—hurtled, screaming, into Forever.
Vast.
Dark.
Terrifying.
Alone inside Time.
Not a dream. Not life. A dreaming half-life, perhaps…
No. No, that wasn’t right. A not-life.
Nothing.
‘I think there’s so much more that if you’re not very careful in how you use it, you could lose yourself.’
He was lost, that was it. In a place with no color, no patterns, no path—
‘She fears for you, for your path has only just begun and you refuse Her Gift.’
Path… Gift… he saw neither, and he didn’t know who
‘She’ was, but the thought made him want to weep so he pushed it away. She should be here, damn it, should be… should be… ‘She is not my mother, and I want nothing from her.’
It was so full of anger and betrayal, hurt and grief. It made his throat clog up, made his heart thud heavily, and he turned his face away. Sent his gaze out into eternal night.
Blank-black and oh, so dark. If he put out his eyes, he might see more. He hadn’t known this kind of darkness existed. Pitch-poison and deadly comfort. Sink inside the cold, freeze away the pain, because oh, it hurt…
“Wil? Wil, are you in there?”
Quietly frantic—this hurt, too, but not in his ears. He thought he knew the voice, but he couldn’t remember how or who.
“Wil, damn it, wake up, we don’t have time!”
Wil. It was… familiar.
‘Peaceful River. It’s nice, isn’t it? I want to live by one someday.’
Water, river, peace, and a strong arm about him…
‘That’s a very good wish.’
…stars and confessions, songs and loss and contentment and grief… a kiss…
“Calder! Shaw! Someone get over here, I need help!”
Calder… River of stones.
‘…there’s a river runs through Cildtrog…’
‘The Flównysse. I’m not sure how precise it is. It’s been years, but this is how I remember it.’
The flow of the river, the songs of the stars, the cool kiss of a gentle breeze against his cheek…
‘How did you do this?’
‘It’s a dream, innit?’
A dream. A living dream, a dreaming life, a cold, dark, bottomless not-life where the stars had all gone silent and he was blind to the patterns, deaf, mute, senseless and soulless.
“Mother save us, he’s all-over blood! Is he shot?”
Mother…
‘…there’s a river runs through Cildtrog…’
Flównysse… Mother’s Blood. Blood to Blood.
“No, not shot, he’s just… he’s bleeding.”
Bleeding. Blood to Blood.
“Help me get him up. Get to the horses—quick, before they realize what’s happening. Corliss! You tell everyone what you saw and heard here today, understand? Everyone.”
“She can’t—”
“What are you going to do? Shoot her to keep your damned secret? Look around you, Calder— this is what secrets bring. Look at him, I can barely even see his face through all the…” A hoarse snarl. “Fuck you and your secrets, now move!”
“What about Siofra?”
“Dead.” Incensed. Satisfied. “Leave him.”
Dead. Siofra. It should have meant something, but it only brought pain and shame and rage.
‘I was a father to you, starless boy.’
Starless. Soulless. Lost inside Forever. Holding a soul in his hand and closing his fingers. Finding a Thread and ripping it out.
You’re not Father. You’re not anything, you never were.
‘You accept a cage like you belong in one, beautiful Gift. And yet the keys to your prison are right within your grasp.’
Father… Help me. I don’t want to be in a cage. I don’t want to be lost.
“No, he’ll ride with me. Through the gates.”
“The Guard—”
“I don’t care if you have to mow every damned one of them into the mud. Get on that horse, point him at the gate and keep moving. Don’t stop ’til you get to the river.”
Weightless and far away. Warmth through wet chill. Thunder and rain and a river of blood behind his eyes. A heart beating far too fast— ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump against his cheek—and a deep voice in his ear:
“Don’t you do this.”
Whispered and snarled at the same time. Ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump—the beat of a heart, the beat of hoofs to ground, the beat of his own mind against the bars of its cage.
“Don’t do this, Wil, d’you hear me? Listen to my voice and follow it back.”
Back…
Back where?
