"Inventing the Future"
Author's Note: Why do I like torturing the characters I write about? I have no idea. Nightmare sequence and possible triggers ahead.
"Chapter 24: Troubled Slumber"
The Death Ark was truly a technological marvel, and one of Jaming's most successful inventions to date, despite relying on hot air rather than Aeroharmonics to get off the ground. He should have been very proud of his accomplishment, but he had trained himself to feel nothing. This was necessary, because a very small, very persistent voice in the back of his head kept screaming at him to stop what he was doing.
He had gotten very good at ignoring his conscience lately, but as the massive flying ship approached a distant lighthouse, the voice was louder than it had ever been. It was louder than the massive burners which heated the air in the balloon that kept them aloft, and his eyes were distant as Gaspard approached him from the left.
"So...That's the Moon Crystal, eh?"
Jaming nodded, unable to shake the odd sensation of déjà vu. "Yes."
Gaspard almost sounded gleeful as he mused, "Hmm, a stone that shows you the future. Even though all there is to see in the future is darkness and despair..."
The Moon Crystal. It seemed a shame to destroy something so beautiful and mysterious. And wait...yes, there were people in that lighthouse! Jaming turned to Gaspard, his voice composed but uncertain. "What shall I do?"
Gaspard turned to him with a hard look in his eyes, and his answer came without a hint of hesitation. "Destroy it...Those are Emperor Griffon's orders."
Jaming gave a slight bow, figuratively shoving his conscience into a box. "Yes, sir."
A very clear thought passed through his brain. 'What am I doing? Is this what I've worked so hard for? Jaming, you saw what the future holds. Is that truly what you want?'
No, he didn't want that. However, it was much too late to back out now. He had no choice.
"Nonsense, boy. There is always a choice," said a gruff voice at Jaming's elbow.
A middle-aged man with a shock of slate gray hair and round wire-rimmed spectacles had replaced Gaspard, and Jaming stared at him in disbelief. "Father? Wh...what are you doing here?"
"The question is, what are you doing here?"
Jaming's father faded from view, and so did everything else. "What is this?"
A female voice, unseen but very close, was the next to speak. "What happened to you, Jaming? You never used to be like this..."
"Mother...How do you mean?"
"Ruthless. You used to have a heart. You used to want to be accepted. If those towns you helped destroy even knew of your existence, you would've been feared instead. Feared and hated!" The woman's voice was rough and angry. she had never spoken to him so coldly before!
"But...but I can fix this. I can fix this! I just need to-"
Jaming broke off and shielded his eyes as the pitch black nothingness morphed into a blazing inferno, and all at once he was coughing and lying on the ground outside of his old home. The dew-moistened grass tickled the back of his neck, and his father stood over him.
Oh yes...he knew exactly where and when he was! Mere weeks before his seventeenth birthday, an electrical fire had started in their neighbor's home and spread to theirs during the night. He had very vague memories of being woken up and dragged out to the front lawn, but everything after that was very clear. "Father...no, not again..."
"Stay there! Your mother's still inside!"
"No! I know what happens! You can't-" Jaming struggled to get up, but he found that he couldn't move. His limbs would not cooperate.
His father disappeared. The house collapsed in on itself, sending flames reaching far above the treetops. His parents' disembodied voices, hoarse from the smoke, once more sounded very close to him as he struggled to move.
"Even after living through this, you used your gifts to try and visit the same fate upon others. You shame us, Jaming. You are no son of ours!"
"N-no...I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Meredith sat beside Jaming as the day drew to a close, chewing meditatively on her eraser as she tried to figure out the answer to what should have been an easy crossword puzzle question. 'Hmm...a three letter word for a louse or a fool. I'll bet he'd know.'
The 'he' in question lay curled up on his right side, facing her and snoring congestedly, but sleeping quite soundly. His throat would most likely be sore from sleeping with his mouth open on top of being ill, but there wasn't much that could be done about that.
Earlier, Meredith had set a pitcher of water and an empty cup on a nearby table, thinking that Jaming might need a drink when he woke up. His fever had lowered, though his face was still flushed, and she was hopeful that he would wake up feeling a little better.
Sadly, this was not to be. As Meredith finally figured out the answer and filled in the word 'nit', Jaming began to show outward signs of experiencing a truly horrific nightmare. He clenched his eyes tight and seized a handful of the bedspread, moaning softly.
Meredith looked over to see if he was awake, but she set her puzzle book aside when she realized he was in distress. "Jaming?"
Jaming half buried his face in the pillow, the moans turning into a low whine. "N-no...M'sorry...M'sorry!"
"Hey..." Meredith reached out and stroked his back, noticing that the fabric of his shirt was damp with sweat and that he was shivering as if his chills had returned. "Wake up, Jaming. You're dreaming."
