Ficlet
The dream is dark. All around him the light is the color of smoke; the waves are grey and brutal as stone, and the wind off the sea is bitter. This is nowhere; no place he knows, no place he wants to know.
"The sky," she says behind him, very clearly. "Look at the sky."
He doesn't want to. "It's not my sky," he says. "It's nothing to do with me, I don't--" with his throat as dry as the ashen ground underfoot. She takes his arm. "Damn it, let me be."
"Look."
The wind blows her hair over his shoulder, color of smoke, almost as insubstantial. Scent of smoke, and rosemary, and woman's hair. He pushes back, pushes her away, trying not to turn and look at her --
--not even sure who she is: mother, sister, self.
"It's still there," she says fiercely in his ear. "You can't shut it out!"
"Let go!"
For a moment it frames her white face, her cloudy hair: sky the color of smoke, pearly black, heavy, stifling. He wakes cold, as the storm breaks, blotting out the sun.
[endpiece]
"The sky," she says behind him, very clearly. "Look at the sky."
He doesn't want to. "It's not my sky," he says. "It's nothing to do with me, I don't--" with his throat as dry as the ashen ground underfoot. She takes his arm. "Damn it, let me be."
"Look."
The wind blows her hair over his shoulder, color of smoke, almost as insubstantial. Scent of smoke, and rosemary, and woman's hair. He pushes back, pushes her away, trying not to turn and look at her --
--not even sure who she is: mother, sister, self.
"It's still there," she says fiercely in his ear. "You can't shut it out!"
"Let go!"
For a moment it frames her white face, her cloudy hair: sky the color of smoke, pearly black, heavy, stifling. He wakes cold, as the storm breaks, blotting out the sun.
[endpiece]