Back to where the pain was. Back to where it was all-over knives and sharp biting teeth and monsters waiting for you inside dreams that didn’t belong to you, where the strong were weak and the weak were hungry and you killed when you cared and if you cared you stopped moving and if you stopped moving you died and ‘Father’ meant ‘Traitor’ and ‘mother’ meant ‘Pain-Loss-Grief’ and you were caged alive when you lost and you bled when you won, like a bloody river flowing from out your eyes—
‘Is there anyone, d’you suppose, who doesn’t want to kill me?’
‘I don’t want to kill you.’
“The river, Wil. Find the river and go there. Wait for me there, all right?”
The river. Water, river, peace, and a strong arm about him, stars and confessions, songs and loss and contentment and grief, a kiss… Gunfire and shouts and, “Out of the way, move it!” and jolting thuds that rattled his teeth, and strong arms about him, a broad chest against his cheek, ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump, and more gunfire, and, “Calder! On your flank!”
I know that voice. I know this touch.
“The river. Find the river, Wil. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll find you.”
The river. Water, river, peace, and a strong arm about him, stars and confessions, songs and loss and contentment and grief, a kiss…
‘How did you do this?’
‘It’s a dream, innit?’
A slow smile, and dark eyes, and ‘Why d’you do this to yourself?’ and comfort where there was pain, and confidence where there was fear, and no monsters hidden behind the blunt honesty, no judgment lurking behind the frank reassurance, only stars and water and songs and deep-dark eyes…
‘It’s beautiful.’
Beautiful. He remembered that it was beautiful. It was… not quite enough. He lost the thread and slid deep.
Wil stretched, loosed a little groan, groped blind for the pillow and dragged it over his head. Burrowed deeper into the sheets. He felt… good. Rested. Content. It had been slower the second time, more time spent on exploration and the insistence on feeling every sensation, but no less intense. More of a sharing than a taking. A little more fear inside the pleasure. A tiny smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. A little bit scary was all right.
A little bit scary was… rather nice, actually. Reminded him to keep feeling.
“Bloody hell,” he mumbled into the pillow, “Go to bed a man, and wake…”
Wil, damn it, wake up, we don’t have time!
Wil opened his eyes, frowned up at the drab gray of the ceiling, stretched again. Strange dreams, too alive, too… had he been following? Had someone been following him?
He shook his head. No. No, they were safe here, holed up in the Temple with its damp stone and guttering lamps and pungent torches, and even if someone came and tried to take him away, Shaw wouldn’t let them in and Dallin wouldn’t let them have him. Safe. Here in this tiny bed they’d shared, broad, callused hands all over him, Dallin dragging reactions from him, bringing him back inside the moment with a well-timed kiss or turn of the wrist.
A considerate man, Dallin.
Dallin. Wil hadn’t realized before just how much he liked the name, liked the way it rolled on his tongue.
Wil, it’s only a name.
; Only a name. You don’t understand. You have one—pride’s people, from the valley, brave—made of the hearts of mountains and you never have to wonder…
“Stop it.” He squeezed his eyes tight. What the hell was wrong with him? Ghost-voices in his head, awake and aware when they should be dead and buried, because they weren’t real, they were someone else’s dream, and he wasn’t, he was real, damn it, real flesh, real blood—
Blood to blood.
Mother save us, he’s all-over blood!
Wil dug his knuckles into his eyes. “Go away. Get out of my head!”
He’d never had this much trouble putting dreams behind him before. Never even had to think about it, never had to try. This disjointed overlap of dream-to-life-to-dream was… unnerving.
“Are you alive down there?”
Dead. Leave him.
He shook his head, shutting his eyes tight before blinking back up at the ceiling with a frown.
“Sort of.”
“Well, get your arse up and moving, yeah? We’ve got work to do.”
Work to do…
It’s only a candle. It can’t do any damage.
I can’t. It’s too big.
His teeth clenched, and he squeezed his eyes tighter, rubbing at his temples. Things were… off. Out of balance. He couldn’t think straight. Had they been drinking last night? No. No, there was the river then the kiss then… more kisses, and… A blank spot with dreams he didn’t want to see inside it, so he pushed them away, turned his head slowly and, just as slowly, opened his eyes. Sighed relief. Tea and ham rolls. Breakfast in bed.
