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May. 13th, 2012 04:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Some nights, Rick dreamt of the Legion.
Of long rides across desert sands, usually, the sun's heat clinging to them like a woman's shawl the entire way, when warm winds offered them little relief. The heat was what he remembered at his core, still pulsing beneath his skin, even when he woke to a damp English morning and a wife who'd snaked away all the blankets in the night.
The best nights brought treasures he never saw by day, the chests and casks of gold and rubies buried beneath the shifting sands. Once, they were left unattended in a dim, cool cave, of whose location he was certain until he woke.
Bad nights brought the scarlet spray of blood under a blinding sun. Here stood the first man he ever killed, a distant, faceless memory with a gun that flashed in the daylight; there, a comrade who'd begged him for a bullet into the brain until his lungs filled with blood.
Rick didn't kill him, but after watching him bleed out, he'd wondered if he should have.
Sometimes in his dreams, Rick squeezed the trigger. He always woke in the instant before the man's brains splattered the dusty ground.
Perhaps the worst, though, were the nights when skirmishes melted into his weeks of wandering the Sahara, haunted by the ghosts of loyal men, feeling like little more than a spectre himself. He held his gun, but it slipped from his fingers. He moved with heavy arms and legs, aching with relief, his tongue dry and thick in his mouth. Attackers came in waves, swiping at him as his vision faded in and out.
He woke gasping, throat raw, hands clenching the sheets tangled around his waist. One breath. Another. He recalled where he was--perhaps more importantly, who he was, and when.
The night was warm for May, enough so that his skin hadn't broken out in goosebumps beneath the places where sweat beaded on his skin. Evy slept on next to him, little more than a warm pressue at his side; the room was too dark to see her, and it felt like her face was pressed into his upper arm anyway.
Rick was restless, every muscle sparking with a nervous energy he couldn't shake off. It was easier to sleep through anything when there was something to sleep through. Sliding away from the heat Evy radiated, he stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, and padded toward the stairs.
❦
Of long rides across desert sands, usually, the sun's heat clinging to them like a woman's shawl the entire way, when warm winds offered them little relief. The heat was what he remembered at his core, still pulsing beneath his skin, even when he woke to a damp English morning and a wife who'd snaked away all the blankets in the night.
The best nights brought treasures he never saw by day, the chests and casks of gold and rubies buried beneath the shifting sands. Once, they were left unattended in a dim, cool cave, of whose location he was certain until he woke.
Bad nights brought the scarlet spray of blood under a blinding sun. Here stood the first man he ever killed, a distant, faceless memory with a gun that flashed in the daylight; there, a comrade who'd begged him for a bullet into the brain until his lungs filled with blood.
Rick didn't kill him, but after watching him bleed out, he'd wondered if he should have.
Sometimes in his dreams, Rick squeezed the trigger. He always woke in the instant before the man's brains splattered the dusty ground.
Perhaps the worst, though, were the nights when skirmishes melted into his weeks of wandering the Sahara, haunted by the ghosts of loyal men, feeling like little more than a spectre himself. He held his gun, but it slipped from his fingers. He moved with heavy arms and legs, aching with relief, his tongue dry and thick in his mouth. Attackers came in waves, swiping at him as his vision faded in and out.
He woke gasping, throat raw, hands clenching the sheets tangled around his waist. One breath. Another. He recalled where he was--perhaps more importantly, who he was, and when.
The night was warm for May, enough so that his skin hadn't broken out in goosebumps beneath the places where sweat beaded on his skin. Evy slept on next to him, little more than a warm pressue at his side; the room was too dark to see her, and it felt like her face was pressed into his upper arm anyway.
Rick was restless, every muscle sparking with a nervous energy he couldn't shake off. It was easier to sleep through anything when there was something to sleep through. Sliding away from the heat Evy radiated, he stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, and padded toward the stairs.