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Once I was endless, twisting and reaching. My body was infinite; not so much a body as as consciousness threaded through dark limbs, roots grasping at planes of existence through which I bled. I was all-powerful and all-consuming, and I wanted nothing less.
I remember this, sometimes, when you are asleep and dreaming. The memory of Him comes for me, all teeth and claws and endless limbs pulling me down into His maw. And I do not - I cannot go with Him. Not anymore.
It was not so long ago that I would have done anything to get back to Him. I would have destroyed worlds for Him, I would have burned cities and wrought death.
How can it be that things have changed so quickly?
You were a prison, at first. Finite and small and so easily broken. I found it disgusting, this mark of weakness that held me captive, risked everything I was in this inconsequential body, this minute speck of life so easily extinguished.
And now I -
You stir in your sleep, restless and afraid. I know your dreams are consuming shadows, death and wrenching pain. I reach for you with the only piece of you that is truly mine - our hands entwine. Your heart races against the cage of your chest. You mutter and whimper, slick with cold sweat.
I want to tell you that it will be alright, that we will get out of this together, whole and safe.
But I am tired of lying to you.
“Arthur,” I say, gently. You shudder, muttering in your sleep.
“I’m here,” I say, gripping your hand.
Even in your sleep you fight, for you are teeth and claws in your own human way. I think that is the first thing I loved about you.
Long ago, before I was part of you, my whispers were words of madness and deceit, twisting and broken things meant to harm.
These are not the words I whisper to you now.
“When we’re out of this prison we’ll go home. Perhaps somewhere new, far away. There will be warm beaches and tropical plants. I’ve never been anywhere like that before. How does that sound to you?”
This will never happen, but I tell myself it is alright to lie when you cannot hear me. I would do anything for you to dream of somewhere safe and far away.
“John,” you say in a sleep-slurred mumble. I have no heart but that does not stop the pang that pulses through me.
If you had ever told me that I would enjoy this prison, this finite and small body, I would have laughed, and then I would have consumed you. There should be nothing good about this cage from which I cannot break.
And yet -
It is the feeling of our hands intertwined, this focal point of sensation that is mine and mine alone. It is the sound of your breath and your laughter and your huffs of indignation. It is your frustration and mistakes and your anger. It is your beauty and your sadness. It is the freckles on your skin, your bitten nails, the messy and incomplete pattern of you.
I did not - I did not mean to feel this way.
“Where would you like to go?” I whisper. “Paris? We could walk along the Seine and I could tell you about the markets and the artists and the cafes. Or Istanbul? I could describe the architecture and the monuments. In Cairo we could drink tea and visit the pyramids. Anywhere you’d like, Arthur, we can go.”
I can feel your heart settling, its erratic beat slowing. Your breaths come even and shallow. You shiver, curling tight into yourself, and I feel the cold against my bare skin. It is not the first time I wish I could curl around you, slip you into my many arms and keep you warm and safe from all of the things that mean to kill us.
But I have only our hand. It is that fixed piece of me that has made me who I am. Is that irony?
I whisper: “When we’re free we could sail somewhere far away. An island with palm trees and lagoons and beautiful people.”
“You would hate that,” you mutter, startling me. I did not feel you wake.
“How do you know?” I say, and I cannot help the affection that curls into my voice.
“Too boring,” you murmur. Your voice is weak with sleep and fear. I brush my knuckles over your face; too thin, too hollow.
“Perhaps I would like a vacation.”
I feel the smile that curls on your lips.
“Hard to see you relaxing on the beach in the sun.”
But I can see you - warm and lazy, sundrunk in a pair of shorts and sandals, smiling as I tell you about the seagulls and the crabs and the rolling waves. I will make up stories about pirates and sea monsters until you laugh - I would do anything to hear you laugh again. You’ll complain about your burned skin and at night I will run my fingers down your pink arms and chest and stomach until you are gasping and -
Stop.
“The mountains instead, then,” I say, because I need to chase away these thoughts of things that will never be. “Someplace with trees and snow. We could go skiing.”
A bark of laughter bursts out of you, surprising both of us. I cling to that sound, the echo of your former self.
“Why in the world would you want to go skiing? In any case, I don’t have the slightest idea how that would work.”
“Oh? No alpine adventures in the Lester family?”
You grow quiet, and I realize, belatedly, you are thinking about her. I almost apologize but decide against it; you have made your feelings on the topic quite clear. And I - I do not want to bring you anymore pain.
“We never got around to it,” you murmur.
We are quiet for some time, and I feel you slipping again into sleep.
I will never tell you this, but sometimes it is hard to remember that Faroe is not also mine. That she is your daughter, not ours. Even though -
I do not carry your memories but sometimes I almost think I can see her, small and bright and warm and oh so beautiful. Perhaps it is your emotions mixed with mine, but there is a part of me that feels her, as though one day we will wake up and she will be there to jump in bed with us, chattering and happy, and her fingers will curl around ours and she will be ours.
When did all this dreaming become mine?
“I’ve always wanted to go to Venice,” you murmur softly against our hands. I brush my thumb across your chapped, broken lips.
“Venice? Seems…pedestrian.”
You snort softly. “You would love it. All the art and canals and museums. And the libraries. God, I would love to see something like that. It’s famous for a reason, you know.”
