Aisling 2: Dream

by Carole Cummings

  Because if he didn’t, it was all pretty pointless, and not just this, but everything.

  Wil shut his eyes again, thin tears squeezing out the corners, and he slumped, leaned in to rest his head to Dallin’s chest. “Yes,” he whispered.

  Dallin blew out a sigh before he could help himself.

  “Then do as I say, all right? Let it in then push it out—at me, only at me. Not everything, just the pain. It won’t hurt me, I promise.”

  “And what happens if it does?” Wil mumbled into Dallin’s shirt.

  “Then I expect you to choose yourself, like you’ve been alleging you would,” Dallin told him, dropped a 379

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  brief, soft kiss to his head, gave his shoulders a squeeze and pushed him back to sit somewhat upright. “What’ll it be, Wil? Are you a man of your word, or was it all talk?”

  Wil’s face twisted into a snarling scowl. “You’re crap at manipulation,” he muttered angrily, but nonetheless nodded consent.

  Crap or not, it had apparently worked.

  “All right,” Dallin sighed. “Good.” Cheered and relieved beyond sense, despite the fact that he’d just talked Wil into turning what Dallin knew to be almost boundless and pretty damned potent power directly at him. It didn’t matter—this was right, Dallin knew it was right, and he’d stopped caring quite a while ago just how he knew anything. If he had anything that could be called magic in him, it was this. “Do it now,” he told Wil. “Let it in and then send it out, but do it quick. It’s going to hurt like a bugger until you push it at me, so don’t hesitate, all right? Just the pain, not the rest.”

  “Just the pain,” Wil dared to wrench open his eyes, level his riotous gaze with Dallin’s. “You’re sure?”

  Dallin cracked a small smirk. “Do I look like I don’t know what I’m doing?”

  Amazingly, Wil smiled back—small and weak and fleeting, but there. “I don’t think Guardians are supposed to be so cocky.”

  Prideful, Calder had called Dallin, and arrogant and possessive, too, while he’d been at it. Dallin half-admitted the potential truth to it, though not to Calder. He might have even allowed the arguments to sway him, if he wasn’t so deep-down sure.

  “It’ll work, Wil, trust me, all right?” Dallin kept his grip on Wil’s shoulders, braced himself. “Do it now.”

  All he could do was watch as Wil closed his eyes again, tensing even more in Dallin’s hands. Dallin could feel the reluctance, the fear… the shift as Wil tentatively unlocked 380

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  whatever was trying and failing to keep everything at bay, extended a shaky reach—

  A scream, anguished and wrenching, as it all flooded at Wil, excruciating and overwhelming. Wil balled in on himself, flung his arms over his head and screamed again.

  Bloody damn, this place was powerful—it fair reeked with it—Dallin could feel the edges of what was pounding in on Wil, like invisible iron filings scattering at him like he was a magnet. Sharding right into his mind and his soul, splitting and rending beneath its almighty weight.

  “Don’t hold on to it, Wil, push it away.”

  Dallin could feel the flow of it all, could feel the thrum and shudder, but not the pain, just Wil’s anguish beneath it. Could feel him frantically trying to weed through the threads of it, sort them and shove them away from himself. Sliding down into a state that was near-senseless—a wounded animal, mindlessly trying to lash out and curl in at the same time, screaming to make its throat bleed.

  “Damn it, Wil, you didn’t listen to me before and you ended up lost, now don’t—”

  “Fuck off!” A snarling shriek, hoarse and this close to hysterical.

  The smoldering bones of the fire flared once again to life, spat and roared, whooshed out and up. Shaw yelped a bit and reached a hand out.

  “Don’t touch him!” Dallin ordered. That was all he needed—Wil’s mind was ready to snap, the pain was that great, and in this basic, wounded-animal state, he might take out whoever got near him. Dallin didn’t want to think about the sorrow and guilt Wil would have to deal with afterward if he somehow managed to kill Shaw.

