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thecooloneIt's a white-hot light of searing pain and somewhere in the distance someone is singing in a low, calm voice that every now and again simply erupts into tears.
He would wake up if he could, but he can't. He's tried, and he can't. But this is not that place of I don't care or pretty light; it's somewhere else and he drifts, drifts in and out of it, in and out of a series of images each stronger than the one before.
He sees Luxor and the bazaar and running running running.
He sees... a different place, crowded with people laughing and smiling and drinking.
He sees the woman he loves. Who used to love him.
He feels his heart breaking.
(In his sleep, restless, his breath catches and rattles in his chest; from far away the singing stops and there is a moment of silence before it picks up again.)
He sees a petite woman with long dark hair and embers of black for eyes.
He sees another woman. The woman he used to love.
He sees himself falling. Falling. Into her arms, into her bed.
He loves her still, he always has. He always has.
He sees bright lights and strange cities and her, she's by his side in white and he's in black.
He sees flowers. Flowers. Fleur.
He sees teeth.
He feels pain.
He feels nothing.
Nothing.
Until the tears of an angel. There is chanting in the background.
Drifting, he drifts out and above and looks down at what he sees: it's her, it's... what did he call her? Fleur. Sitting over him, stroking his hair.
It's so sweet. It's so simple. It's so loving.
I really ought to be there for it.
With a rush, he feels himself falling, falling, reclaiming that body lying on the bed. It hurts to be in it, but there's her touch on his forehead. That's what he's here for.
Bill forces his eyes (eye?) open.
"Fleur."
The effort of speaking costs everything, but he deserves to expend it. She's worth everything.
He would wake up if he could, but he can't. He's tried, and he can't. But this is not that place of I don't care or pretty light; it's somewhere else and he drifts, drifts in and out of it, in and out of a series of images each stronger than the one before.
He sees Luxor and the bazaar and running running running.
(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)He sees the dark small room, windowless, with the one door.
(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)He sees the door open and a woman step through.
(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)He sees a flash of green before he feels himself fall.
(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)He sees the door, shimmering and, despite himself, he moves to touch it.
He sees... a different place, crowded with people laughing and smiling and drinking.
He sees the woman he loves. Who used to love him.
He feels his heart breaking.
(In his sleep, restless, his breath catches and rattles in his chest; from far away the singing stops and there is a moment of silence before it picks up again.)
He sees a petite woman with long dark hair and embers of black for eyes.
(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)He sees her leave.
He sees another woman. The woman he used to love.
He sees himself falling. Falling. Into her arms, into her bed.
He loves her still, he always has. He always has.
He sees bright lights and strange cities and her, she's by his side in white and he's in black.
(We deserve this attention)He sees the Eiffel Tower, but it's not the Eiffel Tower.
He sees flowers. Flowers. Fleur.
(That's her name, she's a flower! Of course she is! And I love her.)He sees home, a new home, and work, old work, and then the images run together in a blur: the church, the tombs, the catacombs, wolves. Something hazy on the wall, something important but he can't quite remember what, and then a shape looming, growling, swiping.
He sees teeth.
He feels pain.
He feels nothing.
Nothing.
Until the tears of an angel. There is chanting in the background.
(I am not important enough to deserve this attention)Thirsty, so thirsty. As if the whole world was a desert and he's drowning in sand.
Drifting, he drifts out and above and looks down at what he sees: it's her, it's... what did he call her? Fleur. Sitting over him, stroking his hair.
It's so sweet. It's so simple. It's so loving.
I really ought to be there for it.
With a rush, he feels himself falling, falling, reclaiming that body lying on the bed. It hurts to be in it, but there's her touch on his forehead. That's what he's here for.
Bill forces his eyes (eye?) open.
"Fleur."
The effort of speaking costs everything, but he deserves to expend it. She's worth everything.
