Bereft: Demise

44 | Of Breaths and Beating Hearts

 I woke up an hour or so before dawn, lulled into consciousness by a splitting headache and the stench of wet dog.

My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pang like the quick thwap of a stick striking a snare drum. Groaning, I squeezed my eyelids together as I rubbed my temples and lamented the night before. The events were hazy and confusing, as if I were viewing them through a kaleidoscope.

I recalled tromping through the graveyard with Anzel, feeling the texture of the squishy moss swallowing my feet all over again. I remembered the bonfire—but I also remembered being too tense to participate in any of the dancing. My gaze had kept returning to the inky darkness surrounding us and my thoughts had buoyed Balthier's voice into my ears.

Never far from you. Never far. So near when you wake, so near when you lay your head down at night. As you sleep, and as you dream, I'm just a breath away.

I'd told myself he'd been lying, that the Sin's presence had merely been an unimaginably cruel fluke—but I hadn't wanted to stay near the ward's edge, and couldn't stare into the darkness for long without a violent shiver wracking my body.

I patted my head and parted my damp hair so I could peer through the strands. My clothes were partially wet, the fabric of my black wool sweater clinging to the creases of my limbs where the fabric couldn't dry. I remembered getting soaked as well. Rain had started to fall not long after the bonfire had started, and it had quickly turned to snow. The white flakes had stuck to my lashes and skin, tinging my face pink with winter's sudden displeasure.

The Aos Sí weren't the kind of people who allowed snow to ruin their good humor. Their antics had moved indoors, taking over the dining room and the main foyer. Soaked and shivering as I had been, Anzel had situated me by the stoked hearth to dry off. I spent the majority of the evening by the warm fire, soaking in the atmosphere of the careless, unbridled magical talent of the Aos Sí crowd. 

Others had been drawn to the festivities. The Sin of Sloth had made an appearance, and I distinctly recollected him sitting at the head of the table and cutting a deck of well-worn cards like a casino mogul. Coins had been thrown into a bronze candy dish, the sound of metal on glass like hail in my miffed remembrances. 

The Dreaming brothers Requiem and Refrain had been there. The two of them were, in their own way, unforgettable—like two marble statues with hair speckled by precious gems and faces rigid as rock. I remembered two dark, sizeable bottles being set out by the dealt cards, followed by the clatter of glasses being gathered. Liquid had sloshed.

The aroma of cinnamon and plums filled my nose anew when I recalled the heady taste of the syrupy, Dreaming elixir. Ugh, elf wine, griped my inner monologue as I peered around the room.

Snoring faeries were draped over the table benches, their spent glasses and bent cards forgotten at their hands. I was resting by the smoldering hearth with a nearly dry werewolf snoring at my side and the Druid curled up in my lap.

Anzel was at the table with the Aos Sí. He was propped upright by one arm with his silken hair falling around his slumbering face in a colorless curtain. The bench Peroth had occupied the night before had been taken by both Refrain and Requiem. They sat with their elbows on the table with the nearly empty bottles of wine in front of them. They were trading a cigarette back and forth. The smell of the smoke was cloying and it was difficult to identify what exactly they were burning. It definitely wasn't tobacco. 

I lifted Lionel by the scruff of his neck and the Druid unfurled like a furry scroll. The creature slit one eye to level me a contemptuous glare that I returned with enthusiasm. "I am not your pillow," I told him. Lionel growled low, shut his sleepy eye, and immediately dropped off to sleep again.