Fic - Dreams in the Dusk
Mar. 2nd, 2008 10:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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Title: Dreams in the Dusk
Rating: PG
Universe: Alternate
Timeline: February 8th, 2006
Written: February 8th, 2006
Summary: After being attacked on the trail, Mike tries to keep himself and Enrico alive long enough to get back to safety. Poetry by Carl Sandburg.
The sunlight was filtering through the window, and he was reading an old book; poetry. Missoula, Montana, or what was left of it, surprisingly solid. The book belonged to someone else, who let him borrow it for the day, and he sat and read in rapt fascination this book of poetry that spoke of something else, somewhere else...
Dreams in the dusk,
Only dreams closing the day
And with the day's close going back
To the gray things, the dark things,
The far, deep things of dreamland.
...filtering through the window, and he's reading something else...
...what was he reading?
Dreams, only dreams in the dusk,
Only the old remembered pictures
Of lost days when the day's loss
Wrote in tears the heart's loss.
...to someone else...
Not in Missoula, Montana. Where was he? It was warm, and he was reading; sunlight, and a little flash of gold and red on either side of him and it felt like... like...
Tears and loss and broken dreams
May find your heart at dusk.
Mike shook himself awake again, or as close to awake as he could get. His head was swimming, and his entire world was a dizzying, sickening mix of pain and fear and desperation. The woods were foggy and so was he. He wasn't entirely sure how he got here.
Enrico was draped along the palomino's massive neck. He had moments where he'd drift around and ask where they were, but he hadn't moved in hours... or days? No, hours, but it felt like days, and Mike didn't know if he was dead or alive, and couldn't bring himself to check. He'd tried his hardest to keep the old courier with him; cajoled and encouraged and finally begged when all else failed. It took hours to properly rinse the nasty gash Enrico had gotten and dress the wound in honey and a clean shirt ripped up from the dead cajun's pack, and finally get him up on the horse.
Mike had managed to stay on the conscious side of things for quite awhile, still running somewhat on adrenaline from the fight. Managed to steal the tracker's clothes, leaving his mostly naked body to the predators -- they were good clothes and there was no sense leaving them on a corpse. Dog had ran off, like a wild animal freed from a cage, and no one knew where Steve ended up. Nor did they care -- he was a traitor and deserved whatever happened to him.
Managed to get everything packed up. Aside the palomino, there was a smaller brown mare, barely larger than a pony, probably Steve's horse. She served to carry their packs and everything scavenged. He didn't bother going through it all; there wasn't time.
At first, Mike kept up a one-sided chatter, trying to distract himself from how badly he hurt and keep Enrico awake, but over time the chatter had gone from fairly coherent to very incoherent, then tapered off to little more than the occasional reassurance, even if Enrico couldn't hear it anymore.
It was all one haze; riding was torture, and he slowly fell from trying to ignore the pain to trying to relieve it to finally just being so worn as to accept it in silence and realize hopelessly that it wasn't going to go away, and maybe it never would. His leg was broken, though he didn't even know how badly, and maybe a rib or two, but he wasn't sure of that. But at least they weren't open wounds.
Enrico stirred faintly, but didn't make a sound, showing that he was still alive. And Mike, like he had been for too many hours now, refrained something reassuring, wanting to believe it, even if it wouldn't be heard. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep them both on the horse.
He knew a few things, though. He didn't want Enrico to die, not like this. Not out in the cold. He was the legend, and legends can't die... not in the cold, not with nothing but another wounded man and a pair of horses as witness. Mike didn't want to report to anywhere and tell them that they'd lost someone else, but even if he had to do that, he didn't want to leave Enrico in some quiet cairn in the wilderness where no one could visit.
He didn't want to die himself. Not like this. There was something important that he had to do, even though he didn't know what, and he had to live to do it.
His head was spinning, and there wasn't much left in it right then. All of the knowledge, all of the trails, all of the experiences faded into one long wash of time. All that was left were a few things.
He knew something, coded into the very elements that he was made of, and that was that if he could get back to Joel, Joel would protect him. He didn't know how he knew it; was too dizzy and sick to debate it. It was an imperative, though, and he obeyed it. Joel would protect him.
