain, ripping through Fillion’s skull. Hands lifted Fillion from the floor and he felt as though he was floating, especially when a cool breeze caressed his warmed skin. Maybe he really was drifting through the air. Had he finally died? “The door, Ember,” Leaf said and a loud creak transformed into the screeching sound of an old-school dial-up modem and Fillion cried out against the sharp stabs in his head. His stomach clenched and he dry heaved as a cool, damp sheen of sweat broke out over his entire body. “Almost there,” he heard the man whisper. Where had Leaf gone? Did the Son of Earth disappear?
“In here?” the angel’s squeaked, more like the trill of a bird. “Leaf...”
“Where else? He shall have peace in this corner of the house and this room provides the most space to care for his needs.”
“I have not been in here since Father died...” The angel’s voice trailed off, followed by a sharp intake of breath.
“I shall fetch water and a rag,” another female quietly said, causing barely a ripple of sound in the room. Still, bursts of blues and purples erupted in his vision and Fillion stared in wondrous awe at the ribbons of color her voice created in the air. He lifted a hand to touch one but it disappeared.
Fillion’s body lowered into soft clouds, the fluffy, white layers proof that his life was ending. The mysterious hands released his limbs and, this time, he was sure that he was floating. “Where’s the angel?” he asked, squinting his eyes. The words formed thick in his mouth and he slurred. Something wasn’t right. He licked his lips. Had they swollen? They felt huge. The glowing woman with golden hair pushed past the man with the pain-inducing voice and leaned over Fillion’s body. “Please,” he asked in a mere whisper. “Sing for me. Before I die.”
A smooth, earthy voice hummed a feather-soft tune near his face as fingers brushed damp hair from his eyes. She continued to hum, and then words, sweet and melodious, spilled from her mouth, and tears formed in his eyes. Her voice was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard and his heart grew faint as her image dimmed around the edges. His body began to shake again, convulsing violently, before his muscles eased and he rested upon the clouds once more. Her singing faltered, but then continued and something cool and wet dripped onto his face. He flinched with the rain and she stopped singing, even though the storm continued.
Fillion raised a shaky hand and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pressing her pale hand to his cheek. “Don’t stop,” he rasped.
“His skin feels as though it is on fire,” the angel whispered, angling her head away from him.
“That’s because I’m in eco-hell,” Fillion volunteered. His voice seemed detached and distant, yet blaring at the same time. “I’m burning because the sins of the father fall upon the son,” he murmured.
“I am frightened.” The sounds of crying waved from her body, and he felt each melancholy note lap against him. “I cannot lose another I love.”
“I found a tumbler of water and a clean cloth,” the other female said, taking his hand in hers. She leaned forward and studied his face, her mouth dipped in a frown.
Blues and purples blossomed before Fillion’s vision once more. The walls crashed toward him and Fillion screamed, throwing out his arms to stop the attack. The angel and the other woman jumped away from the clouds and grabbed each other for support. The walls stilled and inched back, resuming their sentry positions. The sudden motion churned his stomach and his gut heaved. Hands forced him to roll to his side, but nothing, except a trace of bile, left his stomach.
“We need to cool his skin,” the angel said.
“Willow, you should leave the room.” The man replied in a dark, solemn tone. An ache rung through Fillion’s head with this voice, and he moaned. “Ember can assist me.”
“Don’t send the angel away!” Fillion cried out. In a trembling whisper, he confessed, “I’m so scared. Oh god, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave. I don’t want to die alone. I need you.”
“I shall not leave you, my prince,” the angel sang over him, and he smiled, closing his eyes.
“I’m a prince?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her fingers running through his hair. “My handsome, infuriatingly witty, pigheaded prince.”
He opened his eyes and tried to focus on her glowing face. “God, you’re beautiful. It’s painful.” He watched, mesmerized, as his sigh caressed the soft skin of her face. Their eyes locked and he lost himself in her emerald depths, green and rich as a forest.
“I’m in love with an angel. How can I be in love with someone who’s dead? Oh. My. God. I’m such a freak.”
His body ached with the movement, but he couldn’t stop the chortles that escaped his dry, parched mouth. The humor faded when a bright pain lanced through him. He choked, “We’re full of nevers,” as a forming sob tightened in his chest. Seconds ticked loud and ominous in his head. His clock would stop soon. Everything would stop soon. The pain. The bliss. The joy. The anguish.
Then, as if waking from a dream, his eyes fluttered open and logic caught up to his racing thoughts. Fillion gripped the clouds in a tight fist and tried to sit up, but couldn’t. “Wait.” With a start, he yelled, “Who are you? Where am I? Damn. Why can’t I move?”
Golden drops fell down from the maiden’s cheeks onto his, and he could almost see the metallic streaks sliding across his face. “I am Willow Oak Watson.” The musical sound of her voice lilted with minor keys, the sorrowful tune like flaming coals on his already burning skin. Her words caught fire in the air and the ash snowed over his still body. “You are in New Eden Township, do you not recall?”
