[Five Rivers Hall] Knight of Swords
When he pulls the key from the ignition, they're left with an uncomfortable silence in place of the radio. She'd asked him twice why they were coming here, and received unsatisfactory answers both times. First, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Wouldn't I, Henry? Just the other week I was with you in the woods when I lost a little bit of my mind, when we were looking for the alternate persona of the man who broke your arm, and the girl whose picture I keep a photocopy of in my purse these days. The ones in another reality, remember that?
Then he told her, and she believed him, but... not gracefully. A dream? A dream. A dream with the rivers of Hell, of which there are five, leading him to a theater house whose name happens to be Five Rivers Hall. She tried to be understanding, but that warrants more than a little skepticism, doesn't it? That it could simply be insight doesn't enter into her equation. What she thinks is that Henry Townshend is not a powerful person. A strong one, she'd argue that to her dying day, but not a powerful one. He's been known to see in his sleep omens of things that came before and things yet to be, but they weren't his omens. They were Walter's doing, smugly delivered to him in chains. There is no reason on Earth why he should have any kind of prescience now unless this too is a gift from someone else, and there is no reason on Earth to think that there's anyone out there both capable and inclined.
At the same time, he's had no shortage of stress lately. His nightmares have been at their worst since Liz's abduction, he's been struggling with this search in which they seem to be doing little good, and nerve-wracked by the threat Christabella and Abernathy posed to them. The cast has been replaced by a brace, but their cautious sleeping schedules remain in place. And all that's to say nothing of more mundane concerns, like their reduced working hours and consequent reduced income. And maybe, too, he has the same sense that she does about some distance that's appeared between them. They spend more time together than ever, but it feels like there's something brewing under the surface. And the way he recounted parts of his nightmare to her the next morning, the worried look on his face, 'You died, but I could always still see you. You were there in that world, I just... couldn't reach you.' All told, his nerves seem to her a more likely explanation for this than anything special about his dream. A rational explanation conjured by irrationality, that part of her brain that focuses so quickly and so easily on worrying for him.
She told him so, though not in so many words. "This doesn't make sense, Henry, it was just a dream. I'm sure it was freaky, but that doesn't mean it was true. You know it wasn't true. Everything's been so stressful lately, maybe..." Faced with her disbelief, he'd seemed to shrink a little in his seat. And as with so many other things, she acted in sympathy and in tandem, drawing uncomfortably away from the disagreement. "We can check it out. I guess that's the only way to be sure," she'd relented, and has said nothing more since. When she looks at the theater, the slightly wrinkled nose and the set to her eyes speak to regarding it as a concern, but also as something of a chore.
Then he told her, and she believed him, but... not gracefully. A dream? A dream. A dream with the rivers of Hell, of which there are five, leading him to a theater house whose name happens to be Five Rivers Hall. She tried to be understanding, but that warrants more than a little skepticism, doesn't it? That it could simply be insight doesn't enter into her equation. What she thinks is that Henry Townshend is not a powerful person. A strong one, she'd argue that to her dying day, but not a powerful one. He's been known to see in his sleep omens of things that came before and things yet to be, but they weren't his omens. They were Walter's doing, smugly delivered to him in chains. There is no reason on Earth why he should have any kind of prescience now unless this too is a gift from someone else, and there is no reason on Earth to think that there's anyone out there both capable and inclined.
At the same time, he's had no shortage of stress lately. His nightmares have been at their worst since Liz's abduction, he's been struggling with this search in which they seem to be doing little good, and nerve-wracked by the threat Christabella and Abernathy posed to them. The cast has been replaced by a brace, but their cautious sleeping schedules remain in place. And all that's to say nothing of more mundane concerns, like their reduced working hours and consequent reduced income. And maybe, too, he has the same sense that she does about some distance that's appeared between them. They spend more time together than ever, but it feels like there's something brewing under the surface. And the way he recounted parts of his nightmare to her the next morning, the worried look on his face, 'You died, but I could always still see you. You were there in that world, I just... couldn't reach you.' All told, his nerves seem to her a more likely explanation for this than anything special about his dream. A rational explanation conjured by irrationality, that part of her brain that focuses so quickly and so easily on worrying for him.
She told him so, though not in so many words. "This doesn't make sense, Henry, it was just a dream. I'm sure it was freaky, but that doesn't mean it was true. You know it wasn't true. Everything's been so stressful lately, maybe..." Faced with her disbelief, he'd seemed to shrink a little in his seat. And as with so many other things, she acted in sympathy and in tandem, drawing uncomfortably away from the disagreement. "We can check it out. I guess that's the only way to be sure," she'd relented, and has said nothing more since. When she looks at the theater, the slightly wrinkled nose and the set to her eyes speak to regarding it as a concern, but also as something of a chore.