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“Quinn?” Dugald asks as his hands paw at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, pushing his hands away in annoyance.
I blink several times until my vision clears, then climb to my feet. The world is back. Gray emptiness stretching from horizon to horizon. I turn in a circle, looking in all directions. The darkness is gone. When I finish my circle the door to the tower is open.
A yawning mouth ready to swallow us even as the darkness that was eating the world was only moments ago. A distant scream drifts from the top of the tower. Barely an echo by the time it reaches us, but it spurs me, breaking the inaction of shock.
Dugald and I look at each other, and in that moment of shared pain I know. I know he hurts every bit as much as I do, maybe even more. He doesn’t have the missing gaps of memory that I do. The anguish on his face hurts me too so I do the only thing I can think of. I open my arms and take him into them.
We hold each other for a long moment of silence. There are no words. Words could only attempt to pale the loss, being inadequate to hold the depths of emotions we’re both experiencing. Dugald wraps his arms tight around me and we cling to each other.
It’s only a matter of moments. A couple of heartbeats, but it does ease the pain in some slight fashion. He loosens his grip first and I step back. Together we face the open door. One glance and he takes the lead, sword drawn.
As he steps over the threshold into the dark his sword glows, lighting the area immediately around us. It looks like a foyer. The stone walls glisten with moisture and there is a musty, moldy smell that makes every breath unpleasant. There are no doors and at the end of the short hall is a staircase that leads up.
“Stay close,” Dugald says.
“You think?”
He nods and carefully tests the step before committing his weight. The stairs are made of the same stone as the wall, but I don’t blame him for not trusting them. I don’t think anything here should be trusted.
We journey up in this fashion and the stairs go up and up for what must be the equivalent of three flights when we reach a landing at last. The stairs double back and continue going up. There is a torch on the landing that doesn’t give off much light, casting a pool of illumination that we pause to catch our breath in.
My legs are burning from all the climbing. I’d guess the tower is probably around ten stories tall at most, meaning we have a way to go but we’re around a third of the way there. Dugald is being extraordinarily quiet. I want him to talk, to rage, to say something, but I don’t have any words either.
I’m afraid if I say something, the emotion of what happened will become too real. As cold as it sounds, I can’t deal with the loss. At least not right now. Once Duncan is safe, then I’ll be able to experience it, but for now, I must remain focused.
“We need to push on,” Dugald says, motioning to the new set of stairs with his glowing sword.
I nod agreement and we resume the journey. Climbing. Ever freaking climbing. It becomes a pattern. About three flights worth of stairs, then a landing with the same one torch. The same small pool of light.
The darkness outside the light is heavy and feels as if its alive, like it’s breathing. A soft hint of breath brushes across my skin that might be saying words, but I can’t make out what they are. It’s creepy at best and could be terrifying if I was to give it more credence than I am. We climb again and the pattern continues to repeat. When we reach another landing and another pool of light my frustration is boiling.
“How many flights have we climbed?” I snap.
“Twenty-two,” Dugald says, breathing heavily too.
“That can’t be; the tower wasn’t this tall,” I say.
“In this realm, anything is possible, Quinn.”
I press my lips together to keep from saying something angry and stupid. He doesn’t need that right now and there’s no point in my being a jerk purely for the sake of being one. He’s hurting and so am I.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding towards the stairs, and we resume the journey.
When we reach the next landing, I’ve had more than enough. The stairs are unchanging. Everything is the same, making it impossible to judge if any progress has been made. My thoughts are circling around ways to end this nightmare of forever climbing all while dodging the one thing I want to not look at. The loss of Moira.
“Are you okay?” I ask, breaking the long silence between us.
“No,” Dugald says.
Simple. Direct. Completely unlike Dugald, and it gives me pause. I’m not sure how to handle a Dugald that doesn’t answer a question with a question or some other vagary.
“Tell me about her,” I say, deciding this is the best approach.
I remember a brochure some counselor left with my dad after my mom disappeared saying that talking about good memories was a way to spur the healing process. I shake my head remembering this. Healing process. Seriously? What a joke. We compartmentalize and give names to something to try and make it seem less than it is. Grief sucks.
Nothing can encompass the loss I feel, and I imagine it’s even worse for Dugald. Healing process is a joke. An idea permeated to make everyone around the person grieving feel better. Oh she’s “healing”, that’s part of the “process”. I don’t think it’s as simple as all that. It doesn’t feel simple. It hurts. A lot.