All right, then. Guttering lamps, uncertain light, damp stone and Shaw’s ham rolls going cold on the little cupboard just out of reach.
Safe. Not stumbling about in blackness. Not alone.
Just a muddy mind this morning, that was all. His head would clear after a cup of tea. He snatched up pants and trousers from the floor, slid himself into both, and slouched across to his breakfast. It was bloody freezing in here this morning, cold and wet—
No. Cold but not wet, no rain, just the chill of the stone floor against his bare feet, the damp of the air against his bare chest. Grabbing for his shirt, he slid an arm into a sleeve… turned slowly to the door.
“Sleep well?” Dallin asked. His eyes were sad, his face stretched with tension.
Wil frowned, looked down. This wasn’t… right. It wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Dallin was supposed to be smiling. There was supposed to be affection and provocative intent in those dark eyes, like Dallin wanted to shove Wil back into bed and not let him up again. You are bloody evil. He wasn’t supposed to have worry in his gaze, he wasn’t supposed to be dripping wet, he wasn’t supposed to have that angry, welted burn flaring across his cheek.
“I feel… very strange.” Wil shook his head, groped for sense, for words.
Put it all back to where it’s supposed to be. Pluck the broken threads, re-weave them into the right pattern. Warp and Weft. Breakfast, shirt, Dallin at the door, then…
“Get rid of Calder?”
River of stones…
Dallin was still looking at him with that all-wrong sadness in his gaze. He sighed tiredly, said, “Calder thinks you can’t control it; he thinks you’re weak.”
“No.” Wil stared, shook his head, angry now, edging on panic. “Don’t say that.”
“I didn’t say it,” Dallin replied with a shrug. “He did.”
“No, I mean…” Wil’s heart was pounding, his eyes burning. “That isn’t what… you weren’t supposed to say…” He stopped, swallowed bile.
“Wasn’t supposed to say what?” Dallin asked softly, those dark eyes boring into Wil, seeing right down to blood and bone. “Wasn’t supposed to say you’re hiding?—wandering?—lost and trying not to be found?”
“No.” A whisper, shaky and small. Wil backed up a pace, almost gagged when water closed around his ankles, grabbed him in an icy fist. “Why is there water?” he croaked, weak and distant.
“Because it’s still raining,” Dallin replied. “It’s just as well. Hopefully it’ll put out the fires in Chester. Though, I think the Constabulary is probably lost.”
“The…”
Rain. Fire.
Hail and lightning and wind and thunder and mud soaking his knees, seeping over the tops of his boots—Open wide, then Father—and blood, so much blood, and not all of it’s his, gripping a mind tight in his fist and wrenching, the ground shaking beneath him, like his own mental fist pounding against it in rage, and weaving himself inside someone else’s memories, following them down and down and down—
Wil gave his head a sharp shake, snarled. No. No, it wasn’t how it was supposed to go. No more talking about Important Things, no tears, no running. Safety, a wide hand on his shoulder, thick stone walls about him to hide him from everything he wanted to hide from, reassuring words in his ear, someone at his back… Breakfast, shirt, Dallin at the door, then…
“The guns. We’re supposed to clean the guns.”
There. The guns. Clean the guns and everything would be all right. Put everything back to how it was supposed to—
“We did that already,” Dallin told him, eyes sympathetic, voice kind. “Yesterday morning. And then we played with fire, and then Calder came and—”
“Shut up!”
The tears were coming, burning hot against his cold cheeks, and why was it so bloody cold? Cold and wet and rain, and darkness so pitch Wil could almost touch it, taste it, wrap it about himself until he smothered inside it and forgot to care that he was freezing to death. The lamps were all lit, so why was it so fucking dark? Safe inside his stone cocoon, so why did it feel like at any moment he might totter into some endless black abyss?
Why was he shivering so hard his teeth were chattering?
