(no subject)
…He was dreaming,
There was a stretch of sand, miles in length, littered with bits of shell and logs and the bodies of birds. To his left the sea sat in placid silence, without wave or sign of life. To his right a vast city, covered in vine.
but not asleep…
He walked, but did not move, the ground beneath his feet sliding past like some horrid treadmill.
Treadmill?
He caught some glint to his right, and saw the vines retreating off the buildings, growing backwards, dying, or becoming unborn. The city breathed as the ropey noose slackened, and he felt life returning.
Then he heard the waves for the first time, white noise he could concentrate on, that he could depend on.
”Kaw. Ka-kaw?”
One of the dead birds looked up at him while it lay spread-eagle-but not: a Gull-on it’s back.
“Kaw!” It said, “You’re dead.”
I am not dead. You are.
“Not dead. Kaw! Not alive!”
It is the same thing.
The bird rolled to it’s feet, and shook sand from it’s dirty grey feathers. “Is not.” He cocked his head, staring. “Is NOT. You’re dead. Read the paper. Paper’ll show you, you’ll see.”
Show me what?
But the only answer was a strangled kaw, and the bird took flight, gliding soundlessly over the sea.
Show me what!
He stared until the bird vanished into the horizon, and he noticed the sun rising, pale gold and deepest red both, a shiny penny caught in the light of a fire.
What is a ‘penny’?
“You are,” He heard the bird say, faintly. “and you are not.”
He sank to his knees, and felt that he crushed one of the shells under his weight, but when he looked down a wrinkled piece of parchment stuck out from beneath his leathers, only half buried in the sand.
He tried to read it, but his vision blurred, and he felt warm, so warm. Hot. Burning and wet. Sticky and weak. He brought the scrap up to his face, close to his eyes, concentrating but unable to focus.
He thought it was a name.
“…He’s dying.”
“How dare you say that. Klai Ori, God who we are. He will live.”
“He is already dead.”
Asaph knew they were talking about him, and he thought that the first speaker, a man, must be saying true, but there was no pain, no light, none of the ice he was fated. Only a sense of floating and noise.
Footsteps, heavy boots against old wood. The sound of dripping water. Wind, and the patter of rain against the roof.
“He will live.” The second voice repeated, a woman’s, though without conviction. Only hope.
Lyra?
“The wound has festered.” Said the first man. “He’ll be gone in another day, two at most. We must leave before then. We should have left already.”
There was a long pause.
“He would have understood. It’s what he would have wanted.”
“He risked his life for me. I can’t just leave him here to die… not alone.” Her voice was so quiet. Lyra’s voice.
“We risked our lives to get you to safety. Do not throw away his gift so you can mourn.”
“And you don’t mourn?” Lyra’s voice rose to an angry pitch, not yet a shout. He heard the sound of chair legs against the floor.
“Not now. Not here.” Ah, cold practicality. Bitter logic. The voice of Sol.
“You are a bastard, Molligreer. He was-is-your best friend!”
“He is my brother, woman. Do not tell me his place.”
The sound was fading, and it was getting harder to think. Sol was speaking, but he couldn’t make out the words. Who is Sol?
Distantly, he heard the sound of waves and the kaw of a bird.
It sounded like laughter.
Clean, as if washed in tears
…tick
…tick
…tick.