Angelfire | The Whispering Wall #3

Forty Six: Nightmares

The world was burning green.

He was running; he wasn't sure why. All he was certain of was that he needed to keep moving forward, before the fire caught him or the ground caved beneath his feet. The beating current of Nictaven was all around him, a deafening echo of his heart. He wasn't sure where one ended or the other began, so he kept his attention on his feet, dashing across crumbling cobbles as the path behind him disintegrated. His wings stretched out, though they couldn't carry him anywhere; not in a wind like this, and not after so long in confinement. But the memory of flight still sent them streaming behind him, the tips of their outermost feathers just keeping ahead of the inferno roaring up from the centre of the world.

And beneath it all, footsteps. Whoever they belonged to, that was who he was really running from, he was sure now. The end of the world could take him, as long as his pursuers were left behind, but he was no longer sure that dying would bring him peace from pursuit. He had been running for so long that he could not fathom stopping.

The ground disappeared beneath his feet, the destruction overtaking him, and he plunged down towards boiling emerald depths, heat searing his skin as he drew closer. Light flared, not green this time but blinding white, and the temperature changed abruptly, from scorching heat to blistering cold. He hit the ground.

Jeorge lurched upright, shocked awake by pain as the flagstones met his wings and spine with brutal suddenness. The room around him was pitch-dark and breath-warm, adhering to his skin with claustrophobic persistence. It took him a minute of panicked struggle to register that his blankets had fallen on top of him.

"Vestra," he whimpered, pulling the blankets from his head and being rewarded with a stab of bright light to the eyes, a shock of cool air over the sweat coating his skin. He sniffed and looked down, and cursed again at the singe marks on the blanket puddled around him. The whole room smelled faintly of burning, adding to the pulsing headache that was his constant companion these days.

He staggered upright, leaving the burnt bedclothes where they were, and stumbled across the room to the mirror propped above the washing basin beside the door. The man staring back at him was drawn and haggard, eyes dark inside rings of purple, hair still unbroken auburn. Every morning he woke expecting the reflection to change, to meet emerald eyes staring back at him or the first threads of white in his hair. Always he experienced the same strange mingling of relief and disappointment. It wasn't like he wanted to manifest the Gift, particularly, but it had to be better than this torturous no-man's-land, the worst of both worlds. The idea was terrifying, went against everything he'd grown up with, but if he manifested then at least he wasn't beyond help.

A soft knock on the door startled him from hjs exhausted stupor, setting his heart rabbiting in his chest again. Nika entered without waiting for an answer, and took in Jeorge and the state of the room in solemn silence. Jeorge looked away, scowling at the pity in the Unspoken's aura.

"I was going to see if you wanted me to bring you anything." Nika closed the door softly behind himself. "Are you up to eating something?"

"No." The reply came out shorter and ruder than he'd intended, but the echoes of his nightmare still lingered and the pain in his head grew with every waking moment. Good intentions or not, the presence of any Unspoken was never helpful. He forced his tone into something marginally more gracious. "Is the dinner still going?"

"Yes." A pause. "I can still take you to the castle if this is proving too much."

"No. Thank you." The Unspoken might make his head pound just by being there, but they left him alone when asked. The same could not be said for Lord Harkenn. Jeorge was in no fit state to be haring around the city on errands.