Might even be able to save Enrico.
Might even be able to save him.
Rating: PG
Universe: Alternate
Timeline: February 8th, 2006
Written: February 8th, 2006
Summary: After being attacked on the trail, Mike tries to keep himself and Enrico alive long enough to get back to safety. Poetry by Carl Sandburg.
The sunlight was filtering through the window, and he was reading an old book; poetry. Missoula, Montana, or what was left of it, surprisingly solid. The book belonged to someone else, who let him borrow it for the day, and he sat and read in rapt fascination this book of poetry that spoke of something else, somewhere else...
Dreams in the dusk,
Only dreams closing the day
And with the day's close going back
To the gray things, the dark things,
The far, deep things of dreamland.
...filtering through the window, and he's reading something else...
...what was he reading?
Dreams, only dreams in the dusk,
Only the old remembered pictures
Of lost days when the day's loss
Wrote in tears the heart's loss.
...to someone else...
Not in Missoula, Montana. Where was he? It was warm, and he was reading; sunlight, and a little flash of gold and red on either side of him and it felt like... like...
Tears and loss and broken dreams
May find your heart at dusk.
Mike shook himself awake again, or as close to awake as he could get. His head was swimming, and his entire world was a dizzying, sickening mix of pain and fear and desperation. The woods were foggy and so was he. He wasn't entirely sure how he got here.
Enrico was draped along the palomino's massive neck. He had moments where he'd drift around and ask where they were, but he hadn't moved in hours... or days? No, hours, but it felt like days, and Mike didn't know if he was dead or alive, and couldn't bring himself to check. He'd tried his hardest to keep the old courier with him; cajoled and encouraged and finally begged when all else failed. It took hours to properly rinse the nasty gash Enrico had gotten and dress the wound in honey and a clean shirt ripped up from the dead cajun's pack, and finally get him up on the horse.
Mike had managed to stay on the conscious side of things for quite awhile, still running somewhat on adrenaline from the fight. Managed to steal the tracker's clothes, leaving his mostly naked body to the predators -- they were good clothes and there was no sense leaving them on a corpse. Dog had ran off, like a wild animal freed from a cage, and no one knew where Steve ended up. Nor did they care -- he was a traitor and deserved whatever happened to him.
Managed to get everything packed up. Aside the palomino, there was a smaller brown mare, barely larger than a pony, probably Steve's horse. She served to carry their packs and everything scavenged. He didn't bother going through it all; there wasn't time.
At first, Mike kept up a one-sided chatter, trying to distract himself from how badly he hurt and keep Enrico awake, but over time the chatter had gone from fairly coherent to very incoherent, then tapered off to little more than the occasional reassurance, even if Enrico couldn't hear it anymore.
It was all one haze; riding was torture, and he slowly fell from trying to ignore the pain to trying to relieve it to finally just being so worn as to accept it in silence and realize hopelessly that it wasn't going to go away, and maybe it never would. His leg was broken, though he didn't even know how badly, and maybe a rib or two, but he wasn't sure of that. But at least they weren't open wounds.
Enrico stirred faintly, but didn't make a sound, showing that he was still alive. And Mike, like he had been for too many hours now, refrained something reassuring, wanting to believe it, even if it wouldn't be heard. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep them both on the horse.
He knew a few things, though. He didn't want Enrico to die, not like this. Not out in the cold. He was the legend, and legends can't die... not in the cold, not with nothing but another wounded man and a pair of horses as witness. Mike didn't want to report to anywhere and tell them that they'd lost someone else, but even if he had to do that, he didn't want to leave Enrico in some quiet cairn in the wilderness where no one could visit.
He didn't want to die himself. Not like this. There was something important that he had to do, even though he didn't know what, and he had to live to do it.
His head was spinning, and there wasn't much left in it right then. All of the knowledge, all of the trails, all of the experiences faded into one long wash of time. All that was left were a few things.
He knew something, coded into the very elements that he was made of, and that was that if he could get back to Joel, Joel would protect him. He didn't know how he knew it; was too dizzy and sick to debate it. It was an imperative, though, and he obeyed it. Joel would protect him.
Might even be able to save Enrico.
Might even be able to save him.