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Alain's dreams were not always about things to come, but since they set off on the road, it seemed that they were omens more often than not. He could not always read them for what they were, and sometimes he just needed to write them down so he could think on them later. His journal was full of shaky words scrawled in a hand that could barely grip the pen, often while he was still seeing the very things that made him wake up biting back a scream.
Gunslingers did not weep like children for their mothers just because there were dark things under the bunk. They did not sob and clutch their pillows. They woke and took from their dreams what could be used to become better, and then they slept again.
Alain had far to go to be a Gunslinger at such times. When dreams came to him full of blood and death, he could not roll over and shrug them off. Sometimes he woke Roland, whose idea of comfort was too close to Cort's rough cuff to the head. He had never struck Alain, but he had sighed and rolled his eyes a few times. And those had stung more than any fist Cort ever laid on him.
Sometimes though, he woke Cuthbert. And for all his mischief and all his foolishness, Bert never rolled his eyes. He moved closer, and he pulled Al against him. Some nights that was all it took, the feel of another body in the bedroll beside him to ease him into sleep again. On the nights when it was very bad, though, Bert would crawl right into Alain's blankets and ruffle his hair and kiss his forehead. He whispered that everything would be all right, rocked him in a way that always made Alain feel safe. Those were the nights that he thought that the touch might be something he could bear, as long as Cuthbert was with him.
Those were the nights that Alain wished he could pluck the visions from his head, stuff them into Roland's so the other boy would see what he was leading them all into. It was not a generous thought, or a kind one, but Alain was close enough to being a man to know that sometimes you could not be anything but greedy when it came to those you loved.
Roland would agree with that. Now that he had his Sue, he would agree. Alain knew this as well as he knew that it wouldn't change anything.
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Huntress moon grew fat, casting her light over the sea. Cuthbert sat and watched the reflection as it floated like a ladies scarf on top of the waves, rippling and swaying. Behind him, Alain attempted to roll another smoke, the tobacco spilling over his hands as he swore softly. Grinning, Cuthbert looked back over his shoulder.
"You roll like a babbie, cully," he drawled, accent thick and smile lazy. His hat was tipped back and as he leaned there, Alain reached over and flipped it off. It rolled a bit on the grass and lay toppled on its side, the breeze making it rock like a cradle. He waited for Al to come back with something wise, an insult to his mother perhaps, or a slight against his ability to shoot straight. But there was nothing. Just a more concentrated effort by the other boy to force the paper and tobacco into something resembling a proper smoke. "Al..."
"I've seen," Alain replied without looking up. "All of this time, I've seen it coming. It would have happened this way no matter who'd taken the road that night. It's ka, pure and simple, Bert." He lifted his head then and considered what else he had seen, considered the burden that would be lighter for sharing it with Bert, as he'd shared so many other things. And then decided that some things were meant to be carried alone. It came with the touch, and as his father had told him time after countless time, the touch was both blessing and curse in one mixed bag.
Cuthbert flopped to his back with a dramatic sigh. "You've been listening to Roland too much, Al, he's infected you with his own plodding thickness of the head. Ka is bullshit. It's an excuse, someplace to lay the blame when you can't be buggered to look for the real reason. His excuse is that he wants to dip his wick in yon fair maid." Here Bert rolled his eyes and his hands like a stage performer executing some elaborate bow. "What's your excuse, boy?"
Alain lit the bumpy, jagged strip of paper, drawing in too hard and coughing on the smoke that still made his head swimmy. A few flakes stuck to his tongue and he spit them into the grass, ignoring Bert's chuckle. His excuse, he thought defensively, was a desire to explain that sometimes there is nowhere to lay the blame but on the way the world spins. But to do that required the patience of several saints, and while Alain was a gentle boy, he was not without his limits. Instead he grunted and shook his head, looked out over the Drop and the dark smudges of shadows that they had counted so slowly. So carefully.
In a few moments, Bert moved closer. His hip bumped Alain's and his shoulder nudged, his fingers stole the clumsy smoke and he took a few amiable drags of his own, spitting the flakes aside much like Al did and then leaning on the bigger boy for warmth.
"I'm not much for your theory," Bert said quietly and rocked his bony hip against the sold bulk of Alain's. "Much rather think that if Susan had met me on that rutted stretch of road, she'd have been swept off her feet by my charm." He sniffed and turned his head, staring at Alain solemnly. "I can be quite impressive, cully."
"Aye," said Al, a grin tipping the side of his mouth upwards. "So ye can, Bert." He rocked back companionably, and then without much thought for the look of the thing, laid his head on Bert's shoulder. It was hard there, but it was warm and Bert's arm slid round Alain's back easily as he stared at the pale scarf of moonlight that still floated on the gentle swells.
Soon enough would come the time when they could no longer sit together and feel that the world was right. Soon enough there would be blood on the moon and on their hands. There would be fear and hatred and loss, and there would be a hard road to walk for boys who grew up too fast. For now though, there was the sea and the moon and the warmth of Cuthbert's shoulder under Alain's cheek. For now this was enough.