milliways_bar: Nightmares
Lawrence woke, as he often did, in a cold sweat. He whipped off the sheets which bound him down and sat straight up, smoothing damp hair away from his eyes in the darkness of the room. He'd had this nightmare before, many times over. That never seemed to stop it from coming back just as strong each time.
The desert. That was where his mind wandered during the day and at night -- where he was constantly envisioning himself. It was different today, however. He stumbled through the sands without his compass and only a vague, strong feeling in his chest guiding him. The entirety of the dunes, of the hills were tainted today by the odd red glow of the sky. Lawrence didn't know what to make of it. He tripped, suddenly, on the doorstep of a building.
He knew this place, though he had never been here. Dahoum lived in this very house, he was sure of it. As soon as he stepped over the threshold, Lawrence felt eyes upon him. Dahoum's family had never liked him much, but then ... it was rather difficult to like the man who loved your fourteen -- eighteen now, if he remembered correctly -- son. No, they had never liked him. The air inside the small house was thick with emotion and something else. It took Lawrence but a split-second to recognize it. The smell of death. It sent his senses into panic to scent such a thing here, in the home of Selim.
He was hurried as he pushed past Dahoum's family, into the room where he was laying. There where whispers all around him.
Deliriumfeverwarmthinsanitydeathheadachetyphus
It was very dark in the room, he noticed. His heart sunk. It was typhus, then. He slipped down next to the young man, reached out to touch him. Heat. Heat radiated from him, burned from him. It hurt, but he dared not let go. His fingers stroked Dahoum's cheek, shivered over the skin.
He gave a low moan. It was the final stages, he could tell. Even under the layers of the blankets he could see the rashes, spreading quickly over his torso. He spoke quietly.
"Dahoum...? Yes, it's all right now. Do you remember, Dahoum? Yes, yes. That's right. I'm here now." Moans, pained. Like a dying animal, perhaps. The panic clutched him again, tightened his chest. It was strange, this suffocating, crushing feeling.
In the instant that he'd stopped thinking about Dahoum, started thinking about himself...Dahoum had started convulsing. It was a violent image, seeing such a frail thing tossed about as if a cruel puppeteer was jerking its strings. It did not last long, of course, and Lawrence ran a relieved hand down the side of Dahoum's face once again ... but he did not respond. His gaze had gone glassy, his skin was cooling far too fast.
Dead. He felt the breath leave his body, felt the vice closing on his chest. It was not, perhaps, the most graphic of images he would experience, but it was something more. Dahoum. Dahoum was gone, now. Who was there left?
Noone. He was alone. Always alone, in the end.
It had not happened that way, of course. He had not been there with Selim died. His family had sent a short, non-personal letter announcing his death, but Lawrence insisted he'd known the night that it was recorded he'd died.
That was, after all, the evening the nightmare started visiting him. He scrubbed his hand down his jaw, breath still coming in hard, swift puffs.
The desert. That was where his mind wandered during the day and at night -- where he was constantly envisioning himself. It was different today, however. He stumbled through the sands without his compass and only a vague, strong feeling in his chest guiding him. The entirety of the dunes, of the hills were tainted today by the odd red glow of the sky. Lawrence didn't know what to make of it. He tripped, suddenly, on the doorstep of a building.
He knew this place, though he had never been here. Dahoum lived in this very house, he was sure of it. As soon as he stepped over the threshold, Lawrence felt eyes upon him. Dahoum's family had never liked him much, but then ... it was rather difficult to like the man who loved your fourteen -- eighteen now, if he remembered correctly -- son. No, they had never liked him. The air inside the small house was thick with emotion and something else. It took Lawrence but a split-second to recognize it. The smell of death. It sent his senses into panic to scent such a thing here, in the home of Selim.
He was hurried as he pushed past Dahoum's family, into the room where he was laying. There where whispers all around him.
Deliriumfeverwarmthinsanitydeathheadachetyphus
It was very dark in the room, he noticed. His heart sunk. It was typhus, then. He slipped down next to the young man, reached out to touch him. Heat. Heat radiated from him, burned from him. It hurt, but he dared not let go. His fingers stroked Dahoum's cheek, shivered over the skin.
He gave a low moan. It was the final stages, he could tell. Even under the layers of the blankets he could see the rashes, spreading quickly over his torso. He spoke quietly.
"Dahoum...? Yes, it's all right now. Do you remember, Dahoum? Yes, yes. That's right. I'm here now." Moans, pained. Like a dying animal, perhaps. The panic clutched him again, tightened his chest. It was strange, this suffocating, crushing feeling.
In the instant that he'd stopped thinking about Dahoum, started thinking about himself...Dahoum had started convulsing. It was a violent image, seeing such a frail thing tossed about as if a cruel puppeteer was jerking its strings. It did not last long, of course, and Lawrence ran a relieved hand down the side of Dahoum's face once again ... but he did not respond. His gaze had gone glassy, his skin was cooling far too fast.
Dead. He felt the breath leave his body, felt the vice closing on his chest. It was not, perhaps, the most graphic of images he would experience, but it was something more. Dahoum. Dahoum was gone, now. Who was there left?
Noone. He was alone. Always alone, in the end.
It had not happened that way, of course. He had not been there with Selim died. His family had sent a short, non-personal letter announcing his death, but Lawrence insisted he'd known the night that it was recorded he'd died.
That was, after all, the evening the nightmare started visiting him. He scrubbed his hand down his jaw, breath still coming in hard, swift puffs.