Fic: Stay the night
Sep. 25th, 2016 09:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rusakkoSet after page 575.
Stepping out of the old-world temple is an almost overwhelming relief. The chilling sense of death seeping from the soul of the Danish mage fades with every step Onni takes down the stairs, though he can still feel her eyes following him and Reynir through the windows, a cold prickling at his neck.
There’s also the nagging guilt of not having fulfilled his duty. The spirit of the old woman is resilient, yes, but she’s been hanging on for a very long time, and she’s slipping. Forgetting her life, her name ‒ every memory that is lost takes away a piece of what’s keeping her human. That’s a dangerous path to go down.
Onni could have helped her find her way to the land of her god. It would have been a peaceful end, a well-deserved rest. Instead, she has chosen to keep lingering in this pale half-life. And for what? Her people are long gone. There is no one left to protect. As for the twisted, bitter souls still haunting the silent lands ‒ if she has indeed guided as many of them into the embrace of her god as she claims, she should know better than anyone that those who refuse to let go of life when it’s their time rarely have a happy fate.
Though he has no wish to remain in the warmthless sunlight of the Danish mage-woman’s dreamspace, Onni is filled with a different kind of dread as the stars above the dream-ocean come into view. The Icelander steps from the flagstones onto the inky water as if there was no difference, but it takes a great effort of will for Onni not to stop right there at the border. All of a sudden, the creeping discomfort of the presence of the dead spirit behind him feels preferable to the looming weight of the unknown horrors waiting in the gloom below the surface.
Despite himself, Onni slows down as they approach the water’s edge, his feet unwilling to leave the solid ground ‒ and is suddenly yanked forward, Reynir’s fingers gripping his hand firmly and forcing him to take a few half-running steps to avoid being dragged behind like a reluctant child. He almost trips over his own feet, splashing himself with cold water as he scrambles to catch up. The indignity of it is infuriating, even though Reynir thankfully has the grace to pretend as if he doesn’t notice.
If he could, Onni would snatch his hand right out of Reynir’s hold. But he can’t. Even the slightest loosening of his grip makes his feet sink deeper on each step and his stomach lurch unpleasantly, and he quickly tightens his hand around Reynir’s again. The shadows drifting below do not appear to have noticed them, but he can still feel their hunger pressing on his mind, catch snatches of dark dreams drifting up from the depths.
The Icelander, on the other hand, seems blissfully unaware of the horrors lying in wait below them, and of the way Onni is crushing his fingers in his sweaty palm. The boy’s obliviousness doesn’t cease to puzzle Onni. Reynir seems to be as blind to the dead creatures of the spirit world as he is to the living spirits that are everywhere around him in the waking world. He didn’t even realize that the old woman in the temple was dead. And yet here he is, effortlessly walking across the silent expanse of the dream-ocean that Onni can only cross by borrowing the winged form of his luonto, a dangerous feat not to be undertaken lightly. It makes no sense, and Onni finds that more maddening than anything. He hates being caught off-balance, but with the Icelander, nothing is ever predictable.
Like the way he hasn’t said a word since they walked out of the gloomy old-world temple. Onni had been dreading the flood of questions he had thought would inevitably follow their encounter with the priest ‒ questions that, more likely than not, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. Instead, Reynir barely seems to be aware of Onni’s presence. His freckled face is uncharacteristically thoughtful as he leads them over the water. Onni doesn’t know what to make of it.
It’s only once they’re standing on the solid cliffs of Onni’s dreamspace again that Reynir finally turns to look at him.
“I am going to find her.”
The steel in the Icelander’s voice shouldn’t surprise Onni anymore, but it still does. Beneath all the eagerness to please, there is a hidden reserve of strength and determination in the boy, perhaps unknown even to himself. But then Reynir continues: “She seemed so lonely”, and it’s the wistfulness, rather than the steel, that cuts Onni somewhere deep inside. Reynir’s determination to help, to try to be of use in spite of his lack of training, fills Onni with shame at his own cowardice.
There are warnings, justifications, even pleas crisscrossing through Onni’s mind ‒ it could be a trap, we don’t even know where this temple of hers is, what if you get hurt ‒ but somehow, all that comes out of his mouth is: “You really shouldn’t wander around the dreamworld by yourself. It’s not safe.”
But yet again, Reynir throws him off balance with a sudden smile that breaks through his seriousness like a ray of sunlight.
“So can I stay here for the rest of the night, then?”
“That is not what I meant ‒” Onni stutters, heat flooding his face, but Reynir interrupts him.
“But you wouldn’t throw me out, would you?”
No, of course he wouldn’t, though the boy would deserve it for his impudence. Still, it could be worse. As they settle down in the shadow of the cliff ledge by the lake, Reynir’s eyelids begin to droop almost immediately, weary now that the excitement of new discoveries has worn off. He’s pleasant enough company when asleep, really, with the excess of energy that sometimes threatens to overwhelm Onni stilled into slumber. And if Onni has to wrap an arm around his waist to keep him from lurching sideways as his body relaxes – well, Reynir’s warm weight leaning on his side is not unpleasant, and though his head is a little heavy on Onni’s shoulder, at least his hair is soft to rest his cheek against.
It’s quiet, with the lake still and the trees silent, and Onni would feel as much at peace with himself and the world as he ever does if it wasn’t for the strange ache inside his chest that seems to wax and wane with the steady rhythm of Reynir’s breathing. It makes the tears well up, burning at the corners of his eyes, for no reason he can explain to himself. The only way to stop them is to press his eyes closed and let his mind drift off from the spirit world into the realm of ordinary dreams.
The tears have dried by the time he wakes up on his mattress on the floor of the Västerströms’ guest room, with Trond snoring in the bed above him. The ache, however, is still there, although Reynir himself is not.
