by Murdoch on April 8th, 2010, 4:19 am
He gripped the edge of the mattress, giving his hands something to crush instead of her frail body. His shoulders remained locked, and the tendons in his neck stood out as he fought for control - and it was, perhaps, the most effort he'd ever put into controlling his fits of temper. Most of the time he simply apologized afterwards, teased and cajoled her until she forgave him whatever damage he did to her.
"Were you being dragged by your hair?" he whispered, the words so empty and hollow it was as if they came from some forgotten corner of the room instead of from his lips. "The fire - it was as large as a warehouse," he murmured, eyes slammed shut, and now there was no question in his voice. No, he knew that fire. "The flames don't leap the way a bonfire does, don't burn cleanly. They hug the ground, black and oily, and the stench of it... it's a thing that would burn for eternity and never waver." He swallowed, the putrid scent of the Slag Heap filling his nostrils. "And the man who dragged you there was thin and dark, with one of those waxed moustaches that only pretentious men wear."
He waited, eyes closed and his body hunched over, waited for her to deny it, to tell him it really was just a dream, that she hadn't seen them killing her.