Author's Note:
This chapter will jump around a lot. Don't be surprised if the scene shifts after just a few paragraphs.
Chapter Forty-Six
Syaoran knew he should've been freezing, but despite the blanket of snow on the ground, his body felt perfectly warm. When he saw the Other, he realized why.
Another dream, he thought, his breath coming quicker as he braced himself. Another nightmare.
The Other snapped a branch off one of the trees and dragged it over to a pile of twigs he'd assembled. He glanced up, his mismatched eyes staring emptily at Syaoran, acknowledging his presence. Syaoran shied away.
The Other returned his attention to the growing pile of branches. He loped off, not stopping until he found a suitable tree to rip a branch from. He shook the snow off, letting it come down in a sparkly shower on his head, before taking the branch and pulling down by the base. Syaoran winced at the sound of splintering wood as he might have at the sound of snapping bones.
Syaoran sat up in his bed, his movements sluggish with sleep. Without really thinking about it, he swept the sheets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet scraping softly against the carpet. That was one problem with this hotel room. The carpet was too rough. He was only barefoot because he hated sleeping in his socks.
He walked over to the dresser, still only vaguely aware of his surroundings. It felt as if there was something else he should be doing, some task he'd intended to finish, but he couldn't remember what it was. The drawer came open with a deep rumble. The sound seemed strange somehow. Too low and drawn out. Not the right sound at all.
Nonetheless, he donned a pair of socks, purchased two days ago by Seishirou, and abandoned his room.
His clone carried the broken branch back to the pile and snapped it in half, pulling up on both ends as his foot crushed down on the middle. Once that was done, he knelt down in the snow and started sweeping aside the white drifts with his arm. A circle of barren dirt appeared where he worked. He picked bits and pieces from the wood pile and gathered them up in a tent-like structure.
He's making a fire, Syaoran realized, still watching from above.
The Other set up the other side of the wooden tent, keeping everything balanced, organized. His expression was not as empty as it usually was. More than anything, he looked focused, deep in thought as he assembled the little pile. With great care, he twisted up pieces of wilted grass, apparently torn from beneath the snow, and added them to the base of the unlit campfire.
The whole episode was bizarrely normal. When Syaoran dreamed of his clone, the things he witnessed were fit for a horror story. Starting a campfire seemed so mundane compared to slaughtering innocents.
Why have you brought me here? he wanted to ask, though who the question should be aimed at eluded him. Was it supposed to be directed toward his subconscious mind? Did the dream have greater significance than it appeared? Or was it directed at the Other? Was his clone even in control of these visions?
He didn't know, and that frustrated him.
Syaoran walked into the tiny kitchenette, then stopped, trying to remember what he was supposed to be doing. Slowly, his arms reached up to the cupboard above the stove and pulled. The little door swung open easily. I thought it would take more force than that, he thought distantly. He reached in and pulled a box of dried noodles from the cupboard and opened them. In his grogginess, he tilted the box too far, and half the noodles spilled out, falling to the floor with a series of percussive taps.
He knelt down, setting the box aside. His numb fingers—They're numb from the cold. I should be wearing gloves—fumbled with the dropped noodles for several seconds, sweeping them in various directions before he managed to pick up a fistful of the thin sticks. He snapped them in half, pulling up at both ends while his thumbs pressed down on the center. The dry noodles snapped in half, little splinters falling to the floor. Syaoran stood up, holding the broken noodles in his hands, unsure what had compelled him to break them in the first place. He had no pot of water to put them in, and he wasn't even hungry to begin with. He had just . . . needed to.
To keep warm, some faraway part of his mind told him. I need to start a fire.
The sound of something moving in the kitchen stirred Seishirou from his fretful sleep, and he leapt out of bed, landing like a cat on the floor. Without a conscious thought, he'd pulled his magic sword from inside his body and brought it up to face the threat.
The sounds in the kitchen continued. It seemed too loud for it to be a normal intruder. Thieves tried not to be heard. Perhaps his vampire senses were fine-tuned enough to misinterpret subtle sounds as alarming ones. He moved toward the kitchen, peeking into Fuuma's room to make sure the unconscious man was unharmed. He appeared much the same as he'd been for weeks.
Seishirou peeked into the Little Wolf's room and realized with a start that the boy was not in bed. He returned his attention to the sounds coming from the kitchen, moving his sword into a defensive position as he advanced.
The Little Wolf was in the middle of some bizarre task, snapping dry noodles in his hands. More were scattered across the floor. That's probably what woke me up, Seishirou thought, relaxing his guard and pulling the sword back inside his body. Now that he was more alert, he could tell there was no one else in the hotel room. "What are you doing, Syaoran-kun?"
The boy didn't answer, just moved toward the stove and set the dry noodles over the burner, stacking them up like he was trying to build a campfire. Seishirou watched with fascination as he repeated this motion with another handful of noodles scavenged from the floor.
"Syaoran-kun?"
No answer.
His clone had acquired traveling gear since Syaoran had last dreamed of him. He pulled a bedroll out of his pack and laid it down next to the unlit fire. So normal, Syaoran thought, wondering if he'd finally have a dream that didn't end with him choking back a scream. Once the Other was settled, sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, he lifted his hand in the air. Syaoran tensed, wondering what kind of dark magic his clone was about to use.
The Other twisted his hand in a small circle, as if lighting the burner on a stove. Fingers of flame stole over the kindling, igniting it so rapidly that, if he'd had a physical form, Syaoran would've recoiled from the flash. The fire took to the more resilient branches with ease, burning brilliant orange for several seconds before dropping down to the level of a normal fire. The Other sidled closer to the fire and moved his hands—bare despite the cold—so they rested over the flames.
From what Seishirou had heard of sleepwalking, it was generally a harmless, if clumsy, ordeal, something that disappeared after childhood. As he watched Syaoran's hand move down to the black knob on the stove, however, any notion of this being a harmless affliction fled his mind. "Wake up, Little Wolf," he said, loud enough for his voice to carry to the boy's sensitive ears without waking Fuuma in the other room.
No response. The front burner on the stove came to life, its flames glowing with an eerie blue light. The noodles Syaoran had piled on top of the burner took the fire and turned it orange, the sticks blackening as the flames consumed them. Seishirou stared, rooted to that spot. What in the multiverse is he doing?
Syaoran stared at the flames, pupils reflecting the glowing orange pinpricks of light. After a moment, he lifted his hand and moved it closer over the fire. The sheer stupidity of the action knocked Seishirou out of his fascinated stupor. He loped forward and snatched the Little Wolf's wrist, pulling his hand away from the fire.
Surprise flickered across the boy's face, the first real emotion he'd worn since Seishirou had started watching him. "What do you think you're doing?" Seishirou demanded. The boy stared up at him with wide eyes, alarmed by his disapproval. His gaze then flickered over to the stove, still alight. Horror flashed across his face. "Impossible."
The disbelief in his tone surprised Seishirou. He really has no idea just how close he came to burning his own fingers off. Astonishing.
Syaoran's face lost all color, as if the skin itself had been bleached. He shook his head, denial written across his features. "I didn't . . . The Other . . ."
"What about the Other?" Seishirou asked, trying to sound more sympathetic. He knew this was a touchy subject for the boy.
Syaoran's breath quickened, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, as if trying to suppress a scream. A quiet squeak escaped his control, and he staggered back a step, until his shoulder hit the wall.
"What's wrong?"
Syaoran looked up at him, eyes wide with fear. "The Other can get inside my head."