Chapter Eight
1309 Words
Cold hands yelped Cerissa awake, frozen toes scrunched against hers, the rustle of nightshirt to nightshirt, head bouncing on the pillow, blankets pulled up tight to their ears.
“The nightmare again?” A sleepy murmur. A few hours older – the privilege of age and responsibility, and she never let him forget it. It paid her back again in full when he came to her like this though. Again. The nightmares had disappeared for a few months but since the night a week back when they almost drowned, the night that they agreed not to talk on, they had come almost every time he closed his eyes. And every time he opened them he came crawling out to find her.
“Hmmm-mmmm.”
“Bad?” Stifled and stretched through a yawn.
“Aye.”
“What did-” another yawn, a sleepy blink, “-did she say this time?”
“Don’t remember.” A lie, and they both knew it.
“Fine.”
She rolled over in bed, and Sylas rolled with her, his skinny chest pressed hard against her back, his pudgy hands wrapped tight around her stomach. He nestled, searching for protection in the gap in her shoulder-blades, his hair tickling.
A pause. Warm and soft for her, anxious, frigid for him.
“Do you think its real, Cis?”
Cerissa considered this slowly, still mired in sleep.
“Dunno.”
There was another pause.
“It feels real.” His voice muffled against her nightclothes. A suspiciously damp patch arising between her shoulder-blades – a quivering voice and sniffling lip.
“Hmmmm.” The pillow was soft and the night was cold. They huddled up again, as if they were back in the womb once more.
“Why does she only come to me?” Petulant. Fearful. Not sure if there was something special in him, or something missing.
“Dunno.”
“She’s going to kill me.”
“I will not let that happen.” Certainty, rock solid.
“You will not be able to stop her. You cannot climb into my head to stop her.” His voice rising high, matching hers pitch for childish pitch. She rolled over, trapping his pudgy face between her pudgier hands. Eyes glared to eyes. Blue-Green. Storm tossed eyes. River eyes, Da called them proudly.
“I will not let that happen to you, Sylas.”
He blinked.
“She hates us. She wants us dead.”
“Aye. Probably. But we will not let that happen.”
“I wish we could tell Da.” So did Cerissa. Da always knew what to do. Reassuring amusement hidden behind mock gruffness and a mountain-bear beard.
“He’ll be home soon.”
“You do not know that.”
“Ma said it.”
“She does not know that either.” A pause. An over-bold mouse ran over the top of the bed and, under the covers, Sylas kicked it away sharply. “Should we tell Ma?”
“About the dreams?”
“Aye.”
A pause. Consideration; difficult in the dark.
“That sort of thing always upsets her,” she said slowly. “And she’s been cross anyway since… Mayhap Jonnah?”
This just earned her a scowl.
“Fine, not Jonnah then.” She huffed out a sigh. “Gerinson?”
“He’s not Da.”
“No. He’s not Da. Great-Grandma then?”
“You already know what she’ll say. It’s a message from the Fae – it’s the Fae in you.” His voice was high and mocking, even in his fear, but Cerissa could not fault him for his impression. They had both heard Great-Grandma say as much many times over.
Another pause. River eyes blinked owlishly at her, confused. Torn. She sighed, pressed his hair out of his eyes, smoothing it over his head as Ma always did.
“Dreams cannot hurt you.” Decisive. He blinked again, the storm passing, the decision made for him. Relief – and a shade of shame for daring to feel relief at all.
“Can I stay for a little while, Cis?”
“Make sure you get out before morning. You know Pippy will tell Ma if she catches you here.”
His hand slipped down to hers, clutching it gratefully, but he did not reply. Cerissa closed her eyes again. Sylas’ breathing was loud in the dark. Like the wild east winds still howling outside the stonework. His fingers were sweaty warm against hers, beacons in the cold.
“She said it was not time yet,” he whispered. When she glanced over at him, his eyes were scrunched tightly closed. “Soon, but not yet.”
“Aye?”
“I’m frightened, Cis.” A confession only the night could bring. Sylas was wild, fearless. Loud and laughing in the bright sunshine. Only in the black would uncertainty and truth creep in, even here, with his twin. Outside, the wind picked up a little bit more, howling its mournful song, and Cerissa thought of Da again, out there in the leather tents and campfires.
She squeezed Sylas’ hand tight.
“She said it was not time yet,” she repeated. “So it’s not time to worry yet.”
“Soon, but not yet.” Comfortless comfort. Cerissa yawned and Sylas yawned back in reply. His feet, stone and ice, crept against her legs, warming themselves on her skin, and she blinked slowly back to oblivion.
“She asked me my name again.”
“Hmmmm.” The silence had been so long she had almost succumbed.
“I did not tell her.”
“Good.”
“She’s strong, Cis.” Silence. Reluctance. “Maybe we should tell Ma.”
“Sylas.” As patient as possible, but it was late and she was tired. “Tell her if you want to, but not ‘til morning.”
“We could write to Da. We could send a corryn.”
“You know we are not supposed to play with the spider-ghosts. Da says they are only for folks specially trained in it.” Not that that had ever stopped Sy before. He was famous for doing what he was not supposed to. In truth though, the whispy long legged creatures of light and air frightened her – something she knew Sy scorned her for. How can they hurt you? They’re naught but sunshine and spider webs. They did though, and she avoided the corryns' tower as much as she could. “Besides,” she added aloud, “What would he do about it from the war camps?”
“He might come home?”
“For a dream?”
“It’s not just a dream!” Heated whisper, scalding cheeks.
“So write then, if you want to.”
Another pause. Slumped shoulders. Angry sniff.
“No. It’ll only make him angry.”
“At the white-haired witch, Sy, not at you.”
“He’s always angry at me. You should write. You’re the golden girl.”
A truth – but one which stung. She always used her position to buy favour for all three of them. She never hoarded it to herself. She did not reply.
“Do not let her kill me.”
“You know I will not.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” Hands squeezed, solemn oaths taken.
“Why does she only come to me?” He wondered aloud again – as if he might find an answer this time, but Cerissa did not reply. She did not know.
- Writer
