evilbeej | Beausejour 3: Agreement

He could feel her breath on his forehead; a solemn moment, there, kneeling in the mist in the bottom of the cave that had gone on too long. The warm air swam around him above, and his shorts and his bare legs were chilly, that's where the mist came from, he could dimly recall. He was eight, but they'd had that in science class, they'd had something about it. Or maybe he'd asked. Peter didn't remember.

But her breath was on his head, and her cool, slim hands gentle on the sides of his face, and she said almost too softly to hear, "You agree to see. You came with me, my bright friend, and you said you would play with me. So it's your eyes pledged with your word, and you agree to see."

"Yes..." he agreed uncertainly, his hands in fists at his sides, his brow furrowed. "I, I guess so? I mean. You said you'd--"

"Ssh," Anna said impatiently. Like a big sister, like a bossy older girl would, just like. Her hands squeezed the sides of his head and she shook it slightly, not enough to jar, just enough to make him shut up. "Yes is good enough. Close your eyes."

He obliged, lips pursing. Then there was warmth on his eyelids, soft, one after the other, as Anna kissed them.

When Peter opened his eyes, it wasn't a cave he was in, it was a wide, bright hall, lit indistinctly from sources he couldn't see; his eyes widened in wonder. The ceiling was wreathed in mist not unlike that which eddied around his knees, and caryatids held up the bottom ends of arches that disappeared into the ceiling. Everything was marble, light greens and blues and sandy colors, and a reflection of water on the caryatids made them look like they swam underwater.

"Ohh," he said involuntarily, his breath hitching in the middle; Anna was watching him like a hawk, and smiling. She bent to take his hands, then pulled him up to his feet. He believed what he saw; he was eight. He was so very young, and Anna was so very pleased.

"You'll play for me," she said to him, voice light. "My castle needs music! I'll teach you songs. You'll like them."

"I'm not very good," Peter said uncertainly, blue eyes tearing themselves away from the beautiful hall -- from the caryatids, who, with their long dancers' limbs like his sister's, were graceful and flowing, and whose faces were so sad. He looked away from them and toward her, and her elfin face was framed by her long black hair like she was in a wind. Flyaway hair. Blown -- no. She moved, moved to pull him along with her, twilight eyes sparkling, and her hair moved like she was underwater.

And when he moved, his movement dragged, and his feet left the floor.

He didn't think his eyes /could/ get any wider, but they did, and he immediately shut his mouth and held his breath-- and Anna started laughing, and kicked off the floor and pulled him with her. "You can breathe, silly," she said chidingly, "you haven't seen any bubbles, have you?"

"No," the little boy admitted, breathing out, then breathing in again experimentally; he /did/ feel silly.

"And I don't care if you think you're no good. You can use my guitar until you feel like you can play well enough for me. It'll teach you. And you'll be my musician, my bard. Just like in the old stories. You know them, don't you?"

"I-- guess," Peter said, gamely. He really wasn't sure what to make of any of it. He really didn't even know if he was dreaming. He could fly, so that wasn't much of a test -- or swim. Breathing underwater. It was a kind of shock, and all he could do was go along with it all until something made sense.

Anna smiled again, and let go.

Abruptly, Peter was on his knees on the cold marble floor, and his knees /hurt/. Anna was still smiling, and it was kind, and it wasn't quite right. There was a possessive look about her, and something quite cold beneath it, glimmering like ice, like the depths of space. Somewhere, he could hear the ocean, somewhere, he could hear his sister's voice, he thought, calling him.

"It's probably better if you forget the old stories, if you knew them at all. And one thing you'll never forget, Peter Brightman, is that I can always go back for Emily. I can always go get her, and play with her instead. And without me, you'll be alone, here. You won't have any friends. Not even the air you're breathing will like you. Do you understand?"

The boy could only stare at her and nod.