Allison Saft

For those with impossible dreams and for those who feel dreaming is impossible.

There is so much waiting for you on the horizon.

Everything aches. His legs throb, his ankle twinges from where he twisted it, and a swatch of skin above his socks stings with open wounds. But he is alive. Alive.

“Fuck.” He laughs breathlessly, hysterically, until tears roll down his face.

“What are you doing?”

“Margaret,” he wheezes.

She looms over him with a hand on her hip. Her hair hangs loose around her face, and he’s so relieved to see her, all he can think about is grabbing fistfuls of it and kissing her square on the mouth. Although he’s horrified by the very idea, he gasps through his fit until he finds his voice again.

“Alright, alright,” he cuts in. “I get it. I’m a selfish idiot. Is that what you want?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Her voice wobbles. It’s enough to undo him. “I’m saying I was worried about you.”

“Margaret…” His heart lurches. “I’m sorry.”

He goes deathly still when she places her hand on top of his. It’s warm and callused, but her touch is surprisingly gentle. “You have to be more careful. Wickdon is more dangerous than you know.”

He thinks he has some idea, though. The danger of Wickdon runs deeper than just the hala or Jaime or the restless sea. It’s here, within him and right in front of him. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, or maybe it’s the adrenaline. But right now, he swears that her hair is spun from moonlight and her skin is dusted with silver. Try as he may, he can’t exactly recall what it was he once found so repulsive about her.

Wes rises unsteadily to his feet, and although she keeps her rifle trained on his forehead, he grasps the barrel. He can feel her trembling down the length of it. Carefully, he lowers it from his face. “Okay?”

Margaret’s shoulders slump. Her cold mask shatters, and her gun clatters to the earth between them. “Okay.”

She flings her arms around his waist. Wes grunts in surprise as they collide, but it’s the most natural thing in the world to enfold her. He slides one hand up the back of her jacket to pull her closer and cradles her head with the other, tangling his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. Through the cling of his sopping wet shirt, he feels how warm she is. He feels the beating of her heart against his. He presses his lips to her temple and breathes in the smell of rainwater and earth.

He has to tell her. Now that he’s almost lost her, now that he’s held her like this, he can’t silently bear the weight of it much longer. He wants so much more than he has allowed himself to imagine. He wants her, desperately and entirely. But for now, with her safe and whole against him, it’s enough.

“Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

“I speak the truth of the dead. Death is maybe the only time we
get to speak the truth about a person.