"Nuh!" He jolted, lifting his head and staring over at her with a wide-eyed, tortured expression. "I'm sorry!"
"Easy, it's okay. Do you know where you are?"
Jaming blinked, looking rather confused, and his eyes scanned the room with dawning recognition. His head flopped back down on the pillow, and he reached up with a trembling hand to wipe the fever sweat from his face. "Yes. Ugh, that was...that was horrible."
Meredith poured him a glass of cool water from the pitcher, and offered it to him. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Jaming, still shaking a little, took the glass and drained it in three large swallows, ignoring his sore throat. "I just want to forget it."
"Okay," She felt his forehead. "Now that you're awake, I'd like to see if your fever's gone."
He nodded, reaching for the pitcher to pour himself another glass, but it was too far away, and Meredith did it for him. With his memories of the nightmare receding, Jaming became more aware of his physical status. He was no longer nauseous, but his throat felt like it was on fire, and he could not breathe through his nose at all. And, as he went down a mental checklist of his symptoms, he covered his mouth and gave a rattling cough.
"Well, that sounds wonderful..." Meredith said with rueful sarcasm as she sat down on the edge of the bed, pressed the button on the thermometer, and put it in his mouth. He began to make a garbled retort, but she shook her head. "No talking, or we won't get an accurate reading."
When the thermometer beeped, she took it back and nodded. "Ninety-nine even. Much better than before."
Jaming sighed, not particularly caring. He couldn't get his parents' hateful words out of his head! No...not his parents themselves, but a dream figment of his parents brought on by his illness. Were they wrong, though? Was his own psyche yelling at him in his parents' voices? How cruel dreams could be! Perhaps deservedly so, but still...
Meredith correctly assumed that he was still troubled by his nightmare. He'd said that he didn't want to talk about it, so she didn't ask him again. Instead, she shifted her position so that she was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him and held out an inviting arm.
Jaming's response was a sure sign that he was truly upset, and that he cared little about his ego at that moment. His eyes met hers for the briefest of moments before he nestled in close and rested his head against her, accepting the offered hug with the deepest sigh she'd ever heard him give. "My parents would be so ashamed of me."
"What?" She frowned.
"Oh, you know..."
"No, I don't. What are you talking about?" Meredith asked gently, smoothing his gravity-defying hair back from his sweat-damp brow.
"Because of the things I've done..." he whispered, and she could feel a wet spot growing on the front of her shirt that had nothing to do with sweat.
Now, this was dangerous territory. He had done things that would be horrifying and disappointing for any parent, so that concern of his was probably valid. On the other hand, he was trying so hard to make amends, and Meredith knew that he really was a good man who had fallen in with a bad crowd and sinned right along with them. It would be so easy to accidentally say the wrong thing!
"I think...your parents would be very proud of you now, Jaming." she whispered back, and for a moment she was afraid that she had said the wrong thing, because he didn't say anything at first.
"I wish I could believe that," he finally told her.
"Why wouldn't they be? I'm proud of you."
Jaming pulled away from her, but this was only because he had to sneeze. He accepted the tissue she gave him, and surreptitiously dabbed at his eyes before blowing his nose. "You're just saying that."
"Well, just think about it for a minute," she told him, "Look at what you've done since you left Griffon. You made a life for yourself here. You help people out when they really need it. You saved Pau's life. You and Pau saved my life. And you've gotten back to doing what you do best. What is there about refusing to give up that is so shameful? I can't think of a single thing."
"I can't take everything else back..."
"No, you can't," she agreed, passing him another tissue. "But you learned from it."
"The people I hurt..."
"Jaming..."
He didn't look at her, but he seemed to be listening. Leaning against her once more, he closed his eyes.
"Jaming," she said again, more gently this time, "you can't move forward if you keep looking back. You just can't. And as for your parents...you're their son. They loved you."
Jaming finally nodded, taking in her words and digesting them. He had a lot to think about. He would have liked to go back to sleep, but he didn't want a repeat of his nightmare, and he was already all slept out. And, at that moment, his empty stomach gave such a loud, long grumble that they both sat up and looked at it.
Cracking a sheepish smile, Jaming settled his hand over his belly and asked, "Is there anything to eat?"
Meredith chuckled and pointed to Jaming's small stove that sat in another corner of the room. A pot sat on one of the burners, which was on its lowest setting. "I was wondering when you'd notice. My mother made some chicken and rice soup when she heard you were sick, and sent it over with Claire. Think you can keep it down?"
Jaming was quite touched by the gesture, and he made a mental note to thank Sarah later on when he was no longer contagious. It was bad enough that Meredith would probably catch it now! His stomach wasn't churning like it had been earlier that day, so he gave a tentative nod. "Hopefully."