(no subject)
Alain wakes with a gasp. It's not from a bad dream; on the contrary, he can't remember what he was dreaming.
He can't remember anything, for a disorientingly long moment -- not this room, not his name, not his dream and not where or when he is. Just the morning light, slanting sunbeams bleaching the room to white, and a call that fills his brain and tugs at his body:
Come.
Soon. Soon. Soon.
Come.
Slowly, slowly, things filter back.
Milliways. His bed here; just him, this morning. Last night, and last week, and all the increasingly dreamlike months.
Come. Come. Come.
Soon.
He can't remember anything, for a disorientingly long moment -- not this room, not his name, not his dream and not where or when he is. Just the morning light, slanting sunbeams bleaching the room to white, and a call that fills his brain and tugs at his body:
Come.
Soon. Soon. Soon.
Come.
Slowly, slowly, things filter back.
Milliways. His bed here; just him, this morning. Last night, and last week, and all the increasingly dreamlike months.
Come. Come. Come.
Soon.