She should be the one dreaming in red, Willow knows; she should be the
one tossing on sweat-heavy sheets with memories of flayed skin pasted
to the inside of her eyelids so theyâre all she can see, her friendsâ
voices ringing in her ears in a cacophony of accusation and appeal.
But sheâs sleeping fine. The English air, soft with dampness, the
gentle sun, the long walks under ancient trees, over rolling hills ...
sheâs eating well and fast asleep after only a few minutes of snuggling
into place under a quilt that smells subtly different, even though
Giles has shown her the brand of detergent he uses and itâs the same as
they have at home.
Itâs Giles whose face is sharpened by fatigue, lined with weariness as
though his waking hours are all of the twenty four, and she can feel
his tiredness now, lying acrid in the air when heâs close. The earth
gets tired too, lays down to rest in winter, the clamour of brash
spring a faint memory, but Willow knows humans, ephemeral, transient,
evanescent flickers that they are, have a shorter cycle. Dream time,
down time, sleep time; they need it or they wither.
Giles, to Willow, is an oak. They donât wither but they can hollow out
until what seems like a mighty tower, roots deep, branches arching
wide, latticing the sky, falls with the first spring storm, the first
autumnal tempest, and is shown to be a mockery, a blown egg. Giles
shows her one, as they walk, the vast girth of trunk split open to
reveal emptiness, the rings that told its age devoured until a sapling
had more substance than it. A cracknel, he calls it.
Day after day, she watches him, hesitant questions hovering on her
lips, unspoken, and night after night she dreams of him as he was,
strong, wise...there for her, always. And she wakes and in her first
glimpse, matches reality to dream and shivers.
One night she rouses from her sleep, restful, deep and peaceful, and
hears him talking, muttering, crying out. The sounds are frightening,
edged with madness, enough to make anyone shrink away, close their
ears, feign deafness.
Willowâs done pretending.
She slips from her bed, bare to the night and uncaring, and goes
through the dark, watchful quiet of a sleeping house, her hand reaching
for the handle that opens his door, her body pushing forward
impatiently as soon as it gapes wide enough to admit her. Her footsteps
patter forward like raindrops on leaves until sheâs beside his bed
looking down at what he holds.
Sendel root, carved and incised with two runes, one for each of them,
bound and wrapped by strands of hair. The moonlight that floods the
room, through a window Giles hasnât even bothered to shroud with
curtains, isnât needed; she can feel itâs hers and know itâs his,
without seeing bright copper and ash-grey entwine.
Giles has been stealing her dreams and leaving her sleep for payment.
No real theft that; sheâs left indebted to a man she tried, scant weeks
before to kill, a man she humbled, humiliated and hurt.
A man sheâs loved for years, with a love grown from recognition of
like, nurtured by shared danger, watered by shed tears. He moves
against the sheets as once sheâd dreamed heâd move under, on, inside
her, but these are aimless spasms, where sheâd imagined powerful
thrusts, sure and certain. Giles is fighting a foe whose strength saps
his and as Willow kneels beside him, her breath quickening, she hears
her name on his lips, and knows that sheâs his adversary in those
dreams, with nothing but a dull acceptance of that fact.
Itâs not over then. Every gain sheâs made has been as much a step
forward as if she were on a treadmill; purposeless motion, taking her
nowhere. Sheâs not won, sheâs cheated, peeked at the answers, bribed
the teacher.
And if the anger had returned, ripely rotten, she might have struck the
enchanted root from his hand, taken back the memories by force, because
deep in her something yammered and demanded one more look into Warrenâs
eyes as he was skinned, wanting to savour that look and hold it close
as a lover.
But anger has been whittled from her and thereâs nothing left but
gratitude and concern as she wakes him with a kiss, drawing back
swiftly as heâs pulled out of nightmares into her world.
Understanding is in his eyes too fast for him not to have expected this
to happen one day. He saves her - still saving her! - from asking the
question by gifting her with the answer. “You werenât strong enough,
Willow. They would have snapped you in two.”
Sheâs been two before. She knows that that feels. Never wants to feel
it again.
“Youâre right, Giles.”
Being able to say that and mean it sends power and certainty rippling
through her. “But that was then. Iâm stronger now.”
Night after night of restful sleep...much stronger.
Willow wraps her fingers around the totem and tugs gently, easing it
from his hand. She walks to the window and opens it as he watches,
letting the moonlight touch it, until itâs a mass of silver, glowing in
her hand as her magic, moon magic, consumes it utterly.
Then she goes to lie beside him, her cool body against his fevered one,
her warm hands on his face to capture every tear, her slow, soft kisses
sending him to sleep.
And when they wake, the rainâs falling and the roomâs dim and cool and
Giles smiles as if sheâs right where heâd always dreamed she would be.
Return to Home
Send Feedback
Buying Guide: Gold Bar Stools for Your Vape Shop
Vaping has emerged as a popular alternative to traditional smoking, offering a variety of flavors and a smoother experience. Alongside vaping, nicotine pouches provide a discreet and convenient option for those seeking a nicotine boost without smoke. Discover the best nicotine pouches that ensure a satisfying experience, allowing you to enjoy your nicotine in a modern way.