Rounded by a Sleep
She should be the one dreaming in red, Willow knows; she should be the one tossing on sweat-heavy sheets with memories of flayed skin pasted to the inside of her eyelids so theyre all she can see, her friends voices ringing in her ears in a cacophony of accusation and appeal.
But shes sleeping fine. The English air, soft with dampness, the gentle sun, the long walks under ancient trees, over rolling hills ... shes eating well and fast asleep after only a few minutes of snuggling into place under a quilt that smells subtly different, even though Giles has shown her the brand of detergent he uses and its the same as they have at home.
Its Giles whose face is sharpened by fatigue, lined with weariness as though his waking hours are all of the twenty four, and she can feel his tiredness now, lying acrid in the air when hes close. The earth gets tired too, lays down to rest in winter, the clamour of brash spring a faint memory, but Willow knows humans, ephemeral, transient, evanescent flickers that they are, have a shorter cycle. Dream time, down time, sleep time; they need it or they wither.
Giles, to Willow, is an oak. They dont wither but they can hollow out until what seems like a mighty tower, roots deep, branches arching wide, latticing the sky, falls with the first spring storm, the first autumnal tempest, and is shown to be a mockery, a blown egg. Giles shows her one, as they walk, the vast girth of trunk split open to reveal emptiness, the rings that told its age devoured until a sapling had more substance than it. A cracknel, he calls it.
Day after day, she watches him, hesitant questions hovering on her lips, unspoken, and night after night she dreams of him as he was, strong, wise...there for her, always. And she wakes and in her first glimpse, matches reality to dream and shivers.
One night she rouses from her sleep, restful deep and peaceful, and hears him talking, muttering, crying out. The sounds are frightening, edged with madness, enough to make anyone shrink away, close their ears, feign deafness.
Willows done pretending.
She slips from her bed, bare to the night and uncaring, and goes through the dark, watchful quiet of a sleeping house, her hand reaching for the handle that opens his door, her body pushing forward impatiently as soon as it gapes wide enough to admit her. Her footsteps patter forward like raindrops on leaves until shes beside his bed looking down at what he holds.
Sendel root, carved and incised with two runes, one for each of them, bound and wrapped by strands of hair. The moonlight that floods the room, through a window Giles hasnt even bothered to shroud with curtains, isnt needed; she can feel its hers and know its his, without seeing bright copper and ash-grey entwine.
Giles has been stealing her dreams and leaving her sleep for payment. No real theft that; shes left indebted to a man she tried, scant weeks before to kill, a man she humbled, humiliated and hurt.
A man shes loved for years, with a love grown from recognition of like, nurtured by shared danger, watered by shed tears. He moves against the sheets as once shed dreamed hed move under, on, inside her, but these are aimless spasms, where shed imagined powerful thrusts, sure and certain. Giles is fighting a foe whose strength saps his and as Willow kneels beside him, her breath quickening, she hears her name on his lips, and knows that shes his adversary in those dreams, with nothing but a dull acceptance of that fact.
Its not over then. Every gain shes made has been as much a step forward as if she were on a treadmill; purposeless motion, taking her nowhere. Shes not won, shes cheated, peeked at the answers, bribed the teacher.
And if the anger had returned, ripely rotten, she might have struck the enchanted root from his hand, taken back the memories by force, because deep in her something yammered and demanded one more look into Warrens eyes as he was skinned, wanting to savour that look and hold it close as a lover.
But anger has been whittled from her and theres nothing left but gratitude and concern as she wakes him with a kiss, drawing back swiftly as hes pulled out of nightmares into her world.
Understanding is in his eyes too fast for him not to have expected this to happen one day. He saves her still saving her! from asking the question by gifting her with the answer. You werent strong enough, Willow. They would have snapped you in two.
Shes been two before. She knows that that feels. Never wants to feel it again.
Youre right, Giles.
Being able to say that and mean it sends power and certainty rippling through her. But that was then. Im stronger now.
Night after night of restful sleep...much stronger.
Willow wraps her fingers around the totem and tugs gently, easing it from his hand. She walks to the window and opens it as he watches, letting the moonlight touch it, until its a mass of silver, glowing in her hand as her magic, moon magic, consumes it utterly.
Then she goes to lie beside him, her cool body against his fevered one, her warm hands on his face to capture every tear, her slow, soft kisses sending him to sleep.
And when they wake, the rains falling and the rooms dim and cool and Giles smiles as if shes right where hed always dreamed she would be.