Now for the Rebuttal
In her nightmares, for she always has nightmares, there is light and the absence of, and running and hatred, and she is so sick of such, she is sick and crying and it never ends, it never does.
They all end the same. There is a hand on her shoulder, drawing her up and the ground beneath her feet is solid, is as real as the hand resting on her shoulder, and when she looks he is gazing at her quite steadily. He does not smile. His eyes are very grave and very calm and the longer she looks, the less she shakes, her gasps slow to breathing.
"I'm okay now," she says quietly, and he nods. She watches him turn and walk away.
And then she wakes up.
Her limbs are slick from the rain, and freezing, breath fogging, and she is lost and she is frightened with her back against a tree—and this was supposed to be the end. Hadn't she given up enough? Wasn't there ever a time for peace?
"Where is she?" asks a low, almost soothing female voice. Pacifica tenses, listening.
"Somewhere in the woods," says an answering man, "She must have heard us coming. We won't be able to do anything once her siblings have returned—we must find her tonight, Captain!"
The woman is silent for a moment, then, "Burn everything. The village, the forest. She can't hide forever."
"B-But," the soldier's voice protests, "But with the rain, Captain, we can't—"
Pacifica's eyes widen at the ripping sounds of violence. She feels sick.
"Help me," she whispers, her best dress ruined, hair matted into long, wet hanks, "Please, help me."
The rain hits the ground with the sound of silver, and the answer is there, she can feel it, when she closes her eyes—
The young man from her dreams has her chin gripped between his strong, thick fingers, impossibly dry. He glances her up and down for a moment, helping her to her feet. The sobs pressing against her chest slide back.
There is something about his strong, tranquil face that burns within her. She knows him. She knows him.
His hand reaches out, halving the distance between them, and without even thinking, she reaches to take it—but instead of flesh, all she can feel is steel. Pacifica looks down, and finds the blade.
When she looks up, the young man is gone.
"To the left," says his voice, and she knows it to be his voice instinctively, has heard it so many times before. Even when she closes her eyes, she cannot see him.
"Left," he repeats, "Hurry."
Flinchingly, she makes her way through the wet grasses, sloshing through brackish ditches and ducking low between the trees. Her heart beats slowly, and she knows almost instinctively when to stop and hide.
A moment passes. She grips the blade more tightly—an assassin's knife, she thinks, but isn't sure. Shannon would know.
There is the slightest shift of wind, and then the bandit comes creeping almost silently through the brush. She watches his movements with a detached wariness.
"Throw a rock," says the voice, "That tree. Let me help you."
She searches the mud for a rock, grips it, pulls back her arm and squints, feels his hands pulling at her elbow, tucking in her wrist, and pushing out her arm—
That same ghostly presence pushes her down abruptly, so startling that she nearly gasps. When her eyes are closed she can see him—though nothing else, of course, only the faint, tense outline kneeling beside her.
She grips the knife more tightly.
Shannon returns within an hour, while the brambles are still smoldering pathetically. She does not ask what has happened, only lets him lift her from the tree her partner had hidden in, bracing herself against his strong, tanned arms. Shannon frowns, looking her up and down, fussing. She keeps the knife gripped loosely at her side, and he notices almost immediately.
"What're you going to do with this?" he asks skeptically, taking her hand gently. She can't bring herself to let go. "Cut yourself and let them follow the trail of blood?"
"No," she says immediately. She looks at him insistently, "It's—It's familiar."
Shannon frowns at her. His dark hair is thick with water and blood, pink streams running down his face. Finally, he says, "Let's go home."
"Okay," she scampers to his side, and follows him back.
She sleeps with the knife under her pillow, clutching at the hilt stubbornly. In her dreams now, she stabs and wheels and cuts down the attacking monsters, both powerful and fierce and afraid of nothing but herself.
And when the wave as finished she turns, and he is standing just behind her, his gaze solemn and dark and quiet. Very gently, he reaches out and rubs his thumb across her cheek. It comes away red, and her head drops, the weight of an unbearable tiredness setting in once again.
"I don't understand," she says, dizzy, looking at their feet, at his legs, his chest and arms and hands and hair and face and mouth and eyes, "I thought I was—I thought everything was finished."
He shakes his head. His earrings swing with the motion, glinting and gold. Her shoulders hunch in. "I don't want to," she says softly, "I don't want to do all of that again. I can't."
He doesn't say anything. When she looks up, he is looking at her with something like regret, and her heart clenches so abruptly and so painfully that her head spins and her chest aches. She drops the knife.
"You—" her voice cracks, "You're dead, aren't you?"
He brushes the tears off of her cheeks, ones she had been quite unaware of, and his hands are solid, warm and steady. She catches one.
"Don't leave," she begs. He almost smiles.
"Pamela," he says gravely, "You talk too much."
She hits him angrily, "That isn't the point!"
"I am always at your side," he says simply, "But sometimes you do not see me. There is no such thing as perfect peace—there never will be. If you need me, I'll be there." He stoops, picks up the knife and curls her fingers around it. "Trust me."
And she does, but, "My name isn't Pamela."
He shrugs. She wonders if maybe it is, "What's yours?"
It was only after she'd said it that she realized how badly it might have hurt him, this person she could nearly remember. This person who felt like they'd met her in a dream.
But when he started to speak, she found herself being pulled backwards, rushing up and up and up, and then opening her eyes and starring dumbly at the ceiling, awake.
Her fingers clenched around the blade.
She could wait.