Beloved Son

by Carole Cummings

  Very odd, this knowledge of events, of his own participation in them, and yet no real remembrance all the same. As though watching an actor who looked like him, spoke like him, ambling through a slice of life that looked like his, and yet there was no true memory of having lived it, just the sharp knowledge that he had. Bits and snatches that had welded for one reason or another onto his heart, and it seemed that was the best he was going to do, though it probably hurt less that way, so he was cautiously grateful.

  He closed his eyes, reached out, and smiled when the song of the Old Ones changed once again—a slight pause, a hitch in the rhythm, then a brief prayer of wonder and thanksgiving before it slid down into silence. Wil waited, found the gloomed arch of the doorway, and watched it until Thorne’s silhouette—or what Wil was fairly certain was Thorne’s silhouette—appeared in the shadows like a specter, hovering for a moment before a hand lifted silently. Wil lifted his own in response, then Thorne bowed deeply and withdrew without a sound. Good. They would be left alone for a while.

  Now he could turn his attention to the solid weight of a thick arm across his hips, the feel of a face snugged between his left side and the fur-covered mattress, the heat of breath released over his bare skin in the form of light snores. Dallin lay diagonally across the bed, his still-booted feet hanging off the corner and his arm slung over Wil as though he’d perhaps meant to adjust the furs and simply fell asleep halfway through it and now lay where he’d dropped. Not surprising, really—Dallin had barely slept for… well, quite a long time, anyway, and even now, in his sleep, he was still searching, calling.

  Still fully dressed, filthy coat stiff with mud and blood. Wil had the presence of mind to hope the Old Ones had forced at least some measure of healing on their Shaman. Likely not, though, since the removal of the bullet would have necessitated the removal of the coat. Wil was willing to bet they’d tried like hell, though. He would have growled, maybe even smacked the stubborn fool in the head—that’d wake him up in a hurry—but the smile wouldn’t go away yet, and there was just too much residual peace in his heart and spirit for it to have been convincing enough. Instead he gently slipped his fingers into the dirty, tangled mop of matte-gold. Lingered for just a moment. Not too long—cruelly unfair, when the seeking and misery went on behind those closed, deep-dark eyes—but just long enough to gather himself and let the miracle of reality take hold.

  His fingers were on the edge of numb, quite clumsy, and even the small movement screamed protest through sinews locked to damaged muscle beneath the pristine bandage wrapped around his chest and shoulder. Small inconvenience, all things considered.

  He was alive when he shouldn’t be, loved when he couldn’t be. Not meant, not wise, not chosen, unforeseen—no one could have seen Dallin coming—and yet here Wil was, love quite literally in his hands, pressed up against him, breathing it all into his bones like he deserved it.

  Calder had called it dangerous and believed in it so hard it had sent his precariously balanced faith into madness. The Old Ones had shaken their heads in benevolent despair, their reservations writ clear on their weathered faces. She had called it unwise, yet Her eyes had sought His, and She’d smiled through the half-hearted rebuke.

  Wil called it reality. Wil called it what it was. Wil called it incredible good fortune, and he’d made it a habit over the past few years not to look askance at the scarce occasions when he happened to be blessed with it. Wil called it rare and extraordinary and his.

  Smile now more of a grin, he ignored the twinging pain and let his touch grow firm, let his fingers slide with intent through the tangles, trace the whorls of the shell of an ear, then slip down over a bristly cheek. A shift and a light snort as the pad of Wil’s thumb swept along the firm jawline, slid purposefully up toward the lips—

  Dallin’s hand snapped up, lightning-fast, from where it rested on the blade of Wil’s fur-covered hip. He’d already snatched and covered Wil’s wandering fingers before Wil could so much as blink. Bloody hell, but the man had reflexes. The long, rough fingers closed over Wil’s, squeezed so tight Wil thought the tips might pop off, and pressed them into warm, dry lips.

  Stillness, silence—not even the warmth of breath on his hand—then: “Wil?”

  Whisper-soft on a hot puff of breath, hoarse and full of disbelief and relief and pleading, and it was enough to make Wil want to kick himself for delaying it even for a second.

