AN: Okay, so . . . maybe I lied. I've been doing that a lot lately. Bad me! I said that there would be no sequel(s)! But this was entirely unplanned, believe me. I was getting ready for bed last night when alluvasudden-- BAM! Inspiration struck. I stayed up 'til 2:00 writing. Yeah, so be grateful. I had to get up for school in the morning. (Yes, I have awesome parents, who trust me enough (perhaps unwisely) that they assume that I have a good reason to stay up 'til 2 A.M. Thank them too.) This story (and its coming-soon counterpart) was inspired by the Shiny Toy Guns song Rainy Monday.
P.S. Let's say that this takes place several months after the events of Nothing Left and Never Look Back. The specific time period isn't important, but it's been enough time for Alys to have established a life in Griswold…
Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to Vivian Vande Velde. I'm just borrowing her characters for mine and my readers' enjoyment, and I make no claim to them.
[o{o}o]
Loneliness is more than we'll ever feel
Blind as you are, watching everything
When we die, faith is lost once again
Taking hold of all we are
Who says we die before we live?
I promise you walls of grace to carry on
When we're lost we'll find a way
Loneliness, or should we say something more?
Oceans arise, washing over me
Cold company, dark shades of harmony
Chasing the lies no one believes
—I Promise You Walls, by Shiny Toy Guns
[o{o}o]
Don't Dream
He smirked at her, purple eyes glinting as she leaned in close to the fire, shivering from the cold. He always had found her human peculiarities, her weakness, amusing. Sometimes Alys resented him for it, but he always took care of her (although mostly not until after he'd had a snicker or two at her expense).
"Don't look so insufferably smug," she muttered, trying to muster up an effective glare (although the chattering of her teeth somewhat spoiled the effect). "It's freezing out here. Not all of us have a fire in our bellies to keep us warm, you know."
Being Selendrile, he felt the need to point out: "But neither do I. I'm in human form."
She sighed. He teased her for that, too: for her incessant sighing. "Yes. But you're still a dragon underneath." She wrapped her arms around herself and ducked her head, trying to conserve as much warmth as possible. But when she looked up again, into amethyst eyes, she felt a coldness of a different kind, freezing her insides with fear: she'd set him off again.
"And how would you know?" he hissed, standing and stalking toward her. "What do you know of me? What do you know, human?"
She flinched back, moving away from the fire (although she was loathe to do so) and away from his angry, burning eyes, trying not to look at him. It was no use: he took one last quick step forward and grabbed onto her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his.
"What do you know of me?" he demanded.
She knew the answer. She knew what would calm him. The only thing that galled her was that it was the truth.
She whispered: "Nothing."
And he let go of her abruptly, turning his head sharply to the side and breaking the stare. His features grew impassive as he stared out into nothing, his agitation only betrayed by the tightness of his jaw, the stiff way he held himself.
Unobtrusively she edged closer to the fire—closer to him as well, but she knew him well enough now that she could tell that his anger had passed, and she needed not fear any longer. Not tonight. What an odd thought it was. She knew him. She knew nothing of him, but she knew him.
"Alys," he said suddenly, turning back to her. Hazel eyes blinked up at him; she remained huddled close to the fire, waiting for him to continue. "I am a dragon. You are human. This . . . is not natural." On the 'this', she noticed, he hesitated: she didn't blame him. 'This' was something very strange, hardly named for fear of its shattering.
She nodded. "I know. I don't care." Another shiver ran through her, although the heat of the small fire was slowly soaking into her.
"You should," he murmured in reply. But his amethyst eyes were warm now.
[o{o}o]
Alys' eyes opened. She was in Griswold, lying in her own bed. Her restless tossing had dislodged her coverlet, explaining the cold in her dream. And Selendrile was still gone.
She never dreamt of his leaving. She was grateful for this most of the time, but every now and then, waking from another dream of just ordinary Selendrile, just life as it had been, both the good and the bad—she wondered which would be worse: reliving the moment he abandoned her over and over again in dreams, knowing what was coming, knowing that he wanted nothing to do with her—or the constant, miserable disappointment of momentarily allowing herself to hope that the dream was real and they were together again—only to wake to cold, solitary reality.
Evie (who, along with her husband Harold, provided room and board for Alys, although the girl had insisted on a percentage of her paycheck going to them as recompense) had asked once who it was whose name Alys spoke in her sleep: Selendrile.
"A friend," had been Alys' reply. She'd wondered at the time if it had ever been true on his part. And Evie had looked very motherly, all skeptical and knowing at the same time, and made some comment about how she never said any of her other friends' names in her sleep—not that Alys had many. There was Evie and Harold's daughter, Molly, who was grown and married with a child already (and another on the way, although at this point only Alys was privy to that particular information), and only a year older than Alys. She was Alys' closest friend, although she'd made other friends (more what she would have termed "acquaintances," actually) in her work as a shopkeeper at Harold's mercantile. She'd even had a few would-be courters, some of them that would've been considered quite a catch by most of Griswold's female population.