The glowing, ethereal image of the maiden warped and the gold bled away to reveal an emaciated, gaunt figure. Her sunken eyes dulled as they focused on him, her lank, dingy blond hair lying limp against her skull. Blue lips parted and, when she spoke, a foul smell permeated the room, like rotten, decaying flesh. Fillion screamed and tried to move away, but a heavy weight pressed him down.
“Fillion,” the corpse said. She tilted her head with concern
and his pulse raged with fear. “I shall not harm you.”
“Go away!” he shouted, covering his face. “Get the hell away from me!”
“It is I, Willow,” the corpse said. Her voice spliced when she spoke, as if her body, soul, and spirit replied in unison, the high and low sounds spooking his already terrorized state. “You shall be fine. Rest. I shall care for you, my prince.”
“I don’t want you here! And I’m sure as hell not your prince!” Weakened by the emotional outburst, Fillion whimpered, and his head rolled to the side. “I belong to no one.” In a plea, he whispered, “I tried for so long to forget you. I can’t save you, so go away. Stop haunting me!” With a clenched fist, he hit his head repeatedly saying, “Get out of my head! Get out of my head!” until shackles pinned down his arms to the clouds. How could something get chained to a cloud? The very idea mystified him and his thoughts reeled from the endless possibilities, never knowing clouds could be solid and forceful.
“Leaf,” the corpse blurted in a sob and black, oily tears oozed from her eyes. “My heart is breaking. I cannot breathe.”
“Fillion is not in his right mind. Do not take his words as truth. He knows not what he says.” The deep voice sliced through Fillion’s head as if razors, and his body writhed in response. “Perhaps you should leave the room until he requests the angel once more, ma chère.”
“No! I shall not leave him. I told him I would stay.” Desperate, the corpse placed cold, decaying fingers on Fillion’s cheek and leaned toward him. “Do you not recognize me?” In a panic, he tried to move away, but the heaviness deadened his arms and legs and he couldn’t move. The stench of her nearness was overwhelming and Fillion recoiled as his stomach heaved, over and over again into a bucket that suddenly materialized.
“I don’t ever want to see you again,” he finally managed between ragged, shallow breaths. “Never. I want my sanity back. This is goodbye. Forever. Now leave and stay the hell away from me.”
The black tears ran down her face and his skin sizzled and corroded when they landed on him. He screamed in terror and in pain, making her cry even more. The man with the painful voice came behind her and placed hands on her arms to lead her away. But the corpse fought, pushing the man away as she shrieked, her keening wails like a banshee. Others entered the room and circled the clouds he floated on, much to his relief. Then, a sudden panic hit him and he grabbed the arm of the man with the loud voice, and everyone in the room became still-frames in a paused video.
“Don’t let them take me away.”
“I do not follow,” the painful voice replied.
Fillion cringed, releasing a soft moan. When he recovered, he whispered, “Put me in The Rows. Don’t let them take me.” Fillion turned his head to the side as a pang wrenched through his chest, tightening the muscles. He whispered, “Where’d she go? Why did she leave me?”
The man leaned forward so that their eyes connected. “You shall not die.”
“I’m already dead.”
In the last image he saw of the corpse, her legs had buckled and her shrieks silenced, and the man carried her limp body from the room. Finally, she was dead and would leave him alone. Now he could die, too. And in peace.
A woman rested her ear against his chest. And when she spoke, it sounded hollow and glitchy, as if digitalized. “Activated charcoal, quick. His pulse is weak.” Fillion’s body started to convulse again and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Skylar, hold him down.” She said several other words to another woman, her image winking in and out of focus, fuzzing on occasion. But Fillion only heard one word before he drifted into a state of unconsciousness.
Poison.
***
Deconstructing illusions is an imperative aspect in the grief process. This is often the step known as the ‘if only’ stage. If only I had said this instead of that. If only I had not held so many grudges against this person. If only I would have slowed down and enjoyed my life more. Each time sorrows and hardships challenge prior beliefs and convictions, the individual is forced to reset the value system of his or her life. This stage inevitably brings to the surface the individual’s greatest fears and strongest desires. Processing the polarity of dreams and nightmares becomes the very catalyst that deconstructs illusions and reprioritizes the many elements of the grieving person’s life.
— Dr. Della Jayne Nichols, “Chapter 10: Deconstructing Illusions,” Misery Loves Company, 2047
***
Willow awoke to her own voice crying out, “Do not leave me!” However, the raw edges of her plea were drowned out by a swarm of other female voices delivering commands in a nearby room. She blinked away the fog while taking in her parents’ bedchamber, warmly lit by candles. Activity swirled around the bed as a body thrashed, fingers clawing and gripping the covers. From the dark shadows of the hallway she watched in horror, words and images drifting through her mind in a haze. Then, she remembered.
