XIII. Le Cygne
Let us be glad to have forgot
That roses fade, and loves are not,
As dreams, immortal, though they seem
Almost as real as a dream.
-Arthur Symons(1865–1945)
James wakes up screaming more often than not.
What his parents don't know is that he never actually wakes up. He’s never sleeping. On the odd night, every now and then, he’ll have trouble sleeping. So he’ll pick up his blanket and walk with it over to the window sill. The seat there is stone, cold and has a perfect view of the land. In the day, so much sun is let in that the place is always lit up. At night the moon casts shadows, making the dark look darker and the place look wrong. Once sat there in the moonlight, at the window, he’ll look around at the fields of grass and the trees that stand abnormally still. His mother says they stopped swaying when the fire happened. He still has no idea what that means. His mother always told him stories of their family. Of their ancestors and the great things they could do.
“Once there was an ancestor named Elizabeth Francis,” his mother had said “She was a very beautiful girl. She owned a store where she would keep all sorts of strange objects. The townspeople called her crazy. Some believed that the things in her store would possess them. That the devil had sent her to do his dirty work. Others gladly went to her for any kind of support. They said she could heal any sickness, and foster love and wealth. She was magic.”
“But how does that work?” James had asked his mother. “Soon enough you will know, little one.”
She also told him horror stories about his ancestors. She told him of how they’d been hanged, burned, killed, all for who they chose to be.
“One of them, a girl named Moll Dyer, was forced out of her home as it was set on fire by the town. She barely managed to take a light shawl with her as she fled. She ran and ran in the woods but she knew she would die of the cold before the sun rose. She placed her hand on a rock, raised her hand to the moon and called down a curse to fall onto the people of the town.” This story was James’ favourite. His mother loved all these stories. They clearly meant something to her to pass them on to James. So James listened with intent. He didn't know what any of these stories meant. But he knew it meant a great deal to his mother.
—
The light of the moon made everything outside visible. He could see the lake from his room. He could see the glistening on top of the surface. He was mesmerised. But in every ‘nightmare’ there’d be a man who walked through the tree line. The Man. He’d have a torch with him. A flame. If you looked outside you wouldn't be able to miss it. Bright orange against a blue and grey canvas. He walked with fear. Each step took an energy out of him. With each step, he caved in on himself. He wore a long coat. A black one. His hat on his head was unnecessary. When he spotted James in the window he stopped. He stood there watching. Waiting for a few moments. Before finishing his trip to the door with a newfound anger. His steps were made with haste. With a mission to be completed. There were bangs downstairs. Bashes. Clangs of metal. Countless sounds that aren't supposed to happen at night, making their way through the house. Yelling was heard as people awoke from their sleep. Then he heard the screaming. His mother first. A shrill scream. Of pain. Then his father joined. They both screamed. There were banging noises. Sounds of staff leaving in their chambers and running to their aid. Their screams joined his parents. A sudden feeling of dread climbed through his skin. Into his pores and through his bones. If he didn’t move now he would be stuck. He could end in a fate worse than his parents. He is Moll Dyer. He must run. So he ran. He ran down the hall. Down the stairs. Past his parent's room. Through the crack in the door, he could see fire. A flame that grew bigger every second. The screams were louder here. They almost paralysed him until he was ushered away by a woman who worked in the kitchen. Her name was Agnes Sampson. “Run," she said. She yanked the door open and pushed him out. Just as she closed the door James could see The Man making his way closer behind her. Then the door shut. He wanted to open it, to yell at her, warn her that his death was behind her, he wanted to take her with him, but he knew he couldn't. So he did what she had told him. He ran. He ran all the way to the oak tree. He was out of breath. Barely able to gasp any air into his lungs. But he knew death was behind him. The Man was behind him. He kept running. Then his bare foot caught a twig. His foot was cut by the branch and he tumbled to the ground.
—
He woke up screaming. In his bed. At his home. In the arms of his mother. No one came in the night. The Man didn't kill him. Not yet. The day went like any normal day. He went outside to the oak tree. He picked flowers. He spoke to Lily. He got a card from her too. He danced with Pandora. He saw Regulus. He saw Regulus. Or maybe he didn’t. Like he’s said before; His brain conjures up strange images. He knows Lily isn't real. He knows Pandora isn't real. He’s come to terms with the fact that no matter what, his brain could be wrong. He misses chunks of time. Often coming home later than usual after the sunset. He sees people who aren't there. Like Lily, Like Pandora. Maybe like Regulus. But he hopes he’s wrong. For once he’d like to have one friend who isn't a complete figment of his imagination. He doesn't see Regulus after that. It takes nearly a week for the two of them to speak again. And when they do, James calls it progress. “What are you reading?”
“Nothing”
James glances at the cover
“Wuthering Heights huh? I’ve never heard of it.”
“It was written 20 years ago. You should have at least heard of it.”
“Nope,” He said popping the ‘p’
“Go away,”
“But this is my tree”
“Stay then but shut up”
“Okay”
Progress
The next day went much the same. And the next. And the next. But with very little to say. With very little to do. James resorted to watching. He noticed multiple things. He noticed Regulus' eyes. When he first saw him, his eyes were grey. But now that James was looking, he could see blue, the slightest bit. Another thing he noticed was that Regulus’ hair wasn't all that dark. In the sun it looked as if there were streaks of sunlight, hidden, but still there. James watched Regulus for what could have been hours. He noticed the dimple in his knuckles and how his fingers were long and lean. His hands were delicate. As he turned page after page he never once did it with force. James wants to hold his hands. James wants to trace the boy's hands. To find all the secrets within them. He wants to kiss the soft skin. The skin that's too pale for it to be normal. He wants to breathe life into it. He wants he wants he wants. But he can't. That's just wrong. So he won't. Oh, but he wants.
—
He’s doing it again. Staring. They’re sitting under a tree. Regulus has a new book in his hands. James is watching him. James is just in the middle of watching Regulus’ eyes when Regulus interrupts him.
“You know staring is unsettling right?”
“Oh,” he breathed, not expecting to be caught, “does it make you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
James just kept staring.
“But to others, it might.”
“There are no others.”
“Oh.”
They sit in silence, Regulus goes back to his book. James keeps staring into his eyes. He noted his eyes were beautiful. He already knew that but the gravity only tugged now. His heart beat in his chest, trying to escape. James could watch his eyes skim over sentences every day and never tire. This is the only reason he noticed that Regulus’ eyes weren't actually reading. If James had been watching his hands or his ankles, he never would have noticed Regulus stop reading. He never would have noticed how he breathed in extra deep or that he had frozen on the spot.
“I have noticed a lot about you by watching you,” James broke the silence.
“Like what?” Regulus took his eyes off his book and looked up at the tree branches.
“Like how you can never stay still for long, that your leg or arm gets tired and how you shuffle around to get comfortable.”
“Pft,” Regulus made a sound of disagreement.
“Don’t argue, I am the one who’s been watching you.”
“But I am the one who is me.”
“Touché.”