Aisling 2: Dream

by Carole Cummings

  Carole Cummings

  it. I’m not asking you for anything you’re not bound to give.”

  The warble of his voice, the grayness of his face—it should have made Dallin stop, calm himself, think it through, but he was too caught up in his own indignant outrage. “How many times,” he snarled, “do I have to prove I’m no danger to you? It was lies, all of it. Those things Calder said—don’t you know what it means? Siofra knew about Lind, he knew about me. And what d’you want to bet me he started out as one of the Brethren? He never needed you to find me, he had you do it because he wanted to see if you could, because he knew it would make you afraid of me. There is no reason—”

  “That isn’t what—!” Wil stopped, bent himself over his knees, took several long breaths. Slowly, like the entire world had just been set on his shoulders, he got to his feet, approaching Dallin slowly.

  “I’m not accusing you of murder,” he said quietly, eyes bleakly despairing. “I’m asking you for a mercy.”

  He stooped down, pulled the knife from his boot. “Here.

  Take it. If there is no other way, you’ll put it through my heart and twist, or even put your hands ’round my throat, if it comes to it, snap my neck—”

  “Stop!”

  Dallin’s arm shot out, knocked away Wil’s hand. The knife went clattering and skidding across the stone floor.

  Dallin just watched it for a moment, marking the flash of golden lamplight on honed steel as it fetched up against a corner of the doorframe. It was too far away, the lettering much too small, but he could swear he could read the blessing etched on its blade as though it were written in fire. He looked away, and tried to slow his breathing. He hadn’t realized his back was to the wall, hadn’t realized he’d retreated as Wil had advanced. There were very few things to which Dallin had ever given ground in fear, but 197

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  this… this was actually making him recoil and almost cower.

  Wil meant it—every word. He was, in all sincerity, asking Dallin to be his suicide—

  No. Not asking. He just said he’d seen it, knew it would happen anyway. He wasn’t asking for something he was sure was already coming—he was absolving Dallin before it came.

  It should have been darkly touching; it was, after all, probably the most profound show of trust and regard possible, and from someone who almost never showed either. It was, instead, enraging.

  “I should hate you for this,” Dallin seethed. “Did you have no thought for me once your corpse dangled at the ends of my hands?”

  And what of that? When had this man gone from a pain-in-the-arse renegade to someone Dallin would sincerely mourn if he were suddenly not here anymore?

  Damn it, had he gone and got attached to a man who suffered no attachments?

  Fucking sentiment. It really was going to be the end of him one day.

  Wil was silent for a long time, then: “No,” he answered faintly. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Dallin sucked in a long breath, took hold of Wil’s arms, and shook lightly. “I’ve seen you give up before,”

  he told Wil forcefully. “But you only give up until you realize you can’t give up, and then the badger shows its teeth. Whatever this is… Wil, I understand what you’re saying, I do, but it isn’t the time for this. You haven’t even lived a real life yet.”

  “I’m not even sure I want a life anymore,” Wil answered tiredly, that exhausted defeat Dallin had seen back in Putnam creeping into his dull gaze. “I can’t stand the… it hurts, I can’t… it’s all full of knives, knives 198

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  everywhere, and they’ll never let me live it.”

  Dallin had to blink to keep the sudden flare of emotion from leaking out his eyes. “A month ago,” he said softly,

  “you said you had a life wish as deep as the sea.”

  “A month, a year, a thousand years…” A snort, hollow and humorless. “Well… I may have changed my mind.” Wil sagged. “Is it so cowardly?” The misery and pleading in his gaze made Dallin want to look away, but he kept his own gaze steady. “I can’t go back, and I can’t go on to something that might be just as… I can’t…” Wil puffed out a small gasp through throttled tears, dazed and hopeless. “Save me, I can’t take more.”

