time and time - sam

[reagan daðason]

Tendons strained white over her knuckles as Reagan gripped the faded afghan closer. Beyond the warmth of her home a storm raged. Icy sheets of rain washed against the darkened pane of her window, distorting the black night further. The wind howled mercilessly as it sought to gain entry. Resting her forehead against the cool glass did nothing to calm her haggard nerves. Her heart thrummed strong in her chest, each rapid pulse stealing her breath. Each shallow rasp of air burned as they frosted the window. She had told her family that she would be fine while they went to the store an hour ago. The lie still tasted bitter upon her lips.

The lights flickered overhead as the house groaned against the howling winds. “Please,” Reagan whimpered just before the house fell dark. Wrenching her eyes closed, Reagan sought to steady her breathing. Terror pulsed through her, electrifying each nerve as it pulled her under. The silence that blanketed the house was deafening. She could feel herself fading into the past, drifting farther and farther, until it consumed her. No longer was she seated on the soft cushion of the window seat, but on the damp concrete floor. It was so quiet. She could hear the pulse of her heart, the rasp of her breath. Silence meant solitude. Overhead the all-seeing camera blinked steadily. Staring at it with dull eyes, Reagan counted the flashes of red—anything to break the monotony. Steel, cold and heavy bit into the soft flesh of her ankle, reminding her that she was not free. Here she was a prisoner.

The floor creaked outside her door, breaking through her reverie. “H-hello?” she called. Silence followed. It was just the wind. Just the—creak. The room shifted, blurring. “Just the wind, just the wind,” she repeated over and over like a mantra. They hadn’t come for her. They didn’t know where to look or what had happened. She was safe. Wind echoed loudly, engulfing her. No! she thought in a panic as her room gave way to a brilliant swirl of light and color. She wasn’t ready—she didn’t want to leave. All she wanted was to feel safe again, to return to the time where it had been more than an illusion. Her stomach churned as she was propelled further. Holding fast to the blanket, Reagan prayed it would be over quickly.

With a start, she felt herself falling. The ground was ice beneath her. Blinking lethargically, Reagan pushed a wet tendril of hair from her eyes. It was raining, she registered slowly—where was she? Her limbs felt as though they were made of lead as she struggled to right herself. Falling forward, her face brushed against the damp snow. Everything trembled, the movement caused her body to ache. So cold. Her stomach lurched, tightening as she wretched. Wiping her hand across her mouth, Reagan’s eyes searched for some clue as to her whereabouts. Before her stood the dilapidated shack, the flickering light of a fire casting wavering shadows toward her. She had to make it there. The frigid, damp night had stolen the final vestiges of strength she had left. “Help,” she rasped, clawing at the snow and puling herself forward along her stomach.

Each desperate movement was a fight. Everything within her wanted to stop, to surrender to the delightful numbness that licked at her limbs. She had cheated death once, why keep trying? Her fingers brushed against the rough wood, pushing the door forward slightly and it groaned in protest. “Please…help…” she whispered before everything faded to darkness.

[samuel darrington]

Samuel trudged forward in the mire, each step making a shloop sound as it stuck in the mud and wet grass. The sky was dark, the mountains gray. The sun was beginning to set, turning the dying grass into threads of gold. He balanced along the trail of a winding creek, the overhanging brush like fingers pulling back the mud to let the water trickle through. A slow fog had begun to drift around the bends of the creek. Frozen reeds crunched beneath his feet, and his breath began to smoke. He stared at the pattern of mud splatter on his boots as he walked. He enjoyed the way the ground made him into a canvas.

Samuel wasn’t a pessimist. He saw beauty around him and took inspiration from it – and caution. It was optimism that made him realize his purpose the day he pulled himself off the rocks. And then tenacity that kept him ever unfaltering.

He pulled up his hood as the first drops of rain tickled the back of his neck. He wanted to practice stretching the extent of his ability, and at this time of year, Sigrún’s Shack was the best place to do so. The holes between the sagging planks pooled rainwater, and snow, inside the shack. Most of his Eventide peers didn’t bother trekking miles in water-drenched bogs to sit in a dilapidated shack that was both wet and cold. But Samuel never noticed these things when he experimented. The pain usually consumed his thoughts.

He gripped the clasp knife inside his coat pocket, feeling the blunt edge of the tucked-away knife. He had yet to progress beyond what he considered flesh wounds with the knife. There was still a sliver of fear of going further.