Fillion never wished to see her again, was terrified of her even. Why did he refer to her as an angel rather than by her name? Her heart twisted and writhed, wishing to weep and never stop, until she drowned in her grief. Another she loved was being taken—no—lacerated from her heart, each cut deep and unbearable. Although she knew Fillion was sick, and though Leaf encouraged her to ignore him, she could not forget Fillion’s words. Despite all appearances, there was truth behind his wild responses, as if Fillion’s apprehensions took shape and gave voice to his darkest fears. What if he died with such bitter sentiments as his final thoughts of her?
Air left her body, long and deep, and she hiccupped, a quick gulp to steady the enormous emotions whipping around inside of her. Arms tightened protectively around her back and arm, and that is when she noticed her position. Leaf sat upon a chair near the doorway, holding her slumped over body, which perched upon his knee, her head resting against his chest. The whoosh of his heart muffled the voices, but not enough.
A tiny sniff nearby startled Willow and she stilled. “Leaf, will he die?” Laurel’s voice came as a squeak and Willow’s heart lurched.
“No,” Leaf replied in a whisper. “He shall rise renewed with the morning sun, you shall see.”
“Did Father suffer like him?” A small sob escaped from Laurel, and a tear silently trailed down Willow’s cheek in response. Leaf held both her and Laurel on his lap, each sister upon a knee.
“Father passed on quickly, ma chère.”
“Is Father happy, you think?”
Leaf whispered in reply, “I believe he misses us as we do him. But I also believe he is happy, for he has reunited with Mother and his soul no longer aches.” Leaf paused as Laurel readjusted on his knee, and Willow felt Laurel’s small fingers upon her back. Softly, Leaf said, “Both Mother and Father desired for us to know only happiness while they lived. I cannot imagine that their gift of love and joy departed with them. It is a gift we are to always enjoy, although difficult at times.”
“I think so, too.” Laurel bumped into Willow again. “I love you, Leaf.”
“I love you, too, Laurel.”
Another tear slid down Willow’s cheek and she refocused attention to those caring for Fillion inside the brightly lit room. Joannah and Timna, the Naturopath, lifted Fillion to a sitting position as Ember leaned forward with a cloth. Skylar stood near the foot of the bed, preventing a clear view of Fillion.
In low tones, Timna turned to Joannah and said, “I think we should employ a modified Trendelenburg position to aid the hypotension. I fear he may aspirate, however, should he vomit once more. What is your opinion?”
Joannah studied Fillion with a thoughtful look. “Yes, I agree with you. We could take turns to stand guard through the night and roll him to his side should he begin to vomit.”
“Your Highness,” Timna said to Ember, “we need more pillows.”
“You may use the chair pillows from the living room,” Willow volunteered. All heads turned her direction in surprise.
“Willow!” Laurel said from b
ehind her. “But you made those for Father.”
“Yes, and he would wish for us to assist Fillion.”
Timna gave a brisk nod. “Very well. Skylar, My Lord, please fetch the pillows.”
The Son of Wind began to move but halted his steps when Fillion moaned. “Skylar,” he said, his voice weak.” Call Mack.”
“How, My Lord?”
“Cranium in pouch ... belt.” A cough wracked Fillion and he dry-heaved once more into a bucket Joannah supplied. “Where’s ... the ... angel?” Willow gasped and every muscle tightened. Those in the room shot a nervous glance her direction.
“He is lucid some moments,” Leaf murmured close to her ear, “and falls away into delusions within a single breath. The hallucinations are waning more and more as the poison purges.” Troubled by his words, she could not speak. Fillion suffered hallucinations? Poison? Instead, she nodded her head to acknowledge his explanation. “Do not allow his words to injure you,” Leaf said. She nodded again, although she struggled to accept the encouragement.
Skylar marched across the plank floor, revealing Fillion, and her eyes widened. She expected her brother to remind her to avert her eyes and preserve Fillion’s modesty and her own. But he did not. Perhaps his mind was too tired or preoccupied to notice. Ember and Joannah continued to support Fillion in a sitting position, his exposed chest heaving for breath. Candlelight warmed his paled, clammy skin and her eyes roamed over his bare arms and torso. The blanket bunched in his lap and slid off one leg as they maneuvered him. The rushing air in her lungs stilled when he moved, her eyes fixated to the show of sinew and muscle, never seeing a man so undressed, nor so decorated.
“I have your Cranium.” Skylar moved in front of Willow’s view. Embarrassed by her thoughts, she blinked several times and spun a small strand of hair to calm her flustered state. “Who is Mack, My Lord?”
“Allow me,” Ember said. “I have assisted Mack recently, although he only knows of my Guild name.”
“Leaf?” Willow lifted and twisted to see her brother’s face. “What does Ember speak of?”
Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2) Page 54