  He meant it; Dallin heard it in the threads of his ragged voice, saw it in the tears that pushed past the stubborn resistance and leaked from eyes gone desolate. Saw the despair, the misery, plain and so real it thumped in his chest. Damn it, Wil had been so confident when he’d walked in with those packs, so proud. He’d actually been almost bloody shining, and now…

  A silent, hollow cry of loss moved through Dallin, that image of Wil’s lifeless eyes staring at him from above his own wide hands. Then the betrayed, agonized shrieks of one trapped in endless torment.

  The treacherous knowledge of which would be worse.

  “You’re not going back,” Dallin vowed, quietly fierce.

  “And if you want my word so badly, I’ll give it—I won’t see you caged. I won’t let it happen, and if it comes to it…”

  He stopped, clenched his teeth. Wil looked at him, the quiet hope in his eyes almost more than Dallin could stand.

  “If it comes to it…?”

  Dallin closed his eyes, pushed Wil back a little and let go of his arms. “A bullet is faster,” he managed. “And less painful for us both.”

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  Long silence, thick and nearly choking, then a cold hand reached for Dallin’s, squeezed.

  “Look at me,” Wil said softly, “and say it again.”

  Mother save or damn him, Dallin did.

  He hadn’t thought he’d sleep, almost thinks he didn’t, but there’s the river, and there’s Wil, staring down into its rushing depths. Dallin wonders what Wil sees down there, wonders if he can hear the reflections of the stars as well as the stars themselves, and wonders if their songs are any different.

  He remembers thinking Wil beautiful once, as he’d stared, shock-still, into green eyes for the first time. He allows himself to think it again now as he watches the breeze lift dark silk from a clear brow, watches peace spread over the face that had looked at Dallin before with misery and asking. Wil should always wear that smile.

  Dallin wishes he could give it to him, wrap it up in a bow, offer it in the palm of his hand like a promise.

  ‘You can’t give smiles,’ someone had told him once; he thinks it was Corliss, ‘you can only give reasons for them.’

  Dallin smiles a little himself.

  He used to be surprised by how tall Wil is, but he isn’t anymore. Now he thinks Wil’s not nearly as tall as he ought to be, ought to tower over the world, though Dallin knows the strength and beauty on the inside doesn’t always manifest in the physical. Still, though…

  Dallin can’t really imagine Wil looking any other way.

  Can’t imagine he’d want him to.

  The smile slips from Dallin’s face and he rubs at his eyes.

  He sighs, shakes his head. Fucking sentiment.

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  “Weft and Warp.” A whisper in a low tenor.

  It might have startled him, coming from directly behind him like that, but the tone is dulcet and musical, soothing all by itself, like its own song, so Dallin only turns, curious. Several things at once occur to him: He knows exactly before whom he stands. Knows exactly where Wil got his dark hair and fair skin, and that sad, tilted smile. Knows exactly where he got those eyes and the burning life inside them.

  Huh , he thinks abstractly, as his glance takes in the smooth cheek, so that’s why he never has to shave. You made him in Your own image.

  He is Wil refined, polished. Tall enough to touch the moon, and yet somehow, Dallin looks Him in the eye.

  He is elegant twilight personified, with all the power and majesty of the stars. He is perfect complement to His Beloved—night to Her day;
star to Her sun.

  Only somehow, for all His beauty, Dallin thinks the bit of the Mother in Wil—that earthy humor in his eyes, the occasional winsome artlessness—is more beguiling.

  He wonders without guilt if that’s sacrilegious.

  He dips his head; bowing and kneeling hadn’t seemed the way of it with the Mother, and it doesn’t seem to be the way of it now, either. Still, respect is the way of it with Dallin, so he settles for the low nod.

  “You’re dying.” He hadn’t meant to say that—certainly not by way of greeting—hadn’t even really been aware he owned the knowledge until it tripped out his mouth, but now that he’s said it, he doesn’t really need confirmation.

  He knows it, he can smell it.

  The Father merely sighs. He waves a pale, long-fingered hand at the sky. “They begin the Weave of my shroud,” He says, “but they do not yet Sing my dirge.”

  Dallin frowns, turns to look at Wil; Wil looks back now, shifts his glance between them, but he doesn’t move 201

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  from beside the water. “You should tell him,” Dallin murmurs, turns back. “He thinks You sleep. He thinks You won’t help him.”

