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And then She's gone. Dallin blinks into the darkness, rubs at his eyes, tries to wake up, but he can't. He walks slowly over to Wil, musing, somewhat unsettled, that his feet touch nothing no ground, no floor, only emptiness and yet he doesn't fall. He wonders a little dazedly if he spread his arms wide, would he be able to fly. The thought seems so trivial as he draws closer to Wil, moving steadily, finding patterns with his fingertips, and weeping quietly, tears slipping slowly to spatter down on... Dallin frowns now, angry, and he reaches out, gently takes up Wil's hand in one of his own. "Your fingers are bleeding." Wil jumps, spins. Dallin thinks Wil's going to scream, but then he chokes it back, stares at Dallin, face twitching between misery and confusion, eyes half-lidded and pulsing out something that nearly hums with betrayed resignation 'burning,' Dallin thinks dazedly, doesn't half-cover it. There is nothing so mundane as radiance coming from them, but power, Dallin can almost see it in physical form just below his 369 Aisling Book One: Guardian by Carole Cummings corporeal vision, green irises swirling that fluid malachite and glistening jade he'd seen the first time he'd laid eyes on Wil, and again in a cell in Dudley. Somehow, it doesn't matter now it's as it should be, and it's of less concern than those bleeding fingers. He turns Wil's hand palm-up, touches lightly at a fingertip. "Why d'you do this to yourself?" he asks quietly. Wil doesn't answer the question, instead says, "You're... here." Dallin shrugs a little, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "I'm here," he agrees. "You're always here," Wil mutters unhappily, pulls his hand away and looks at Dallin, eyebrows coming together in consternation. "What d'you want? His voice is dull, weary. He looks so much like he's expecting Dallin to say he'd like his soul, thanks, and his mind and heart while he's at, that Dallin puffs a tired little snort. "That's a very big question," he answers. "What do you want?" Wil doesn't even think about it, just looks up at Dallin, drained. "I want to not be afraid anymore." Dallin sighs, nods slowly, reaches out and lays his hand to Wil's shoulder. Wil doesn't shrug it off. "Are you still afraid of me? A slight frown crinkles Wil's forehead. "Not... mostly," he answers slowly. "But I can't tell yet. I have to know first." "Know what?" Wil rolls his eyes, growls impatience. "What do you want from me?" 370 Aisling Book One: Guardian by Carole Cummings "Ah." Dallin wants to snort again, and he doesn't think he should, but the question seems too simple to have been voiced so seriously. "I don't want anything from you," he says, grave and sincere. "I want to help you." And then he does snort, runs a hand roughly through his hair and looks about the bizarre surroundings. "But most of all, I really want to wake up." He was already sitting up, body still vibrating from its lurch into wakefulness. His chest was heaving, hard, shallow breaths sucking in and out, like he'd just run five miles in his sleep, and his hands were shaking. He drew up his knees, lowered his face into his hands. "Fuck," he whispered, incensed that his voice trembled. He was being absurd. He'd never had such a vivid dream in all his life. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had dreamed. And the things he'd seen, felt... He shook his head. "Don't even think about it," he mumbled into his hands. "It wasn't real, you're just spooked by all the... everything." Except... No. No. Shamans weaving little spells was one thing, but... but... Well, and there had been Wil and that man in the cell... A bit of a shudder he couldn't suppress, and he rubbed at his face, peered about in the low, uncertain light from the dying fire, rubbed sleep-blurry eyes and blinked 'til his vision cleared. He shot his gaze to the bed; Wil was still sleeping, thank the 371 Aisling Book One: Guardian by Carole Cummings He shook his head, clenched his jaw. "You didn't see Her. You didn't see anything. It was a dream. You need your quick-mud, damn it. Don't get all wonky now, for pity's sake." Easier said than done. It still felt real. And the bit about Old Bridge if it turned out that it was even close to what really happened No. It wasn't. It was just Dallin's own imagination. Filling in too many blanks because he didn't have any facts to fill them with. It wasn't any more real than a man controlling other people's dreams. Just because everyone in Riocht had gone insane with the wilder aspects of their religion, didn't mean Dallin had to let them drag him along with them. Still... The lad's got scars you en't seen. All he had to do was slide his fingers into Wil's hair, feel about for scarred shapes beneath his fingertips. Their lack would prove that Dallin was just playing into everyone else's madness; their presence would prove... He closed his eyes. Their presence would confirm at least circumstantially that the Aisling was real. Which would, in turn, prove that the Guardian was real. The thought turned his stomach, ever so slightly. He growled a little, clenched his teeth. "All right, Dreamer," he muttered, low and quiet, "why don't you do something useful and dream me up some coffee?" A low snort knocked at the bottom of his throat, but it felt a little wild and crazed, so he kept it in, ran a hand through his hair. Peered up at the tiny window. It was going pinkish outside, dawn just breaking up the night. Maybe he could 372 Aisling Book One: Guardian by Carole Cummings walk off the remnants of the dream, pick up some tea from the kitchen while he was at it. Do something nice for Wil, why not? Even if the dream hadn't been real, Wil had obviously been through some difficult times, and Dallin would bet no one had ever brought him tea in bed before. It would be a nice gesture. Wake him up in the right mood. Make him more cooperative. There. It was decided. He'd go get tea. For Wil. Because it would serve Dallin's purposes. Lesson Two: Honey. He'd bring some of that, too hahaha. Right. He dressed quickly, throwing on clothes, strapping on his weapons with as little clanging as possible; his hands were still shaking a little, so it was hard going, but if he made too much noise, he'd wake Wil. And then he'd have to explain why he was locking him in the room by himself so that Dallin could get out somewhere he could breathe, and pump a little adrenaline through his veins to crowd out the ridiculous... whatever it was. And he didn't think he could explain. Securely buttoned, tied and strapped, he slipped out the door and into the narrow hallway, locking the door behind him. So, I am a prisoner wanted to echo through his head, poke guilty little pins at him, but there was already too much racing about in there, so it couldn't get a handhold. He sucked in a long breath, cleared his mind or tried to clomped down the stairs to the empty common room. It was quiet and dark, no lamps lit yet, so he followed the din of pots and a slice of dim light to the kitchen. The innkeep who'd served them supper last night Dallin had neglected to ask his name was already in there, baggy-eyed and sour- 373 Aisling Book One: Guardian by Carole Cummings looking, along with two women busy with the morning baking. The innkeep looked up when Dallin reached the doorway, rolled his eyes. "Ah, at least one person'll be happy for the bloody-awful- in-the-morning delivery." Dallin blinked, lifted an eyebrow. After the night he'd had, he wasn't surprised that nothing was making sense. "Sorry?" was all he managed. The man waved a hand tiredly. "Eh, not your fault. I'm up late to close up and I'm not pleasant when I don't sleep 'til midday." One of the women snorted and smirked at the other. The innkeep flashed them both a sour grimace, turned back to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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