A Touch Of Darkness

16.5 || Nightmare

A mile or so out of Chiva, under the flimsy cover of a plain white tent, Sarielle sits bolt upright.

Clutching at her threadbare blanket, she fights to rein in her gasping breaths, conscious of the sleeping form beside her. She blinks hard. A lantern knocks against her fist, but it's far too late to light it. Still, the silhouettes of trees shifting and clawing above turns her racing heart to ice.

She shakes her head, shifting up against the tent's material. It's silly to be scared of the dark. Then again, perhaps it isn't fear. Perhaps it is familiarity, the faint sensation that the shadows mirror whatever snapped her so forcefully from sleep.

Briefly, she considers lying back down again, then discards the thought. Her eyes are heavy, but they are burned open. Stale air rasps at her throat. Hopefully, if she steps outside, just for a few minutes, her heart will calm enough to ease her off again. She needs all the rest she can get at the moment. They all do.

With all the quiet care she can muster, she teases back her blanket, shivering at the cold air that sweeps in. She surveys Dalton, curled up with his back turned to her. His breathing remains steady. She's okay. Bracing herself against the tent's side, she rises slowly. Her hair spills out over her shoulders. She has to resist the urge to comb her fingers through it; its knotted nature is tangible.

A glance at the flap. Her legs suddenly seize up, losing confidence. What if something awaits her out there? The world is far from safe at the moment.

She shakes her head and continues, edging around Dalton, though she does pause at the far end of the tent to slide her sword from its sheath. She cringes at the metallic scrape, but once it sits in her hand she relaxes a little. It pays to be prepared.

Exhaling, she turns to the exit. But before she can take another step, her legs are swept from under her.

Twisting as she falls, she lands haphazardly on one knee, whipping her sword out before her. Her heart pounds. Her hands shake as she squints through the dark. Yet the instant she lays eyes on the figure crouched before her, a laugh escapes her. She lowers the sword.

Dalton sits back on his heels, arms folding. "Sarie, don't you dare scare me like that."

Clambering to her feet, she scoffs. "Your fault for being such a light sleeper." A smile twitches her lips. "Though that was impressive, for the middle of the night."

She can't see him clearly enough to make out his smile, but she hears it in his tone. "I suppose it's practice for real Neyaibet intruders." Their blankets shuffle as he stands. "Why are you awake, Sarie?"

Concern weaves into his voice and thrums through in the gentle grip of his hand around her arm. She makes a futile attempt to pull away, the soft touch freezing her in place. "I... had a nightmare." Another short laugh breaks out as she ducks her head. "Which sounds really childish now I say it aloud."

His fingers slide along her arm, interlocking with hers. He squeezes. "Hey. It's perfectly understandable given what we're all going through." He steps forward, his warmth chasing away the night's chill. "Do you want to tell me what it was?"

Licking her lips, she considers only for a moment. "I don't really remember. I just know I don't want to go back to it."

It's a good job she spent much of her childhood learning how to lie; the words slip out smoothly. But they aren't total lies, she tells herself. She doesn't fully recall the dream, but she knows its focus, its theme, the clammy sensation it leaves tingling over her skin. And she does want to return to it, more than anything. But she can't. It only brings pain.

"Okay," Dalton whispers. He leans in, bending the slightest amount to bring himself to her height, and brushes his lips over hers. The tiniest touch, but it lingers warmly. She smiles.