  “Wil!” Dallin shook—harder than before. “Wil, listen to me. Don’t hold onto it, don’t try and sort it—just push it, right at me, I won’t let anything happen, I promise, just send the pain—”

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  Jerked abruptly back and away, like a great hand had just reached out and shoved him in the chest. It knocked the wind out of him—he couldn’t even let loose a small yip—as he was thrown backward with a force that hurled him across the small cave. His back slammed to curved rock, strength like he’d never felt driving him right into the cave’s wall, compressing him between immovable granite and mind-numbing power.

  Oh, fuck, this isn’t just big—it’s bloody huge !

  Dallin took it all, let down every barrier and let it flow over them, let it drive into his body and his mind, seep into the cracks and fill them up. His body instinctively tried to double over with the pain, but he was pinned, like a bug to a cork. Mother help me—is this what he’s been feeling all this time? How could he stand it? Breath was just a memory; his chest was caving beneath the force of it all.

  Out the corner of his eye, Dallin saw the fire climbing up the wall of the cave, heard the rumble of thunder, then he was deaf and blind, unable to move, to claw air into burning lungs. Still, he let it wash into him, took it all and invited more.

  He could feel Wil inside it, distant and still confused, but sanity was returning, relief was slowly taking the place of agony. Dallin reached, set himself like a baldachin beneath the onslaught, showed Wil the channels and showed him how to use them. Was swamped by the bald grace of Wil’s reprieve when the stanchions held. Part of Dallin smiled, smug and satisfied— Ha! Fuck you, Calder, told you I knew what I was doing—the rest of him saw the dark void of oblivion beckoning.

  Let it come.

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  “Dallin!” A sharp shake and a near-snarl. “Dallin Brayden!” A smack this time, right to his ribs; it smarted good, but if Dallin had the breath, he would’ve snorted.

  “You son of a bitch, you promised, you swore, I trusted you, you said—”

  “I

  said,” Dallin wheezed, propped on his hands and knees, head hanging, lungs wrenching and gasping, “not to hold it back and to…” He had to pause to catch his breath. “…and to do it quick.”

  Wil went loose against him. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, leaned down and dipped his head beside Dallin’s, careful not to lean too hard lest he knock Dallin over, but leaning in just the same. His hand tightened on Dallin’s shoulder, and he blew out a long, shaky breath. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  Dallin lifted his head, squinted up into Wil’s worried face, marked the lack of even the smallest drop of blood, the color to his cheeks, and sagged. He let Wil help him lean back and plant himself semi-steadily on his arse on the floor of the cave. “Now you know how I feel,” was all he said. His eyes went first to the fire: blazing again, but banked lower than an inferno, thank the Mother. He checked what little sky he could see through the cave’s mouth next: still blue and cloudless with no threatening rumbles muttering in the distance. Though, when his eye drifted groundward, he noted a few too many loiterers standing about the cave’s entrance, mere paces away, anxious whispers flitting amongst them, and gazes all trying to pierce through the gloom inside. Dallin trusted they weren’t getting much of a view. He dismissed them, blinked about, saw Shaw right beside Wil—one hand still on Dallin, and one resting lightly between Wil’s shoulder-blades, support and comfort.

  Dallin gripped Wil’s arm, looked closely when Wil peered back just as intently. There was still some bit of 383

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  worry in Wil’s gaze, and he was still pale and drawn, but color was creeping steadily back into his cheeks, and his ey
es were no longer wild and filled with pain and feral power—just green.

  “All right?” Dallin asked.

  Wil gave him a look that was halfway between wonder and exasperation. “Yes, I’m all right. Are you?”

  Dallin had to think about it for a moment. “A bit of a headache, but yeah.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re sure? It’s all…” His hand waved about. “It’s holding?”

  He didn’t really have to ask—he could feel it, like a low hum thrumming somewhere at the bottom of his spine—

  but it made him feel better when Wil nodded and smiled.

  “I don’t know quite what it is, but yes, it’s holding,” he assured Dallin. “C’mon, let’s get you over there where it’s a little more comfortable.”

  Dallin let Wil and Shaw help him up, though he didn’t feel at all wobbly—just that bit of a headache—but his back was likely going to hurt like hell later. He was already on his feet, trying to stretch his shoulders a little beneath all the hands, when he noticed that were a few too many of them. He turned, frowning, and found that… that boy, that… Calder’s kin… what the hell was his name?