  He swallowed, said, “I’m here,” half expecting Dallin to jump up and lock him in one of those bone-crunching bear hugs he couldn’t help sometimes. And Wil would let him, leftover aches and pains be damned.

  Instead Dallin remained stone-still, not breathing, lips moving against Wil’s rapidly numbing fingertips as though he was trying to speak and couldn’t.

  “Say it again.”

  Wil brought his other hand up and laid it between Dallin’s shoulder blades.

  “I’m here.”

  It cracked because Wil’s throat had gone tight, and his voice shook quite a lot at the end. He shut his eyes and blinked them clear. “Dallin—”

  “Are you here here?”

  Still so quiet and full of caution—and the question, and all the questions behind it, made Wil catch his breath. His eyes misted over again.

  “How did you—?”

  “Just say it.” Dallin’s grip tightened impossibly, lips still moving silently against Wil’s fingers like he’d forgotten how to stop praying. He sucked in one long, deep breath, hitching in his chest like it hurt, and then another. “Are you here to tell me good-bye?” His voice was so calm, that flat, even tone he used when something was choking him and he didn’t want to show it, and it nearly made it impossible for Wil to speak at all.

  Wil shook his head, mute, which wasn’t helping Dallin whatsoever, but Wil almost couldn’t breathe, the buried devastation in Dallin’s level voice ringing through Wil like crystal, chiming at his bones and shrilling off-key. It vibrated at the back of his teeth, painful as nothing he’d ever heard, and he didn’t think he’d ever get over the fact that an emotion of that much depth could be meant for him.

  “No,” he managed, finally, and slid his hand up from Dallin’s back to his shoulder. “Not good-bye, not unless you want it.”

  The heavy burst of breath from Dallin that time could have been a laugh or a sob.

  Both, Wil decided when Dallin finally lifted his head slowly, eyes too tired and full of ghosts, peering up at Wil with heartbreaking hope and relief. “Bloody idiot.” Dallin wobbled a smile that kept tightening and crooking downward into a grimace before hooking back up, somehow catching sunshine in it and warming Wil right through to his heart. Dallin shook his head, said it again—“Bloody idiot”—then swarmed up the bed, slid his arms around Wil, and dragged him so close Wil thought he could have breathed for them both, if he could breathe at all.

  Dallin’s right arm was noticeably weaker, no doubt stiff and very painful by now, but he didn’t seem to care much at the moment. One heavy leg swung over Wil’s thighs, more or less pinning him. If the furs weren’t in the way, Wil thought Dallin might’ve wrapped his legs around him too and hung on like a limpet. Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, but Dallin was huge and heavy and apparently not thinking terribly clearly right now.

  “Thank you,” Dallin whispered, “Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” rough and thick. Wil had no idea if it was intended for him or Them, but he didn’t suppose it mattered much. Dallin’s face was tucked down into the crook of Wil’s shoulder, gasping breaths sliding down Wil’s bare arm and neck.

  “Dallin—”

  “They wouldn’t let me in, They shut me out, I couldn’t—couldn’t—”

  “Dallin—”

  “—They asked me if I believed, and I did, I do, but They didn’t ask me what I believed, and They didn’t say what They… if you—And then the Old Ones, they kept saying it was in Their hands, like I didn’t know that already, and you were so… there was so much, and I couldn’t fix it all, but
They wouldn’t let me in, and They wouldn’t say—”

  “Dallin.”

  Dallin stilled with another rasping intake of breath. “What?” It was low and wary.

  Somehow it made Wil smile. And somehow the lingering pain couldn’t get past the firmness of the grip.

  “I’m here.” Wil twisted his neck and laid a soft kiss on Dallin’s hair, said it again, “I’m here,” then added, “I’m not going anywhere,” and wrapped his good arm awkwardly around Dallin’s ribs. He swallowed, his throat clogged and aching, which wouldn’t do at all. It was his turn to be the strong one. “Now stop your wibbling and listen, all right?”

  Dallin snorted this time, rough and watery, and his hold tightened—thankfully briefly—before he relaxed. Finally, he jerked a tight nod.