  The Father’s eyes drift to Wil, turn just as sad as the Mother’s had done. “And would you have me tell him that my hope lies in his hands?” He shakes His head.

  “Too many burdens.”

  “Yes,” Dallin answers boldly, “I would tell him. His strength is nearly bottomless, but he grieves for the wrong reasons. Do You think he wouldn’t help You if he knew?”

  “On the contrary, I have no doubt that he would.”

  The Father sighs again. “Apples and potatoes. He accepts a cage like he belongs in one.” Dallin blinks a little to hear his own words come out someone else’s mouth— this

  Someone Else.

  His image flickers for a moment before Dallin’s eyes, winks out for the briefest of seconds then flickers back into focus again. “Time is short,” He tells Dallin, a little lower than before, the smooth tenor going slightly weak and tinny. “Hear me, my brave Gift: your heart is true; do not second-guess it. You have the soul of a Guardian and the mind of a Constable—follow them both. No fate is unchanging; no destiny is set.”

  He flickers again, dwindling to a glint of intense eyes, before sparking back into focus.

  Dallin frowns, thinks about it, brow drawing down.

  “It’s Your brother, isn’t it? He’s doing something to You, taking Your strength, and it’s killing You. You’re not even here.”

  He’s a dream within a dream. What was that Wil had said?

  ‘Have you noticed that Aisling means Dream and not Dreamer? Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘And how d’you know you’re real?’

  Dallin stops thinking about it before his mind trips 202

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  and falls down. He doesn’t know what it’s costing Him to do this, but it must be a lot—to sap the strength of a god…

  The Father smiles—delighted and open—so very much like Wil that Dallin almost smiles back, but it seems wrong to him somehow, so he doesn’t.

  “There,” He says. “You feared She had not chosen well. You would doubt even the Word of your Makers.”

  His smile is approving. “Your own convictions disprove your doubt.” He nods toward Wil. “His choice is what matters.” He fades, almost transparent, then regains His substance. “He chooses you. I would have you see to it that he continues to choose himself, as well. Our fates are joined, but mine is not his to save. You’ve more than one Calling. Shaman.”

  And then He’s gone, winks out without so much as a faint gleam to mark that He’d been there. Dallin blinks, shakes his head. Not quite as cryptic as Wil’s experience, apparently, but still, Dallin wonders why They seem loath to just come right out and say things clearly. If he ever gets hold of one of Them again, he’s going to ask.

  He puts it away to ponder later, turns and walks through tall, frosted grass, fetches up beside Wil. Wil doesn’t look up as Dallin approaches, just tilts his head back, peers up at the stars.

  It’s strange how natural it’s become, Dallin muses.

  He doesn’t groan and gripe when he finds himself here anymore; Wil doesn’t flinch and back away from him.

  Dallin doesn’t speak first; he’s not sure why, but it seems wrong to him. Intrusive. If Wil wants Dallin’s input, he’ll surely ask for it. Demand it, more likely Dallin thinks with a small smile. And if he doesn’t, well… Dallin will simply Watch. The most basic right a person should have, Dallin believes, is solitude inside one’s own head, so he gives Wil the choice to reach for it.

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  “We are their children,” Wil murmurs, flicks a look at Dallin, then jerks his chin at the sky. “We’re all made of stardust, you know—forged in the crucible of their hearts. Our world is not the only one. Sometimes I can see the shadows of others inside their songs.”

  Dallin’s mouth twists. He considers that silently for a long while then decides it’s just a little too big for him.

  Wil, with his open mind and vast belief—things like that are for him to know and see. Dallin will just let Wil know it for both of them.

  “He’s sick,” he tells Wil quietly. “He’s not sleeping, and He’s not disregarding you. There’s something wrong with Him.”

  Wil snaps his glance at Dallin, frowns.

  “He didn’t want me to tell you,” Dallin goes on. “He said you’ve enough burdens, and I agree, but I thought you deserve to know.”

