Written for a fanfic contest on the Bioware forums. First prompt: Before the dawn.
Just a Dream
. . .
Mockingbird, mockingbird. High-pitched voices, clear like Skyhold's mountain air. But it is pitch dark and he cannot see which way to go, and the voices ring from right and left and from all the directions at once. Mockingbird, mockingbird.
There is the carriage, and the bodies, and among the sweet childish faces forever etched as masks of fear there is a familiar face, a white flower in the girl's hair, white flower and her white dress stained with blood, and there is not even a scream left in his throat, no air left in his lungs, only dread and guilt burning his heart down like a fire.
Blood freezes in his veins and he moves slowly as if he was treading tar, to get closer, trembling hands reaching out to wipe the red drops off the flower, as it that could help somehow, but suddenly there is darkness again, and voices like glass, singing quietly. Mockingbird, mockingbird – a flutter of wings, the smell of orchids, and another voice, quieter yet clearer than the others, a song of a lark above the chirping of sparrows, and his heart goes to a still and stops beating altogether when a slender hand grips his shoulder, fingers cold as death brushing his neck, and if he was not frozen already, he would shiver.
He wakes to the sound of his own voice, rough like his lies, hoarse. His throat burns, though he does not remember screaming, except for that one last strangled word at the end, just before he woke, but he is not certain what it was.
And then momentarily he freezes again because the hand is still there on his shoulder, fingers cold against the vein on his neck, and he shudders.
"I'm sorry, I didn't want to startle you." Lady Trevelyan moves, and the hand is gone. "I know my hands are cold."
It takes him a while to remember that they are on the road, sleeping under the open sky and her watch is the last, and that is why she is crouched next to his bedroll, waking him.
"It's fine, my lady," he rasps, trying to wake, to get up. To get his heart beating again.
She looks at him with those eyes grey and soft like the sky right before dawn, saying nothing, but she knows it is not fine, and there is concern deep down in her gaze.
"Nightmares?" she asks tentatively.
He nods. That is some truth, at least, best he can offer now. Best he has the courage to offer.
Her hand gently touches his, and he curses inwardly. She followed his advice, and she even stopped flirting with him, and it should have made things easier but it did not, because when there are no flirts all that remains is her friendship and the genuine affection in her eyes, and he cannot deal with that. Flirting, yes, but not that. He has no idea how to deal with suddenly feeling needed.
"It was just a dream." Her voice is soft, and her hand is cold, but it is cold like morning dew on the grass and mountain air at dawn and like the life he does not have the courage to experience anymore. "Just a dream."
He curls his fingers around hers, trying not to clutch at her hand. "Just a dream, my lady," he confirms, and she squeezes his hand and smiles at him, gentle and caring and warm like the waking morning, despite her cold hands. "Just a dream." She must be.