  Wil wished Dallin had at least taken off his filthy coat. It would be nice to feel more than caked mud and matted suede beneath his hand.

  “Now, if I tell you something,” Wil said quietly, “will you promise not to let go?”

  This time Wil could feel the smile against his jawbone. “Not unless you want it,” Dallin replied—muffled cheek, but cheek nonetheless.

  Wil grinned. “All right, then.” He braced himself, because promise or no, Dallin had some very predictable reflexes. “I didn’t give Her the time to finish the job. There’s some healing to be done yet, and I—hey, you promised!” He gripped Dallin’s coat as firmly as he could and dragged him back down, though Dallin was stiff now and tense. “You said you wouldn’t let go.”

  “I haven’t let go. I’ve merely stopped crushing you.”

  Which was true, Wil supposed. But still. The wariness was back in Dallin’s voice again, the inability to believe entirely, and it hurt that so much of Dallin rested on Wil’s mere existence. But it took away a different sort of hurt too, so it was an even trade.

  “All right.” Wil sank his fingers back into Dallin’s dirty hair. “But I have a few things I need you to do for me, more promises, and no weaseling out on technicalities. Agreed?”

  Dallin must’ve been a bit drunk with relief, because he merely planted a firm kiss to Wil’s ear—the only thing he could reach without letting go—and agreed.

  Wil dragged in some much needed air and dipped his face down so he could whisper into Dallin’s ear, take away any sting. “First thing—I want you to go and hunt down someone to get that bullet out of you before you end up with blood poisoning. And I want you to tell them to give you something that’ll put you out for at least ten hours.” Dallin stiffened, but Wil tightened his hold. “You promised.” Gentle but ruthless. Wil waited until some of the stiffness leaked away, waited until Dallin nodded concession. “Second thing—I’m desperate for something to drink, lots of something to drink, and I’m sore and likely to become quite miserable and snappish if something isn’t done. I want whichever of the Old Ones aren’t helping you to come in here and help me.”

  Dallin lifted up on his elbow but couldn’t quite control the wince and quickly tried to cover it by resting his weight on his other arm. “I can—”

  “I know you can, and I’ve no doubt there’ll be other things I’ll be wanting you for, but you need your strength for yourself. All right?”

  If he weren’t such a practical man, Dallin would have argued. Wil could see the beginnings of denial on Dallin’s face and in his eyes, so he kept quiet, only kept his gaze stern and hardened his mouth while the arguments springing to life behind Dallin’s eyes died one by one, victims to helpless logic.

  “You promised.”

  Dallin was silent for quite a while, his gaze drifting down to the sleeve of his coat, torn and dark with caked blood. Reluctantly he nodded. “I, um.” His mouth flattened before he lifted his eyes back up to Wil’s. “I’d like to sleep here, if that’s all right.”

  Like he was expecting refusal or was embarrassed to be asking at all.

  Wil rolled his eyes. “And I’m the bloody idiot.” He pulled Dallin down and kissed him, long and slow, then ran his fingers over a stubbled cheek. “Have a bath first—you’re getting ripe. And p’raps you might find it in your heart to shave?” He hadn’t said it just to feel the vibration against his lips when Dallin chuckled, but it was a bonus.

  Eventually Dallin sucked in a long, shaky breath. He laid his brow to Wil’s, eyes shut tight, every line of his wide body tense and screaming silent anxiety.

  “You came back.”

  Not They sent you back, not They let you come back—he knew.

  “I did.”

  “You chose.”

  “I chose you,” Wil answered immediately, because immediate seemed terribly necessary right now. He slipped his hand to Dallin’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the raised lines of the Mark. “How did you know?”

  “There was a moment….” A heavy breath expanded Dallin’s chest against Wil’s. Dallin laid his head on the pillow, tucking his face back to Wil’s shoulder. “There was so much damage. I can’t even imagine the pain you must’ve… and you were so cold.” Dallin shifted impossibly closer, hand coming up to rest lightly over Wil’s freshly bandaged shoulder. “She loves you so much—She wouldn’t’ve healed you, sent you back just because I asked Her to. She would have given you a choice, and I couldn’t make myself—I mean, why would you, but I couldn’t—couldn’t stop hoping.”

