Page 115 of Gates of Tartarus

The question is so unexpected and said with such hesitation and such sweetness I can’t even answer, just nod slowly, and relief washes out from him, a cool balm on my soul. He carefully sits me up in bed, and somehow, God knows how, slides his muscular body behind me, locking me between strong thighs. Any other time, and I meananyother time, the movement would have sent thrills through me, but something is broken inside me, and I don't feel anything but emptiness and a dark pit of black.All those years of hoping for less feeling, of hoping for nothingness, and now I have it, I think numbly, but it brings me no joy.

Walker lifts me slightly, moving me forward enough that he can comb my hair, and even being locked in my own mind I can feel brief, starlight flashes in my darkness of his emotions as he combs and weaves carefully. It’s so tangled it takes a long, long time, and I drift in and out of a dreamlike state, Walker’s hands gentle on my scalp. At some point I wake enough to hear him singing softly behind me, his voice low and unexpectedly beautiful. Walker singing is a gift, something precious that he doesn’t share, and I lean into the soothing, healing tones. “... the one who runs barefoot, cursing sharp stones…”

His voice is heaven. Liquid smoke, smooth, amber whiskey. It’s low, just on the line between baritone and bass, and I would pay good money to hear him sing me to sleep every night for the rest of my life. Once my hair is combed through, he hesitates, then asks, “What do I do? I want you to be happy with it. It makes you feel better, I know. I mean, I can braid, but what did Jonah do?”

I crane my neck to look at him, just the edge of his face, most of it hidden in shadow. We’re in some kind of suspended moment, an in-between where I’m not sure we even exist. “You just braid with thought and intention,” I whisper, barely a sound, and he nods sharply.

Regret and sorrow wash over me, and I reach up to untangle the first part of the braid he has just completed. “Intention, Walker. Not apology. And you owe no apology.”

“I don’t knowhow,” he replies, frustrated.

“It’s okay,” I say soothingly. “You don’t have to.”

“Iwantto, Kai. I just… need help. Or guidance. I’m trying here.”

I reach up and grab his hand and hold it ‘til I feel his frustration fade. “Just think of something that makes you happy.” As he starts braiding again, I try to keep my shields up to give him privacy, but I’m too tired, and he’s projecting so strongly it’s impossible to ignore him. I’m surrounded by the scent of apple pie and cinnamon, of pine and cold air, of wood smoke and the crackling of fire. The feeling is happiness and safety, such safety, and I realize Walker is now voluntarily giving me the first memory I had accidentally torn from him. He’s surrounding me with it, weaving it into me, a gentle, sweet feeling of everything being right.

I don’t want to take this from him again, want him to know I can sense it, and I whisper softly, “Walker, I’m not trying to, but I can’t keep my shields up that well… I can sense your memory… I’m sorry...”

He pauses, and my shoulders hitch up, preparing, I think, for his anger. But instead, he turns me slightly, very, very gently, just enough to meet his gaze.

“Kai, that memory is the best thing I have. The only truly good moment I could think of. Where I felt loved, and safe. It... that memory isforyou. It’s what I want you to have for yourself. I’m picturing it as hard as I can so you can feel wrapped in it. It’s okay that you’re sensing it. I want you to sense it. If I have one good thing in life, I want you to have it.”

I can’t speak, and he turns me back. “Now be quiet,” he says gruffly, even though the room is nothing but silence and shadows. “Let me finish this or I won’t hear the end of it. Shotridge will never let me live it down if his was better than mine.”

He picks up his hands to braid again, but I reach my own up to grab his and pull his arms around me. I just need... I feel like I’m falling apart, and his arms are steel bands that will keep me from dissolving into darkness. I don’t know how to explain it, can’t make myself speak. He freezes for a moment, then flexes slightly to pull me back into him, wrapping me tightly, but carefully, in his embrace.

“Okay, Kai,” he whispers. “It’s okay. Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

And he does, holding me until the nurses come in for morning rounds, clucking disapprovingly at the scene in front of them. They shoo Walker out the door while taking vitals, but as he leaves, he turns and gives me a smile of such heart-stopping sweetness the rest of the room fades away, then he winks and says, “Nowtwomemories,” before he disappears into the hallway.

Full House

Thursday, 29 November – Maela

The next morning, I wake up with a pounding head, stuffy nose, and sore throat, wanting tea again but this time with honey and lemon. I don’t want to move, but I’m feeling wretched, and the promise of a hot drink sounds wonderfully soothing. So I throw on a fluffy robe over my jammies and head for the kitchen. Maybe my mother was right, I think dully, you don’t get colds from germs, you get colds by going out with wet hair. Knew I should have taken the time to dry it before going to the building site.

The guys are having breakfast, and the clink of fork against plate makes me wince.

“Morning,” I croak as I trudge to the counter. I flip on the kettle and reach for a mug.

“Not feeling well?” Emlyn asks sympathetically.

I shake my head like a crestfallen kitten.

Kavi stands up. “You sit down, Maela girl. I’ll get it. Cup of tea, maybe?”

Sniffling, I nod and sink into a chair.

“Where does it hurt?” Jorge commiserates. He himself is looking fit and healthy, his skin glowing and his eyes bright. A small part of me is a touch resentful.

“Everywhere!” I whimper. “I have a headache and a sore throat and a double ear ache. Inbothears,” I specify.

“Sí,” he agrees, his mouth turning up a little at the corners. I give another sniffle.

“I think I have the flu.” I rest my head in my hand, the picture of woe.

“Undoubtedly,” Emlyn observes, somewhat unhelpfully.

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