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The night was empty, cool and crisp, and the camp was winding down, people leaving to go to their tents, or having quiet conversations in two or threes, or just taking the quiet, easy time to themselves. Often, life here was hectic, overwhelmed with things to fix or create, work to be done, preparations to be made. Time to truly rest was rare, making it all the more precious.
Wilson was using his night to stare up at the sky, sitting by the edge of the firelight, trying to make a map of the stars. He had a sneaking suspicion that they were not consistent between worlds- possibly not even between nights, but that might be his own poor memory- but he would never be able to prove it one way or the other without solid data backing it up. And if they were? Maybe they could create constellations of their own, to guide by, to make this strange, twisted world something a bit more familiar, a bit more theirs.
He was racking his brain for everything he could remember about the stars that could help- they looked different in the Southern Hemisphere, didn’t they? Were these islands large enough to alter that, or would his map work consistently?- when the clear peace of the night was fractured by the sickening scent of roses. Wilson grew tense.
The memory came in dreams, sometimes, thousands of cycles past but still clear as day when he slept, being set free and instantly torn apart, body in agony, big dark eyes and a grin he still saw in nights when the world felt faded and dizzy, electric pain like a rose-tinted lightning bolt, but long and excruciating, not killing him quickly enough to be merciful. There was also the constant scent of the fifth world, the heavy, warm breaths of some unknown monster, the suffocating rose perfume, the rotting blood.
Slowly, cautious, he turned his head to the side, looking behind him into the blackness, expecting to see too-bright eyes glaring back, staring into him. For a minute, he saw nothing, more than nothing, just solid empty void, but then he looked up- and there she was.
Her face was scarcely visible, shades of blue-grey in the dark, just defining her nose and cheeks and lips. Her eyes were wide and empty, shell-shocked staring into the fire, like the night after his first rebirth, or when he could feel the shadows growing but they weren’t there yet. There were dark lines slowly streaming down her hollow cheeks. She watched the fire, and Wilson watched her.
Charlie. That was her name. Looking at her now, he could see it- she had the same nose as her sister, and the way she was crying without seeming to want to admit it to herself... well, Winona had bad nights from time to time. He could also see how Maxwell had fallen for her. Underneath all the shadows and darkness and the power of Them, she was beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
Her mouth opened, eyes closing as she breathed in the cool night air. Could she feel it, Wilson wondered, or was she just trying, wishing she could breathe with them? He had a vague memory of not having to breathe on the Throne, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still feel the air. Did it?
Long moments passed, as Charlie breathed in slow and deep, and Wilson watched, starmap forgotten. Slowly, she seemed to reawaken from whatever trance she had been in, and stared into the sky. Wilson followed her gaze from where he sat by her feet. The stars were so bright in the near-darkness, so intricately beautiful. He almost moved to add to his map, but something else occurred to him.
He drew as quietly as he could, not knowing if she would hear the scratching of charcoal on papyrus, hoping she wouldn’t. She seemed completely unaware, looking up, searching for something. The stillness of it all let Wilson take his time, capturing the curl of her hair, the soft curve of her shoulder, the look in her eyes.
Suddenly, lightning-fast, she changed. Her soft curls turned into flickering shadows. Her pupils slitted, and she turned on Wilson. He yelped, makeshift pencil scratching a messy, dark line across his paper as he pushed himself away. She seemed to disappear, and there was a low hiss.
Wilson looked around, confused. Where was he? Wasn’t he just in the firelight? No, it must have died down with time, he was completely surrounded by darkness. The fire’s glow was a mere few feet away, though. He tripped his way back into the light, watching the darkness. Where was she? Would she return?
Moments passed, and then minutes, and it became clearer and clearer that the answers were “not here” and “no.” He sighed, dejectedly, and looked back down at his paper.
The map was ruined, the charcoal having smudged, but her face had escaped its fate. He should absolutely show the drawing to someone. Winona would appreciate it, at the very least. It was the decent thing to do.
Wilson went to his tent without speaking to anyone, and stared at his rendering of Charlie, holding it half a foot from his face. He would show Winona in the morning.
He fell asleep like that.
—
Charlie had just wanted a moment away, to look up at the stars. And she had gotten it, more or less, but it had been a rude awakening when her instinct had kicked in.
Someone was in the darkness, and they were right next to her.
She’d turned on her heel, not sure what to expect, and was so confused at what she’d seen. Wilson, just sitting there, in the darkness, and staring right at her. In one hand, he held a thin, sharpened piece of charcoal, and in the other, a large and empty map. A map with a drawing of her on it.
The Darkness had overcome her, and she moved to attack, and was pulled away when Wilson left her range. Away, back down, through the layers and codes and dusty smoke, to the Throne where she spent so much of her time.
Charlie instantly made a move to watch him. He’d fallen asleep, clutching the drawing of her, smile on his face.
Something inside her, that must have been her heart once, ached with longing. The whole thing felt far too familiar. If she was still able to blush, she would have.
At least he was a better artist than Maxwell.