  “Hunter,” Dallin rasped, “what the hell are you doing here?”

  The lad blinked, wide-eyed. “I…” He turned, waved confusedly at the mouth of the cave, where a pewter cup lay in a pool of what was likely the tea he was supposed to bring Wil.

  How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen, and how much of it did he plan to report to the others? And how much did Dallin really care about what Hunter did or who he told?

  “If Calder put you on us to spy,” Dallin said steadily,

  “you needn’t bother. You’ll find I’m not quite as secretive 384

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  as he would apparently like. All you have to do is ask.”

  “Spy?” Hunter looked genuinely confused, genuinely…

  hurt. He shook his head, adamant. “I would… no, I never—”

  “Leave him alone,” Wil scolded, still a little shaky, but apparently gaining back his equilibrium, along with his snark. “He’s not his uncle. He means well.” He leaned in close, dipped his voice. “He bloody worships you, y’know. Have a care.”

  Dallin frowned, peered at Wil with a lift of his eyebrows, and then turned the look on Hunter with barely suppressed suspicion. Worships. Dallin didn’t quite know how to take that one, and had absolutely nothing to say to it, so he didn’t even try. Instead, he looked back at Wil.

  “Uncle?”

  “Well…” Wil shrugged, flicked his glance away. “I just assumed. Here, let’s get you over there and sit you down.”

  It was the aversion of the gaze that made Dallin pause.

  No you didn’t. You know. And he didn’t tell you, did he?

  ‘I could feel it. I can still feel it. All of them.’

  Dallin wondered just exactly what Wil had seen, and how much. Wondered what all that knowing might do to a person’s head.

  “You assumed correctly,” Hunter put in with a dip of his head and an uncertain tilt of a smile. Annoyingly, he followed along as Dallin shrugged off his helpers and sat himself down on the rumpled bedroll. “I am the son of Garrick Calder, brother to Barret Calder.”

  Dallin refrained from asking if Garrick was still alive and if they should be expecting him to show up and get underfoot, as well, and if there were any more Calders running about the place, waiting to pop up and not go away.

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  “And are you close?” Wil’s question was quiet. He didn’t look at Hunter as he folded himself down beside Dallin.

  Dallin saw Shaw catch the tone, frown a little, but Shaw kept silent, merely leaned himself against the stone of the cave’s wall. He folded his arms across his chest and watched. It had been necessary to fill Shaw in on quite a lot of Wil’s history after he’d more-or-less sort of commandeered Wil’s horse and joined them in their escape from Chester, but Dallin didn’t remember telling him about Wil’s non-encounter with Wilfred Calder. Perhaps Shaw was in the process of twigging to the coincidence of the names now, or perhaps Calder himself had filled him in.

  Hunter shifted an uncomfortable shrug. “Our families shared inhíredes.” He paused, brow creased in thought, expression brightening when he settled on the right word:

  “Household,” he translated for Wil.

  “So…” Wil looked down, tugging at his fingers like they were too close to his hands. “You would have grown up with his son, then.”

  Dallin was very careful to keep himself from sighing and rolling his eyes. This insistence of Wil’s on seeking rebuke and snatching at guilt that didn’t belong to him was getting wearisome.

  Hunter’s eyes had gone round, cautiously eager. “You have seen Wilfred?”

  “I…” Wil stuttered into silence, shut his eyes and rubbed at his brow.

  Hunter wouldn’t have been told why Wilfred left the Bounds. He wouldn’t have been told why Barret had cut his Marks and followed later. And he obviously hadn’t yet been told that Barret had found, in a sense, what Wilfred had left looking for. Without even knowing exactly what he was looking for…

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  It

  still set Dallin’s teeth on edge.

  “No, we haven’t seen Wilfred,” Dallin put in, watching with a small pang as Hunter sagged and the earnest gaze dimmed. Dallin shot a quelling glance at Wil— There, are you happy now? You’re not the only one you hurt when you insist on punishing yourself—looked back at Hunter with a bit of a frown. He was so young, so full of illusions, as all young men were; his disappointment showed all too clearly, and Dallin was at a loss as to what to say to it.

