‘My god, Pitch. Where are you?’
Silly oaf. He was right here.
Pitch reached out. He swam through the soothing dark, slipped through it, and reached. They did not need the light to find each other. He knew that.
He lifted his…hand? He’d lost sense of self…but again that did not matter. There was more than flesh and blood that bound him to the ankou.
‘I’m here.’
And Silas found him. Because that is what he liked to do.
They slipped up against one another. The ankou’s hand dwarfed his own. Hands. Pitch felt his own now. He had them still, which was very convenient, because he wanted to touch the ankou. To secure that connection. Hold on and not let go.
‘Oh, Pitch, it’s you. How is this…I miss you, I miss you, too.’ Silas sounded elated, desperate. So many things at once. He shifted in closer. Pitch felt his nearness like the sun upon his skin, even if he saw nothing but darkness. ‘Where are you? Are you all right?’
What strange questions. Why was Pitch’s dream making Silas sound so confused? Could the dolt not see he was fine? Perfectly fine.
The thought twinged like a violin’s string.
‘I’m fine.’ Wasn’t he?
Pitch could see nothing. But he felt it all. The presence of the ankou shaped itself in the darkness, curved around him, took him in and held him with the promise of not letting go. And with the ankou so large around him, Pitch did not fear making himself small.
He curled in on himself, mirroring his favoured way to lie with the ankou, both lost between mountains of pillows. His dream-mind had that right, at least. Silas was ever the fortress at his back.
Pitch nodded, though he knew his head did not move. He recalled where he was now. The house in the countryside, the estate where they licked their wounds after some great incident…the details eluded him, some great drama had occurred, but he would not allow it to invade this quiet place. Instead he focused on being here. With Silas. Both buried so deep beneath blankets the world had turned to onyx. Tilly would be dressing Forneus in ribbons and jewels downstairs, and Old Bess was working his magick with some pastry in the kitchen.
Tendrils of disquiet found him, touching at him in places he did not like. He moved into the ankou. Sought shelter.
‘Silas, what is happening? Is this truly a dream?’
The ankou’s reassurance moved through the darkness. He wrapped it about Pitch and whispered it in his ear. ‘I’m not certain…I think it’s more than that…’ He caressed Pitch’s arm, an arm he was not certain he had, but the touch was without doubt. Pitch tensed. ‘It’s all right, love. Stay calm.’
‘I don’t understand…’ But the first ache reached him. Striking at his chest. His heart. ‘Are you with me?’
Gods, he was a fool to allow that thought to bloom.
The answer came in the feather-touch of fingers to his cheek, the brush of lips shortly after. ‘I think so…I want it to be so.’
It was tempting to just lie there…hang there…simply be…with Silas soothing him back to life.
The thought shifted within him, resonated with something Pitch could not name. But did not like.
Oh. Shit.
‘Silas…am I dead?’
Death was peaceful if that were so. He could get used to it.
‘You are not dead.’ The words were pillars of stone. Indestructible. ‘Where are you? Can you tell me?’
Why did he keep asking that? They were together.
Those irritating tendrils came again, tapping at the back of his mind, knocking at a door he did not wish to open.
Pitch reached again into the darkness. ‘Silas.’
‘I’m here, I’m with you, my dearest. But I don’t know for how long. Please, Pitch, try to tell me where you are.’