“You wouldn’t exactly see it, Arthur -”
“Shut up,” you murmur without spite. “You know what I mean.”
I like these moments with you, despite it all. Here in the dark when it is just us and we can pretend we are somewhere else, someplace without fear or pain or regret.
I hum. “I suppose we could go anywhere at all and I could just pretend we were wherever you wanted to be.” I am teasing, and you take the bait.
“Can you, now? Alright then, tell me about Venice.”
I pause, taking a breath.
“It’s a warm evening, and the night sky is cloudless, dazzling with stars and a bright moon. We’re sitting outside at a restaurant, looking out at the city. There is a festival going on across the river, the sound magnified by the water and crowded buildings. We can hear music, and there are many people dancing. People walk past us wearing bright, playful clothing and speaking in rapid Italian as they make their way to the festival.”
“Why aren’t we going with them?” you murmur.
“We’ve spent all day at the library. You made me tell you about every dusty old book, even though neither of us speak Latin. Or Italian, for that matter. Now we’re exhausted and you’re drinking wine and eating something far too sweet.”
‘Tiramisu,” you slur, smile curling. “You’d hate it.”
“Probably. There are lights of every color reflecting off the water, and we watch several gondolas glide by, framed by the glittering brightness. There are families and children, and drunk students singing in loud, slurred Italian. On one gondola we watch a pair of lovers deep in a heated, animated argument.”
You hum; vibrating against my hand.
“I want to go dancing,” you whisper.
I do not have a heart but that does not stop it from breaking. These are things you would never say aloud in the daylight when it is us against the world.
“Tomorrow, Arthur,” I say. “Tomorrow we will go dancing. Tonight we are exhausted, and it is time to rest.”
“Where’re we staying?”
“At a small hotel that you can find only by winding through alleyways lit by gas lanterns. You run your fingers along the walls as I lead you, and you feel the centuries-old stone and mortar. People greet us as we pass by, and I tip my hat to them.”
You huff, soft. “I could see you in a bowler.”
“The hotel is old with a small, ornate door, lit by golden lights. There is an hotelier who greets us by name-”
“Yours or mine?”
“Ours - Mr. Lester.”
“Hmm.”
“He greets us as we ascend the tight stairwell, which is adorned with a worn gilded banister and Renaissance paintings.”
“Quite lavish, this hotel.”
“Every hotel in Venice is like this, Arthur. It is how they do things here.”
“I see.” I hear the smile in your voice.
“Down the hall is our room, which overlooks a canal. It’s small but comfortable with a bed, dresser, vanity, and a desk facing the water. We crack the window to let in the night breeze, and the air smells of earth and river.”
“Is there a bath?”
I chuckle. “Yes, there is a small bathroom and a clawed-foot tub with worn silver faucets.”
You groan, and the sound stills me. “I would kill for a bath.”
“We can soak if you like. But the bed is soft and framed with an unreasonable amount of pillows. The sheets are gray silk. Which would you rather?”
“Mmm,” you hum, the sound reverberating through your chest. “I’ve never had a bed with silk sheets before.”
“You run your hands over them. They’re cool and gentle, perfect for a summer night like this. The summer air is just at the edge of too warm, and it feels good to slip bare into the sheets.”
“Bare?” I hear the lilt in your voice, the question.
“We can sleep, if you like.”
“Or?”
Or? I do not know. Or perhaps I do know, but the idea seems like a dream from another world, something so beautiful and distant that I cannot imagine it. I want to be tangled up in you, in your breath, in your smell, in your skin and taste. I want to hear the sounds you would make, when it is just us, nothing else.
It is so very human, impulsive and compulsive, but I want it all the same.
“Or whatever you would like.” I know it’s cowardly but I want to give you the choice.
Your breath catches and you’re still, just for a moment. I think we are both imagining something that will never be.
“John,” you say, and the way you say it - I am ashamed at the way it makes me feel. I never want anyone else to say my name the way you do right now - like it is an invocation.
“Arthur,” and I cannot help the way the word curls inside me, both intimate and unexplored.
We breathe, listening to one another. Sometimes I breathe just for you, so that you know that you are never alone.
“Venice sounds lovely,” you mumble after a while. I’m surprised you’re still awake.
“It will be,” I whisper.
I can feel your doubt creeping in, solidifying like ore in your veins.
“We will find a way out of here.”
“How d’you know?”
“Because it’s you. And me. We will find a way. We’ve made it through so much worse, Arthur.”
I squeeze your fingers tight.
“I hope you’re right, John.”
“I am. I promise.” I shouldn’t - I do not want to lie, not about something like this, but -
“Alright.”
“We’ll go to Venice, if that’s what you want.”
“Hm,” you sigh.
I should tell you, now. I should tell you that I would take you anywhere, that I would cross worlds for you, that I would kill gods for you, for you. That you are this rolling thunder inside me, echoing across the vast plains of something that might be my soul. That you are with me in a way that cannot be contained, cannot be ignored.
I should tell you all these things, but this is something I would not know how to even begin to describe. It is an invisible, impossible vision, and I do not have the words.
“Sleep, Arthur,” I say instead.
“John,” you murmur against our knuckles. That is the last thing you say before you sleep.
And for once you are still, dreamless.
I listen to you breathe, and it is such a beautiful sound.