  Shaw saved him. “Here then, lad, did you manage to find some of that wood betony?” he asked kindly. He pointedly didn’t look at the former contents of the cup still lying spilt across the stone floor. Dallin didn’t even want to guess at which part of the previous half-hour or so the boy had walked in on that had startled him enough to drop it.

  “Oh!” Hunter jumped to his feet. “My apologies, Wil from Ríocht,” he said with a small, diffident bow.

  “I…” He looked over at the cup with obvious chagrin.

  “It… When I…” He shook his head, flushed. “I’ll fetch another.” And then he was gone, snatching up the cup smoothly as he went, scattering the crowd that had gathered outside with a few sharp, imperious words and animated shooing gestures.

  Dallin watched him go, sighed. He turned to Wil with a grimace.

  Wil still had his head down, fingers working at his brow—more to hide his face now than a reaction to any lingering pain. “I know, I know,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Brayden will perhaps forgive me for speaking for him,” Shaw ventured softly, “but I believe the point is rather that you’ve nothing for which to be sorry.”

  Well, then. Not only did it put Dallin’s thoughts into 387

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  concise words, but it rather answered the question as to how much Shaw knew.

  “I know,” Wil said again, this time with a heavy sigh.

  He finally lifted his head and looked up. “I know it with my head.” He turned his gaze on Dallin, apparently marking the skepticism there. “I do. I just…” He shook his head. “It feels… unfair that I should be here, in his country, among his people who loved and miss him, and using his name.”

  Dallin was immediately sorry for any cross thoughts he’d had a moment ago. He propped his arm behind Wil and leaned back—not quite an arm about him, but hopefully just enough light contact for comfort.

  “Perhaps,” Shaw said slowly, thoughtfully, “perhaps

  ‘using his name’ is not the proper way to think about it.”

  He paused, peering sharply at Wil. “Perhaps ‘honoring it’

  would sit better.”

  Wil’s brow drew in, pensive, and he looked down again, fingers twitching
at each other, but not yanking and twisting as before. Thinking about it, but seemingly not howling inside. Dallin had had plenty of cause over the last several days to be thankful Shaw had followed his impulse toward adventure that day in Chester; here was another. And the now-shaman’s former vocation—to which, granted, Dallin hadn’t twigged ’til he’d seen how Shaw sat a horse—might prove extraordinarily handy, if Shaw would ever open his mouth and own it.

  “I’ve brought the kettle this time,” Hunter said as he ducked through the cave’s opening, kettle in one hand and cup in the other. He didn’t wait for instruction but crouched down in front of them, poured steaming tea into the cup and offered it to Wil before putting the kettle to the side.

  Wil accepted the tea with a flimsy smile, but leaned in to mutter quietly to Dallin: “I don’t want to hurt his 388

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  feelings, since he’s gone to all the trouble—twice—but I really don’t need it anymore.”

  “You will,” Dallin answered just as softly. “We’re not quite through yet.”

  Wil still didn’t move to take a sip. Instead, he stared down into the cup for a long moment then lifted a tense, half-embarrassed look up at Dallin. “It’s… it smells…”

  He looked down again, shook his head, dropped his voice so low Dallin had to lean in to hear him. “It’s flowery, and I…”

  Dallin didn’t need for him to finish, which was good, because it was all too clear that he couldn’t. Dallin blamed Hunter for even mentioning bloody mæting in the first place. As casually as he could, he folded his hand over Wil’s, guided the cup to his own lips and took a sip himself, then pushed it back. Slightly bitter beneath the lavender and honey, but not bad. And definitely not laced with anything more sinister than wood betony and some spice. He pushed it back at Wil.

  “It’s fine, no worries,” he said with no fuss and no judgement. “I’ll have a cup when you’re through.” He twitched his shoulders, shot Wil a small smirk and rubbed at his sore neck, deliberately dropping the subject of the tea. “Don’t know your own strength, you.”

  Wil returned a rueful smile. “That’ll teach you to reprimand me when I’m being pummeled by…” The smile slanted into new uncertainty. “What was all that?”