one


Daire
I wake to a room gone suddenly bright as Axel calls to me from his place by the door.
He pauses. Allowing time for me to gather myself, begin the slow crawl from slumber, before he makes his way to my bedside. His approach heralded by the soft hum of his breath rising and falling—the muffled hush of his feet crossing the smooth limestone floor.
His voice is a melody.
His movements an inspired choreography.
Still, when he stands by my side and places a tentative hand on my shoulder, I shrink from his touch and squinch my eyes shut. Stretching back to the dream where I cling to the memory of Dace's embrace. The sweep of his fingers moving over my flesh ... the press of his lips meeting mine ... desperate to lose myself in the glittering burn of his kaleidoscope eyes, reflecting my image thousands of times. Preferring the fantasy of Dace and me blissfully reunited at the Enchanted Spring, to the barren truth that awaits me.
"Daire, please. I know you're awake." Axel keeps his tone light, as though he's not the least bit annoyed by the game. "I will gladly sit here all day if that's what it takes." He claims a space on my mattress and waits for me to acknowledge him.
"You have the patience of a saint," I snap, reluctantly forfeiting the dream and accepting it for the ghost that it is. My eyes widening at the sight of Axel's anxious lavender gaze. Caught by the way it darkens to a deep stormy amethyst, before turning as clear and luminous as the day we first met.
The day our first words were spoken, formalities exchanged.
The day he swept me into his arms and rocketed me high into the sky. Piercing through the glorious silken spun web that yielded to a world of bright golden light.
So unlike the prior times—once deep underwater—once in a haunted Moroccan square—back when I was naïve enough to disregard the events as coincidence.
"I'm hardly a saint." His fingers spear through his shock of blond hair that swoops over his brow and falls in loose curls past his cheek. A move I've observed countless times, and yet, it's no less enchanting than the first. The platinum strands seamlessly blending into a complexion so fair, smooth, and translucent, I can't help but think (and not for the first time) that between the pastel eyes and porcelain skin, he appears so exquisite, so strikingly angelic, the only things missing are a halo and wings.
"If not a saint, then an angel, perhaps?" The question hangs heavy between us, not nearly as jokey as it might seem on the surface. Here in the Upperworld, anything is possible, and I'm eager to get to the truth of this strange situation I find myself in. "Or a spirit guide, maybe? Perhaps even my spirit guide?"
My gaze narrows on his as I silently ponder the unspoken questions:
Am I a convalescent or a captive?
Is he saving me or enslaving me?
Assured by the way he flinches, the way he tears his gaze away, that he heard the thoughts as well as the words.
"What if I told you I was none of those things?"
"Then I'd suspect you were lying," I say in a voice that's strong and sure. Wanting him to know that while I may be at a physical disadvantage, dependent on his willingness to take care of me and tend to my wounds, my will is still strong. My days as an invalid are nearing an end.
He lowers his chin, sending a tumble of blond curls sailing over his forehead, down past the finely sculpted bridge of his nose, before landing at the perfect bow of his lips. "If you insist on a label, and clearly you do, then I guess you could say I'm a Mystic." He runs his palms down the crisp white tunic he wears.
"A Mystic?"...