Alys wasn't interested unless they had purple eyes and could transform into a dragon at will. She wasn't interested unless they were Selendrile. And none of them came even close.
[o{o}o]
She'd been in the mercantile all day, and exhaustion pulled at her limbs, making each movement feel clumsy and heavy.
"Evie, I'm home," she called into the dark recesses of the house, moving to begin her slow trek up the stairs. She seemed to recall Evie saying something about having dinner with Molly tonight, meaning that the house was probably empty, but she announced her presence anyway just in case.
A figure, who Alys assumed had been cloaking himself in the heavy shadows beneath the stairwell up to this point, stepped into the light, his amethyst eyes watching her.
She stopped moving; she stopped breathing; she stopped thinking.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice was shocked, but steady—better than she'd hoped; better than she'd expected. She wanted to cry or scream or throw things—or all three—but more than that she wanted just to watch him, just to be with him, just to take him in. So she did.
He was as beautiful as ever, his lithe body and inhumanly perfect features sharply defined in the shadowed half-light of evening. His expression was mostly impassive—perhaps slightly curious, a bit amused, but he always seemed like that, and she had no way of knowing whether it was real or not. But he'd never tried to disguise his fey nature from her, never pretended to be human for her sake, and now was no exception: there was a sort of respect in that, she supposed. But what was she thinking? Respect? He'd made it more than clear that he could care less about her, that he wanted nothing more than to be rid of her. She'd never thought to see him again. But then . . . why was he here?
"I was in the area," he answered vaguely. She knew better: he may have been in the area, but he wouldn't come just because of that. He must have some sort of motivation . . .
So she asked again, firmer this time: "Why?"
I know you.
An indefinable expression briefly crossed his face—if Alys had had to name it, she'd have said it looked something like regret. He cocked his head to the side in a familiar birdlike movement as he answered, his amethyst eyes always on her: "I find it difficult to ignore you, Alys."
"Funny, you didn't seem to have any trouble with it last time." The bitter words slipped out before she could censor them. She couldn't help but feel angry: if it hurt so much every time she woke from a mere dream, how much worse would it be when he left this time? She was glad he was here, despite everything; she wanted nothing more than to be with him. But she dreaded his leaving, and it seemed so cruel, so unfair to give her this small taste of happiness only to snatch it away again. Would he never allow her to heal?
He went still, looking at her. Then he released a low sigh, and she almost smiled: it was a habit he picked up from her, she knew. But all hints of amusement disappeared when he said quietly, "I should not have come," and turned toward the door.
"Wait!" she called, hating the desperation in her voice. He didn't listen, just kept on moving—Just like last time, she thought, her breath speeding up in panic. But as she watched his retreating form, frozen, she suddenly made a decision: this time, it would be different.
She stopped him with a hand on his wrist before he could reach for the door handle. Both of them knew that he could easily pull away: after all, he was a dragon, with a dragon's strength. But he halted and looked back at her, a question in his eyes.
Alys thought of Evie and Harold, of Molly, of her job at the mercantile. She thought of how Selendrile had abandoned her, deaf to her cries, blind to her tears. She thought of how she felt when she dreamed at night, always complete, no matter if she was scared or cold, no matter if the person (the dragon) she loved most was also the cause of her distress—and how she felt after she woke from each dream: empty, cold, alone. Whatever happened now, things would never be the same again.
She said: "Take me with you."
He was silent for a moment, and she held her breath, hardly daring to hope, fearing that she'd misinterpreted his reasons for coming after all—but his eyes were warm.
"Do you mean it?" It was what she had said back when this had all started, when he'd asked her to stay with him.
She answered as he had then, finding herself helpless to keep the smile from her face. "Yes. Yes, I mean it." And when she slipped the hand that had been holding his wrist down to grasp his warm palm, he didn't pull away.
She didn't understand him. She never had. She probably never would. But she cared enough to try.
[o{o}o]
AN: I know, I kind of left this hanging . . . but I felt that it needed to be that way. It suited the story. I'll let you know, though, the general gist of what I imagined would happen next: They lived happily ever after. Yeah. Because I'm big on happy endings, in case you didn't know . . .
Now, as for some questions that I'm guessing will be asked:
Q: Was Alys' dream really a dream, or was it a memory?
A: A little of both, actually. That exact scenario may not have happened, but her dream was based on real memories.
Q: Why did Selendrile come back?
A: I'd say a mixture of things: he got better control of his temper, and he realized that he was miserable without Alys. C; You'll see a more in-depth exploration of his reasons in the companion story to this, which will be in Selendrile's POV.
That's all I can think of right now . . . I may add more questions as people ask them. Review please! Feedback is love!
~Killer Zebra