  Wil slid his fingers through Dallin’s longer callused ones, though his arm was still stiff and aching and his hand stupid and clumsy, so he couldn’t grip as tightly as he wanted to.

  “Yes, I chose it. And there are….” He paused. Did he really want to do this now? Hadn’t he already put Dallin through enough? “And there are only so many delaying tactics I will abet.” He smiled and poked clumsily until he hit a rib through the disgusting coat, and made Dallin jump. “Go on, then. Thorne’s waiting for you. And I really am terribly thirsty.”

  “Right.”

  Dallin sat up, careful not to jostle Wil, though considering all the manhandling of a moment ago, it was a little late to be worrying about that. He gave Wil a tired grin and turned away to swipe not quite surreptitiously at his eyes. When he turned back, his gaze went reflexively toward the bandage, ghost-white against the furs in the darkness, and the little crystal that lay quiescent atop it.

  “Are you in much pain?”

  “Enough. Are you?”

  Predictably, Dallin didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “Are you hungry?”

  Wil let it go. “Now, that’s a stupid question.” He wasn’t—rather nauseated, in fact—but any other answer would have worried Dallin and delayed the necessaries even further.

  Dallin dragged himself up from the wide bed. “I’ll tell Thorne,” he said as he started for the shadowed arch of the doorway. Wil couldn’t tell if the slight limp in Dallin’s gait was from injury or fatigue. Likely both. Dallin paused when he reached the door, then turned, half of him limned in fire, the other half drenched in shadow. “Wil—”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Wil watched as Dallin opened his mouth, closed it, then merely nodded, looked down, and silently quit the room.

  Wil settled back into the incredible softness ensconcing him, shifted his gaze to the ceiling, and watched the firelight ripple shadow-copper in lazy waves. He sighed and shut his eyes.

  They’d have a talk when Dallin was healed and finally rested. Let him get some decent sleep for once, even if a drug-induced coma was the only way to do it, before springing his choices on him.

  Not that Wil was putting it off. And not that he was afraid of what Dallin would choose. Not at all. After all, Dallin had been handing Wil the power of choice from the very beginning. Turnabout and all that.

  Right?

  Wil’s good hand clenched in the furs, squeezed so tight he could hear the downy pelts squeaking between his fingers, and he gritted his teeth. He forced his grip to relax and wrapped his fingers instead around the crystal, making a concerted effort to breathe deeply and evenly.

  Where the bloody hell was Thorn
e, anyway?

  IT WAS actually Siddell who came to him, hobbling on stick legs but with a sly bit of a smile that made him look amusingly mischievous, nearly youthful. Singréne followed with a wide tray in hand, a sweating pitcher balanced on its center, along with Heofon, who smiled at Wil with a beatific softness that made his skull-like face almost beautiful.

  Wil pushed himself up to sit against the pillows and watched them come, peering somewhat blearily from one elated face to another as he accepted a cup of cool, clear water from Heofon and drank deeply. Already it seemed to soothe the slow empty churning of his gut.

  “Drink it all, lad,” Heofon told him in his craggy voice, and when Wil did, Singréne immediately refilled it from the pitcher.

  “Drink as much as you can without upsetting your stomach.” Singréne’s rolling baritone was somehow muted and gentle. “You lost more blood than you should have survived. Rebuilding and replacing is needed now.”

  Wil remembered something like that from when Dallin had been stabbed. Now he supposed he had an idea of how exhausted Dallin m been, yet he’d carried on, got them out of Chester, and used up whatever was left to heal Wil.

  “Your Guardian said you were hungry?” Singréne looked skeptical but willing as his gaze went to the steaming mug of what Wil suspected was broth next to the pitcher on the tray. It smelled good and rich, not nauseating as Wil had feared, but the clean taste of the water was what he craved right now, so he reluctantly shook his head.

  “Dallin would have worried unduly if I’d answered any other way.” He shrugged. “It seemed the most expedient way to get him to see to himself. Or to let someone else see to him.” Wil smirked, small and weary. “The twelve of you couldn’t’ve maybe tackled him and taken care of him, whether he wanted you to or not?”