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There was something peaceful about Canaan House, even in its dilapidated state. Sure, the floors were just as likely to crumble beneath you as support you, but no place was perfect. And what was life — well, kinda-death? Half-death? — without the risk of plummeting hundreds of feet off a cliff to the rough sea below at any given moment?
I’ll be honest, Harrow, it’s a goddamned delight to see those decaying gold-veined walls and locked doors instead of the bone space station you’re on these days. At least Canaan House had some redeeming elements, like not being coated by bones every five feet. And paintings that weren’t strangely posed nudes.
Wait, scratch that one. Point to Bone Station for the paintings.
I know this place can’t be anything but a dream. The broken fence that I — that started this whole disaster isn’t broken here. The main atrium isn’t all torn up from an altogether cool as fuck battle. Two cavaliers and a necromancer versus a Lyctor and her big bone pet made that room…not a room anymore. I prefer it with the empty fountain. And without a terrifyingly hot and powerful necro-lier. And also without lots of angry bones trying to crush me real good.
“Stop reminiscing, Griddle. It’s boring.”
Just like that, the atrium was gone again. Instead it was the musty couple of rooms we’d used at Canaan House with the broken furniture and weird water-spray thing in the bathroom. You were there too. Hands on your hips, skull paint slightly melted and pinkish-tinged. Eyebrows just angry black slashes over those eyes dark as the depths of Drearburh. Why you were glaring at me I didn’t know. Maybe my brain was just conjuring you the way I’d seen you most often. More angry than your minuscule form could contain.
I don’t know why seeing you made me so — shit, my chest got all tight and the inside of my nose prickled and I just wanted to hold you to see if you were real. I knew you couldn’t be, of course. You weren’t here when you dreamed of whatever you dreamed of. If I had to guess, you were making woo-woo eyes at your dead chick. But I smiled at fake you, that lopsided grin I know you hate. “Something you need, Void Empress?”
I’d swear it on Crux’s dumb face — your lip quirked up at that, even as you rolled your eyes and sighed at me. It was gone in a flash, replaced by your Griddle-you’re-so-stupid-you-make-Naberius-seem-smart look. I loved that one; you reserved it just for me. And, I mean, since you’d forcefully forgotten all about me, I hadn’t seen it in months. Also because I was dead residing in a little corner of your brain. But mostly because if you saw something that even slightly reminded you of my existence your brain tried to escape out your nose.
Let’s forget about that bit. You did.
Your expression had shifted into Seriously-why-do-I-have-to-deal-with-this when you said “Just get some rest. We’ll try the theorem again tomorrow.”
Guess my brain was conjuring some more bullshit I’d probably heard you say. Maybe. You were never good at telling me what was going on. But if my brain could remember your voice so well, I figured I might be able to conjure some Frontline Titties to read in bed. So I shrugged, turning to the doorway to my room here, my little pile of bedding in front of a huge window, just like I'd never had back on Drearburh. I was just about through when I heard your voice again.
“Gideon, can you…stay?”
I think my heart stopped in shock. If ghosts even have hearts. Okay, my ghostly dream heart stopped in shock. You hadn’t used my name until the whole Lyctor Training Camp thing was going tits-up in the worst way. Even then, sparingly. And since when did you ever ask for anything from me? Except for me to drop dead or whatever, but those were mostly commands and recommendations. When I turned, you were still the unbearably angry nun hiding your stupid pointy face with paint and trying to flesh out your stick figure with bone. Nothing on your face felt as vulnerable as the soft plea you’d just made.
I decided Frontline Titties could wait until the next time you and I dreamed.
You pointed to the little cavalier bed at the foot of yours, scowling when I walked right past it to flop on the actual bed. I mean come on, this was my dream, right? No way I was going to have my legs hanging off something built for a child’s height. But I saw your eyes follow the movements as I kicked off my boots and rested my head in my hands. It made my arms look fucking great and I know dream-you watched, you perv. Bet you’re wishing your dead chick had these, right?
You opened your mouth to tell me off, but aborted the sentence before it began. The taste of victory was sweet when you slumped into bed too, tucking your scrawny ass into a nest of pillows and blankets. I watched the mold on the ceiling through your shuffling, kind of wishing I knew what was going on with my brain. Since I was a ghost, did I have a subconscious? Was I just all subconscious now?
Everything felt pretty real, as dreams do. My body was all alive and not-stabbed-on-a-fence. The bed had the worst support I’d ever felt, and smelled like mildew and ass. It all felt normal, which was why I nearly jumped out of my ghost-skin when your hand emerged from the nest and found mine. You didn’t hold it tight or anything, mostly just rested your hand on mine, but it still…I needed to have a talk with my subconscious soon. I wasn’t so lonely I needed it to come up with shit like this — I had memories of tasteful artistic nude babes to keep me company. And, hell, you had your memories of that dead lady in the Locked Tomb, even if you’d given her my eyes (you creep).
But at least…well, I didn’t expect to be able to really do this. Ever. Body is sort of a prerequisite there. So I wrapped my hand around yours a little tighter. I think I imagined the little content sigh escaping from the nest you’d created for yourself. Your hand was warm, and probably the only part of you with any muscle definition at all. From what I can tell, all necromancy is is a bunch of weird hand movements. Your fingertips were rough, the way I expected they’d get if you spent all your time molesting old tomes. Even though it was all fake, all make-believe in my brain, it was — I’ll never admit this under pain of death — nice to get the sensation of physical contact after so long. “Sweet dreams, Marrow Maven.”
“Go to sleep, idiot.” Came your muffled reply, but you didn’t move your hand away. Point: Gideon.
Holding back a laugh, I closed my eyes, took a few breaths, and added, “Night, Harrow.” And in the silence that followed I pretended, for a second, this wasn’t just a dream.
But of course, when you woke up in your body and shoved me back in my box, I knew that was all it would ever be.