Cold and wet and—
No.
No.
He needed to get warm, put it all out of his head, a moment of silence, stillness, heat, a calm voice in his ear, he wanted, needed—
Giveitgiveitgiveit.
Wil stalked across the room, gripped Dallin by the collar of his shirt and dragged him down—kissed him.
Agreeable. Compliant. Happy to oblige, like he always was. Dallin kissed Wil back, wrapping those strong arms about him and hauling him in tight. Deep and long—desperate and messy, and Wil didn’t care—whiting his mind, calming the chaos, making everything seem right again.
Help me, I think I’m going insane, and I’m so bloody I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again, and it’s so dark in here…
Tiny nips along his jawbone, broad hands on his back, and a heavy whisper in his ear: “I’m not here, Wil. This isn’t real.”
Wil clenched his teeth, held back a whine. Shook his head against Dallin’s shirt.
“Don’t. Please.”
“It isn’t me.” Soft and soothing. “I’m still looking for you. You’re hiding from me.”
Just trust me, I won’t let anything happen. Push it, Wil.
He burrowed in deeper, hands fisted tight in the shirt.
“I can’t. It’s too big.”
Nonono, Wil, don’t—!
“I think I’m lost.” Raspy and thick, choked with tears and fear. “It’s so cold, and I’m all alone. I didn’t know anyone could be this alone. Please—I don’t know what to do.”
Losing control, losing the threads, losing his Self, losing everything… Those thick arms tightened, held him. “My father told me that as long as I never forgot my name, I’d always know my way home.”
“I don’t know my name!”
…you took everything else away from me, I’ll have my fucking name!
“You do. You always have done.” So calm. So comforting. Dallin pushed him back, gently, laid his hands over Wil’s fists, balled tight in the weave of the shirt. “I know it, too. I found it while you’ve been wandering.”
Strong fingers threading through wet hair, lifting his head to rest against Dallin’s, brow-to-brow—
“C’mon, Wil, I know you’re in there, don’t hide from me.”
—that raw burst of healing intimacy sliding from Dallin’s fingers and into Wil’s skull, a slow-rolling wash of warmth radiating through him, rough fingertips settling over eight small scars carved into his scalp beneath his hair…
“Oh, fuck me…” Breathless with shock, then: “Wil, you’re not going to bloody believe this…”
“Don’t ask me for it, not yet,” not-Dallin told him.
Wil snarled through the tears, shook his head. “It’s mine!”
“And I’ll give it, if you ask me, you know I will. All you’ll ever have to do is ask. But think about this, Wil—
what if he finds you? Do you think you can keep him from getting it?”
Weak.
Weak, damn it, and too bloody vulnerable.
“You’re not. But you’re smarter than this, I know you are. You know it has to be this way.”
No choice but to see the sense in it; no choice but to acknowledge that the only thing he could ever remember truly wanting was now in the safest hands possible. No choice but to weep angry, scalding tears that those hands were not his own.
His name. He actually felt his heart bleeding in slow trickles behind his breastbone.
“The river, Wil. I’m waiting for you there, but you have to come to me.”
Wil shut his eyes, laid his head to Dallin’s shoulder, tears squeezing from out the corners, wetting the shirt, winding into the weave. “But I’m lost,” he whispered.
Blinking and squinting, Wil stared at the threads of the shirt that blurred beneath the spreading pink stain of his own bloody tears. “I don’t know how.”
“I’m wide open,” Dallin told him softly. “I’m looking for you, waiting for you, and I’ve opened myself so wide I’m scared to death. You won’t let me in, so it’s up to you— you have to do this. Look for me and you’ll find me.”
“I don’t want to go back.” So small, Wil wasn’t even sure he’d said it out loud. “I want to stay here.”
Here in this morning when he’d woken safe and content. Or perhaps in the night before when he’d discovered it was all right to want safe and content. Not all of it, not the first time—he’d been too selfish then, hadn’t given himself permission yet to believe—and not all of that harsh revelation that came after the first time.
The Aisling Trilogy Page 64
