Echo | Dream Team

Ten - Of deadlines and past allies

The woman's voice was soothing, soft — quiet but surrounding him all around. He felt wrapped in its warmth, his brain registering a sense of comfort instead of the words she was saying. He'd been so tired. Why had he been tired again? He didn't know, but he was glad for the repose he'd been gifted.

But there was a nagging sensation at the back of his mind, urging him to open his eyes. He was missing something, something vital, he was sure of it. He had to get back.

Get back to where?

The lull of the voice washed over him. That was right. How could he "get back" to someplace if he didn't even know where that someplace was. It felt like a paradox, one that he was quite unfortunately trapped in.

You deserve rest, little one.

He really was tired. Whatever it was that he had been doing, it had efficiently and effectively sapped all the strength from his body. Sleep sounded like a far better alternative to returning to that.

His hands drifted up to his face, running down his eyelids and his cheeks. His skin was cool, the warmth of his body gone. He wasn't cold. Was he supposed to be cold?

I wish I could keep you for longer. It has been a long time since I've had treasured company, but alas, you are needed.

Was it not nice to be wanted? A wave of gratitude washed through him, though he couldn't remember what he was needed for. He wasn't the type that could actually contribute.

The voice grew softer, something he never would have thought possible. He could almost sense a smile in her voice as she said, Take care, little one. And watch after my special two for me, would you?

***

He woke in a tangle of blankets, silken drapes wrapped around him in a suffocating cacoon of duvet.

It took a while for him to register his surroundings. The feel of the fabric beneath the skin of his hands as he struggled to pry himself out of the mess. The dimness of the room, save for the single ray of light that sliced across the space, illuminating the corner of a small writing desk. He was back in the castle once more, and for the first time, he found himself grateful for its sturdy walls and assured warmth.

But he knew it wasn't right. The phantom pain that slashed through his heart was all too real.

George pushed aside the final layer of the knitted nest and stumbled out of his bed, following the beam of sunlight to the davenport that he hadn't touched in years. Had it been years? Surely it must have for him, but now, back in the past, it was probably the stuff of days.

He sank into a chair and closed his eyes, letting out a shuddering sigh. Half-consciously, a hand floated up to his chest, feeling for a scar — anything that could confirm what he knew to have happened — but there was nothing. Just like last time, it was as if it had all been a dream.

A wry laugh escaped him. No, not a dream. A nightmare. One that he knew he would have to relive again.

"Look at you, George," he said out loud, his voice piercing in the stillness of the air. "How did you let your life become this?" You knew what would happen. You had the upper hand, and yet you still managed to lose it all.

How was he so incapable of fixing his own problems?

George rubbed his jaw, relaxing his mouth before he could grind his teeth into dust. Karl, he thought, closing his eyes. He had to have rewinded time if George was alive again, seated once more in the castle. But why? George wouldn't have mattered to him. Hell, it was probably better for him if George were dead.