He thinks it might be pity.
“What is your name, lad?”
The young man doesn’t answer. For a moment Gethin thinks he is too far gone to speak, before realizing that he would not understand the speech of men this far north of his home.
Gethin presses a hand against his own chest and states his name, then gives the other man an inquiring look. Those blue eyes watch him in silence but eventually, and with difficulty, he speaks.
“Rollon,” he croaks.
His voice is thick and unsteady and he coughs violently afterward, blood welling in his mouth and splattering his lips crimson. His eyes bore into Gethin’s, refusing to look away. There is no fear in his gaze, no regret. He simply stares.
Gethin lifts his sword. Rollon blinks, slowly, a calm acceptance settling over his features. The fog seems to clear from his eyes, replaced with something bright and clear, and Gethin understands what it is.
Gratitude.
He brings his blade down with all the accuracy he uses in battle, and as he watches the life drain from yet another man’s face, Gethin allows himself a moment to mourn.
*
GARETH SITS UPRIGHT with a start, breathing hard and sweating, on the verge of something almost like panic. His skin feels clammy and his heart thuds wildly in his chest.
It’s still mostly dark, dawn probably still an hour or so away. Some remnants of bizarre dreams cling to his memory but details are scarce-he recalls a windswept hill, the smell of a garden in bloom, unfamiliar city streets and men and women in strange clothing-but beyond vague impressions, nothing.
“Roland?” he says into the darkness.
An unmistakable form materializes by the chest of drawers, looking pale and watery in the moonlight.
“Is everything all right?” Roland asks immediately, looking quite alarmed.
“My apologies,” Gareth says quickly. “I just…” His voice trails away to nothing as he finds himself at a loss for what to say.
But somehow, Roland seems to understand. He drifts closer and sits in the armchair by the bed.
“More dreams?” He sounds almost gentle. “Or perhaps it would be more accurate to call them nightmares?”
Gareth shakes his head.
“I don’t know what to call them. I’ve never had dreams-or nightmares-this vivid in all my life. Even after I was newly returned from the war in India.”
“So it isn't war that you dream of, then?”
“No,” Gareth says, then with sudden vividness recalls the clang of broadswords that gleamed red with blood. “I mean, yes. I think. But not war as I remember it.”
Roland is silent for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. Gareth grabs handfuls of the sheets to keep himself from reaching out and trying to touch skin he knows he wouldn’t be able to feel.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what to make of it,” Roland says eventually. An invisible wind seems to stir his hair and Gareth is momentarily distracted by the way it sweeps across his forehead. “Were I alive I’d offer you tea,” he adds, mouth curving into a small, careful smile, “but as it stands I’d probably just break the teapot.”
A burst of laughter wells up in Gareth, sudden and unexpected, and Roland’s smile widens to a grin at the sound of it echoing through the room. It seems to chase away his lingering unease and for a while they do nothing but sit together in the dark, smiling at each other, almost shy but comfortable in the silence.
When the rising sun starts to lighten the shadows, Gareth finally slides out of bed and slips on a robe.
“You’ve never told me, have you?” he muses, as they make their way downstairs to the kitchen.
“Told you what?”
“How you like your tea.”
Roland suddenly disappears, only to reappear at the foot of the stairs. He looks up at Gareth with a wide grin, the pale morning light making his eyes an impossibly clear blue.
“It’s a strange coincidence,” he says. “But I happen to like it just the way you make it.”
*
WEEKS PASS AND Gareth continues to dream, of dozens of people and dozens of lives, every dream ending with a vague sense of loss. He wakes up disoriented and alone, and for the first time the emptiness of his bed and his room and his house-his life-begins to weigh on him.
They don’t discuss it, but after a handful of nights when he wakes up in a panic with Roland’s name on his lips, Gareth starts to wake up with Roland already there, sitting in the armchair, a calm smile on his face and reassurance in his voice.
He wakes up now to see Roland sitting on the bed this time, instead of the chair. He’s close enough that Gareth could reach out and touch his arm, were he made of something more substantial.
There’s an odd expression on his face.
“Roland?” he tries to say, but no sound comes out of his mouth.
“Shh,” Roland says. His voice is as quiet as it always is when they talk like this in the middle of the night, but there’s an unfamiliar note in it now. “It’s all right. You’ll be all right.”
He laughs a little, but to Gareth’s ears it sounds unbearably sad.
“I mean, look at me,” Roland adds. “You’ll be fine, Gareth. I promise you that. I promise.”
He looks upset and Gareth wants to say something-wants to comfort him somehow, in the same way that Roland has always comforted him.
But gradually, Gareth becomes aware of a certain tightness in his chest, of a peculiar shooting pain in his arms. He can’t seem to catch his breath nor speak a word aloud, and slowly, realization begins to dawn.
He thinks he should be angry. He thinks he should be afraid. But as he looks at Roland leaning over him now, his eyes full of bittersweet compassion, all Gareth feels is a spreading sense of calm. If this is how he is to meet his end, he thinks to himself, then he can make his peace with it.
There were far worse ways to go.
Gareth reaches out and tries to clasp Roland’s hand where it lays on top of the sheets. His fingers pass right through the phantom flesh and an otherworldly chill spreads through his bones, but he keeps his hand where it is. Roland moves closer, his arm coming around Gareth’s waist. The embrace is freezing, but Gareth welcomes the cold.
He closes his eyes. The last thing he hears is the sound of Roland’s voice saying his name, and the last thing he sees is the line of their bodies stretched out on the bed, so intertwined that he can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins.
*
IT’S FEBRUARY AND it’s summertime.
The sky is a brilliant shade of blue and the sun is bright and warm and gold. It throws everything into stark relief, everything looking almost hyper-real, and it makes Gareth even more aware of the fact that he’s on the other side of the world and a million miles away from home.
He wanders around the village, familiarizing himself with the place. He ends up at a tiny café serving tea and snacks. Gareth heads inside, intent on getting a cup of tea, when he catches sight of someone already standing at the counter, frowning at the selection.
Gareth’s only ever heard of the man and seen him on the back cover of his favorite book but his profile is unmistakable.
“Hello,” Gareth says in greeting, and the other man turns around. “You’re Roland Oswald, the writer? I’m your new assistant.”
“My right hand,” is the amused reply.
Gareth starts to get his tea together, adding precise amounts of sugar and milk.
“Huh,” Roland says. Gareth glances over.
“Something wrong?”
Roland shakes his head.
“No, it’s just...” He trails off and chuckles a little, gaze lingering on Gareth’s hands before flickering up to meet his eyes. “That’s pretty much exactly how I take my tea, too.”
“Well, in that case-let me do the honors.”
Gareth makes another cup and then sets both of them aside for a moment. He turns to face his new employer, smiling, and holds out a hand.
/> “It’s good to finally meet you in the flesh,” Gareth says.
“Likewise,” Roland replies, smiling back.
He takes Gareth’s hand.
Roland’s grip is firm and his palm is warm and his eyes are very, very blue.
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