Regina: Well, I am just going to keep this intro short, because I'll do my big explanation thing after this chapter. My prediction that this would be the last chapter was right!
In The Dreaming
Chapter Ten: In the Waking
"Can't you do something? Anything?"
"I'm sorry, but I cannot. It's impossible."
"It can't be! It's Amara we're talking about! You have to help her!"
"I'm sorry, but -"
"Look!"
"Don't touch him! We don't know what might happen if we break their contact!"
"It's too late. She's gone."
"John! He's alive!"
Slowly, reluctantly, John opened his eyes. He could not see for the tears that clouded his vision.
He blinked, and they streamed down his cheeks. It was so unfair. He thought he had died, wanted to die. . . but was still alive, while Amara was dead, lost to the shadows of the realm of nightmare.
"I couldn't save her," John said, rising from the floor. No one made a move to stop him.
"I tried my best, but it wasn't enough. I just couldn't. . ." John trailed off, looking down at
Amara's still form. He still had not let go of her hand. Throughout the battle in the dream world, he had not loosened his grip on her in the real world. No matter what had happened.
Tabitha sank to her knees. "No. . . it can't be. . ."
But in her heart she knew it was true, as John laid a gentle kiss on Amara's forehead. Her skin was warm, as it should have been. At least he had restored that to her, given her that one thing.
A normal semblance of death, if not a normal death itself.
"I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry. . . for all of this."
Strangely enough it was Pietro who laid a hand on John's shoulder in a comforting gesture. His eyes were serious as he said, "At least you were with her at the end."
As Bobby helped Tabitha to her feet, she added, "She would have wanted that. She wasn't alone, at least."
John looked around. The eyes of all of those he had considered to be his enemies, and the eyes of his one friend in the room, were wet. The loss of Amara had touched them all, and
John knew that at least it wasn't just his heart that was aching with loss.
As one, or perhaps guided by Professor Xavier's telepathic suggestion, everyone left the room, leaving John alone with the body of the girl he had loved, and still did.
John stood there in silence for some time, not knowing what to say, or even if he wanted to say anything.
There were no words that could say everything, or anything.
No words that could convey the sorrow, and the loss.
Just as there had been no words that could have conveyed the love.
Except, perhaps, one thing.
"I love you," he whispered, although there was no need to. He blinked, for there was a single tear drop that obscured his vision of Amara. It fell, landing on the back of John's hand, which lay gently over hers.
"And I love you."
John looked around for the source of the voice. It was impossible, he knew it, but he knew that the voice belonged to Amara even more than he knew it was impossible for him to hear it.
After all, the Amara whose hand he still had not let go had not moved.
But still, he looked down at her, to make sure that it was not her.
He was right. It was not her.
And yet, he still continued to hear her voice.
"I love you, John. I love you, John. . . I love you. . . John. . . John. . . I love you. . ."
The voice echoed and echoed, until John was uncertain of where it was coming from: Amara; his mind; somewhere else in the room.
And then the echoes stopped, and only one sound could be heard.
"I'm here, John."
John looked up to find himself staring into a pair of gentle brown eyes.
Amara's eyes.
John looked down, to see Amara still lying there, unmoving.
But how?
The eyes that were watching him had one difference from those of the real Amara. They were shining with light, as was the rest of her, with a light so pure that it was almost unnatural.
His heart aching even more, John was painfully reminded of the false Amara, the one who appeared to be made of glassy obsidian.
But as that Amara was made of made of shadows and black glass, this one was made of light and crystal, shining with a love that not even death could conquer.
This was the true Amara, a being made of light and love, returned only for the one she loved.
"But. . . how?" asked John, his heart caught in his throat, making it difficult for me.
Amara smiled at him, making her radiate with light even more than before. "Because of you. I saw what you did back there."
"You did?"
Amara nodded, still smiling. "I saw it all. But I could not let you die. Would you really have died for me?"
"For you and to be with you." John looked down at her body. "I wish I were dead now."
"I cannot let you - I love you too much." Amara's eyes were shining with tears that reminded John of diamonds. "Answer me this: Do you love me?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Do you love me?" she pressed.
"I love you more than I have ever loved anyone, or thought I ever could."
Amara smiled. "Then kiss me."
This time John did not hesitate. Leaning over the bed, John kissed the Amara made of light, and as he did so, he heard a voice that was the complete opposite of the voice that had killed Amara, and that he had destroyed.
To live is to love, and to love, and be loved, is to live.
John's heart soared as he reveled in this second chance to be with his love.
But then it fell swiftly, tumbling down through the heavens as Amara began to fade away, and out of existence.
He sank to his knees, sobbing. How could he have lost her again?
"Amara. . ."
A voice, tired and weak, cut through his sorrow. "John."
He did not listen to it; he could not live through losing her for a third time.
The voice grew stronger, more insistent. "John!"
The hand that John had been clutching tightly to his chest breaks free from his grip of its own accord, and caused him to look up.
Amara peered over the bed at him, her eyes shining with tears, real tears that belong in the world of the waking.
"You did it!" Her voice was a triumphant whisper. "You saved me!"
John struggled to laugh, but managed it eventually, as he leapt to his feet, and wrapped his arms tightly around her. She did the same, throwing her arms joyfully around his neck.
He pulled away. "But. . . how?"
She smiled. "Does it matter?"
"Yes, it does," he insisted. "What happened?"
"I don't know. One minute I was in darkness, the next thing I heard this voice guiding me. . . yours." Amara could not stop smiling. "I love you!"
"And I love you!"
Moving as one, they touched their lips together for their first real kiss in the real world, and did not break it even when the doors of the infirmary burst open.
X X X
It was well after midnight, and everyone had gone to bed, exhausted from the day's events, when John led Amara out of the building.
"You can stay, you know," Amara told him for what must have been the hundredth time. "We'd love to have you."
John shook his head. "Not. . . right now. Later. We're two different people on two very different sides."
"Than doesn't matter to me!"
"It does to everybody else, Amara. I'm sorry, but you know it's true."
Amara looked down. She knew it was true.
"Amara, look." John pulled out his lighter, but Amara stopped him.
"No. Let me," she said, smiling although she was crying.
Hesitating at the sight of the flame in Amara's hand, John did not know what to do.
But then, seeing the love and trust in Amara's eyes, he made up his mind.
The flame floated through the air, forming two figures, one of them in a long dress that swirled as its partner twirled it in their musicless dance.
"They're so beautiful," Amara whispered.
John smiled, taking both joy and pain from the way Amara's eyes lit up at the sight of the flames. "No. You're beautiful."
John waved a hand, and the dancers vanished, replaced by a tiny sphere of fire. Rising from it came a tendril of flame, as if the sphere were a seed.
The tendril grew, until finally a rose bud blossomed from the end, and, with Amara giving a gasp of delight, each perfect petal fanned outwards, creating a rose made entirely of flame.
"It's beautiful," Amara whispered, when John handed the rose to her; his own special gift for her.
"I'm sorry I could not give you any flowers in the real world."
"No, it's perfect the way it is. Thank you."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
When the flame-rose lost its form, Amara knew that John was gone. Although she was crying with sadness, she hummed a waltz to herself as she headed back to the mansion, knowing that it had to be, and that it was not so bad.
They knew that they could not be together, that was certain.
For the time being, at least. The world, and the people they belong with, are not ready for something like that.
But that is of little importance. Time means nothing to them.
And besides, they can be together as often as they wish. They can dance long past the time when the candles have burned down into nothing, and the rising of the sun does not mean that their night is over. For nothing can stop them being together.
In their dreams.