  Wil is silent, drags a hand through his hair, pushes it from his eyes. He stares down into the water. Dallin catches a faint glimmer at the corner of his eye.

  “Thank you,” Wil whispers, choked and watery.

  Dallin’s arm slips about Wil’s shoulders, relaxed and natural, like he does it all the time. Wil doesn’t pull back, so Dallin leaves it there. So often, he’s wanted to offer comfort, and now… well, it’s a dream, innit?

  “Too much has been kept from you.” Dallin tightens his grip. “This grief is a clean one, and yours if you choose to hold it. It’s not His right to keep it.”

  Dallin cringes a little at the boldness, but it’s nothing he wouldn’t’ve said to Him directly, if he’d been given the chance. Even gods can be fallible, Dallin knows that now, and he really doesn’t think this one at least would strike him down for knowing it.

  “I never…” Wil shakes his head, quickly swipes his sleeve across his eyes. “It keeps… sneaking up on me.”

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  He peers up at Dallin, eyes luminous like they always are here, but somber, the burning somewhat muted. “You see

  me.”

  Dallin raises an eyebrow. “Well, of course,” he replies, somewhat bemused. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “That isn’t what I mean.” Wil looks away again.

  Slowly, like he doesn’t really know how to do it, his head tilts to rest on Dallin’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter,” he furthers softly. “I’m just… glad.”

  That’s all the sense Dallin needs. He smiles, sighs, turns his gaze out over the river. He hopes it still looks the same, hopes Wil has a chance to stand beside it and watch it like this.

  They stand for quite a while, just looking, listening, the breeze flicking strands of dark hair up to brush against Dallin’s cheek. Wil is warm against him, loose and relaxed. It’s… nice. Really nice. Dallin thinks he probably shouldn’t be thinking about how good Wil feels against him, how warm, calming, but he can’t seem to help it. There should be a better word for it than ‘nice’, but it’s just really, really nice . So much so that Dallin is disappointed when Wil stirs, pulls away a bit and turns.

  The disappointment turns to puzzlement when Wil reaches up, lightly takes hold of Dallin’s shirt and tugs…

  turns to astonishment when Wil drags Dallin down.

  Kisses him.

/>   It’s warm and soft, but firm, Wil’s mouth gently insistent. Dallin hesitates for only a second, molding his mouth to meet it, holding back a small groan with all his will when Wil’s hand slips to his nape, pulls him in. Deep and close to imperative. Dallin hears a low hum from Wil, answers back with a shaky one of his own.

  It’s a dream , Dallin tells himself dazedly. No harm done, it’s just a dream.

  And then it’s over, Wil drawing back, laying a light 205

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  brush of lips to the corner of Dallin’s mouth as he pulls away. Dallin has to restrain himself from following after.

  His chest has gone tight; breathing is more of a labor than it should be. Dallin stares down at Wil, blinks a little. “Why did you do that?” he wheezes.

  Wil just smiles. “I wanted to see what it was like.”

  Is that all? Dallin wants to ask, but instead, he says,

  “And what was it like?”

  Wil grins this time, tells him, “It was nice,” and then, like the Father before him, he’s gone, leaving Dallin blinking at empty air.

  Empty air and a river that isn’t real and stars that sing and other worlds inside them and gods and magic and…

  It’s a dream. That’s all.

  “Nice,” Dallin echoes, laughs a little. He shakes his head, drags in breath. “Holy fuck,” is all he says.

  He had to really think about it to figure out where he was when he opened his eyes. Dark, the faltering gutter of a lamp wicked too low, with the faint damp smell of mold overlaid with antiseptic.

  Right. The Temple. Chester.

  Not standing by the river. Not kissing Wil.

  Kissing Wil.

  Dallin scrubbed roughly at his face.

  A dream. It was just a dream.

  Maybe it really was. How was he supposed to tell the difference anymore? Maybe Wil hadn’t really been there at all. Maybe the whole thing with the Father had been merely Dallin’s buried wish to confirm his own theories, and the whole thing with Wil had been…