The Grandeur

Chapter Six - Silas

She wakes up screaming someone’s name, drenched in sweat and unable to breathe properly. I went to bed at around midnight, and from looking at the clock, now it’s nearly two. I get up immediately, from the floor at the foot of the remarkable bed, sit on the edge and hold her in my arms.

      “It-it-was-was-horrible,” she stutters.

      “Put your hand on my chest,” I say gently getting her hand and placing it over my chest, “and when I breathe, you breathe, okay?”

      She’s still struggling.

      “Calm now. It’s okay. That wasn’t real.

      “It was real.”

      “No, no, concentrate on my breathing.”

      She does exactly that for the next half hour. One hand is keeping hers on my chest and the other stroke her long glossy hair. I remove my chin from her head and look at her. Her eyes are heavy and slowly closing.

      I whisper: “I’m going to lay you back down now, and everything’s going to be okay.”

      But, as I lightly place her head back on her pillow, her eyes open slightly and her mouth moves.

      “Stay with me, please.”

      She pulls my arm down and I lay next to her, on top of the quilt. The back of her head is inches from my nose and my left arm is stolen from me, draped across her shoulder; shielding her.

“My name is Maria,” she murmurs.

In this position, I eventually fall asleep.

Maria. That is such beautiful name.

     

*

      I open my eyes, sleepily. My left arm covers empty sheet, as I remember what happened.

      “Oh, you’re awake just in time,” she says appearing from the bathroom, with a small towel in her hand.

      I get up and hang my feet over the edge of the bed. The clock reads five minutes till six: “Yes, just.”

      She looks at me shyly and goes back in the bathroom. What was she wondering? Was she embarrassed about last night?

Maria.

      I slip on some socks and my boots, when she appears and says: “Right, let’s go then.”

      I follow her down the aisles. She’s wearing full black; shirt, jacket, trousers. Her trousers look like they’re made from a jean-type material and jacket almost leather. Her quiver replaces her backpack and she carries her bow in her left hand. A sheet of dark brown hair flows down her back and the ends just reach just above her bum. Her figure is all muscle; not an ounce of fat – like mine actually. After the Enlightened showed me the training facilities for the first time years ago, I liked to go there every night and take out my hate for him on the weight machines. And I did see her blush when I lifted my shirt to see my bandages, that time in her cave-house.

      When we reach the round door, at the top of the rusty stairs, I used both hands to twist it – as both are in use now. My body has healed quite well actually: my thigh has merely a scar, my ribs have just a small purple bruise now and my shoulder just aches when I try and reach backwards.