He could see the Dynjandi waterfall in the distance. The folds of rock created a blur of white against the dark mossy stones. He had always wondered what would happen if he drowned at the bottom of the falls. If the water filled his lungs, weighing his body down, would he be able to surface? He had tried one night, stupidly. The stars had reflected on the churning water, throwing reflections into his eyes. The water itself was its own pain -- small pricks of knives cutting into his flesh. But the water wasn’t deep enough and he always thrashed involuntarily to the air. You can’t drown yourself in water where you can reach the surface – your body wants you to live. As he sat panting and shivering on the edge of the pool, he also began to realize people drown because of lack of oxygen to the brain. And he somehow had the uneasy feeling that he couldn’t recover from an injury to his brain.

He had heard that the Heritage families knew all the limitations and secrets of these strange traits. The night was soon blanketing the Kvöld Valley as he walked, the rain filling in where the sun had once touched. The roar of the falls was a tinny echo across the valley. The Heritage wouldn’t stay as the privileged few.

He had been sitting in Sigrún’s for at least an hour, sweat beaded on his forehead and smears of blood on the cold ground. He clutched his bare abdomen where he had carved his knifed across horizontally. His fingers were a web, trapping in his insides. He convulsed, kneeling against the ground, and pressed his forehead to the dirt. This was the first time he had attempted to damage so many organs at once. There was a tingling sensation as his right kidney fastened closed. The last coils of his intestines curled back. The blood that trickled over the ridges of his fingers tickled him. He exhaled through gritted teeth.

Then, a voice – the diction falling silent against the wind. The door squeaked as it jostled from a nudge. He hobbled over, his hand still pressed against his stomach. He saw pale fingers first, spread out over the floor. He pushed the door, but it hit hard against something. He peered through the crack and saw it was someone’s head. Long hair fell over the girl’s face, the curve of her ear peeking through the chestnut strands.

“Oops,” He paused, debating if he should just leave. But the snow falling on her bare arms made him begrudgingly pull the body inside.

“Oh, no…” he grumbled, recognizing the sleeping face whose mouth usually was twisted in a wry smile. “Reagan, wake up,” he demanded, prodding her with the fingers of his free hand. ”Wake up,” he gritted, giving her one last hard shove. She frowned and he startled. As she begun to wake he realized what she would see.

He was crouched over her, without a shirt, blood still on his abdomen and hand. ”You need to leave,” he spat.

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[reagan daðason]

Somewhere, in the distance, Reagan could hear her name, beckoning her from the brief respite unconsciousness had provided. She moaned softly, protesting the dull ache that reverberated through her joints with each pulse. With her eyes still closed she reached her fingers out, trying to glean information through touch alone. The pads of her fingers traced against rough wood until the fingernail of her right index finger caught on something and tore free with a sharp pain. Regan gasped, startled, her eyes flying open.

A shadowed figure crouching over her was all that registered. “No,” she whimpered, pulling herself up until she was sitting. This was the part she hated the most: the lethargic cloud that clung to her, stripping her of the little control she had. She felt weak and useless. Trapped. The rough floor seemed to transform from wood to cement beneath her, transporting her back to the small room she had been held in. Reagan drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. It was all in her mind. This was merely a nightmare. Her ability, while uncontrolled, had never brought her to a different time, merely a different place. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, holding it for twenty seconds before exhaling; repeating the process until her pulse had slowed.

When she opened her eyes once more, she felt more in control. Her gaze swept through the room, taking in the crooked walls and sagging ceiling before settling on the boy crouched before her. His blue eyes narrowed as they met hers, his expression darkening. Of all the rotten luck, she thought to herself, it had to be Samuel Darrington that she was stuck with. “You need to leave,” he spat.

“This is the last place I want to be right now,” she retorted, her frustration building with each word. There was something about Sam that left her on edge. Every interaction felt like a test, as though he was weighing her worth against some predetermined standard. Growing up within the Heritage, Reagan had grown accustomed to people judging her, but there was something different about Sam. Try as she might to deny it, there was a part of her that craved his approval. She hated that he made her feel this way. The old Reagan had eagerly sought the approval of others. She was content to play whatever role was required. But that was before she had been dragged from the safety of her home and made to measure time in the sound of footsteps outside her cage. No one understood the ache of silence; the agonizing wait as your life rested in the hands of a stranger. It didn’t matter that Reagan was free she was still utterly alone.

Thick lines of crimson stained his abdomen, traced the contours of his finger. She watched as his posture stiffened beneath her inspection, judging and waiting. Reagan’s gaze fell on a knife stained with blood that lay on the floor, handprints resting on either side of it. Everywhere she looked there were signs of the carnage, yet Sam appeared unharmed. Her stomach twisted, and she gagged. “What are you -?” Reagan shook her head, erasing the question. She didn’t want to know the answer; didn’t want to know how the lights had changed him, too.

“You can’t tell anyone that I was here,” she said. “Promise me, Sam. No one can know about this.”

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