Vertigo

Vertigo

I closed my eyes.

"Jump," he said.

The chilly night wind pushed me closer to the edge; his voice, soft but firm, coaxed me. I took a step, then, heart pounding, opened my eyes in fear.

There was still ground beneath my feet.

A rush of dizziness assailed me and I stumbled in the dark, my feet searching for purchase on a bed of coarse grass and rocks. My arms flew out, hands grasping, seeking for something to steady myself with.

He reached out and slid his hands into mine, holding me still as I regained my balance. I marveled, as always, at his warmth.

"I didn't know you were afraid of heights."

I wasn't. "I'm not." Otherwise, flying would be out of the question. And I loved to fly.

He drew me into his arms, wrapping me in his embrace as we stood on that deserted cliff under a waning moon. The stars were hiding behind black clouds and I could sense a bending downpour. The cold night air was fairly crackling with the approaching thunderstorm.

I wasn't cold though. Hot. Burning. Feverish.

His cheek was pressed against min. I inhaled his scent--musky. I exhaled. My eyes closed, I traced over every line of his features without having to lift my head from his shoulder. I saw him in my mind: the soft curve of his jaw, the aristocratic line of his nose, his high cheekbones and slanted brows. The paleness of his skin--not the pallor of sickness but smooth and clear, like fine porcelain--only served to enhance his moonlit hair. Silvery and pale like fleeting glimmers of starlight behind the storm clouds, it framed his face and hung into his eyes.

I pulled away and raised my gaze to his. He stared back.

His eyes were silver. Grey. Shades of London rain and morning fog and shadows that stretched long on the ground even when the sun hid its face. They were the eyes of ghosts that still plagued him. Haunted eyes.

I blinked.

"I love you," I said.

"I know."

And ever so gently, he kissed me and then drew away. I ached at the loss. He stepped back and I was cold without his warmth. But he gave me a smile. My smile. The peculiar twisting of his lips as he tried to convey both affection and resignation. Resignation for the way our story was meant to end. He'd never been a fan of happily-ever-after. Now that I thought about it, I wasn't either. I just wanted to be with him. Forever. Never apart. Always in his arms, in his eyes, in his very soul. I'd said as much before. He would just smile his strange smile and say,

"Never always."

I hated his answers. I hated the way he never gave me explanations or reassurances. But I loved him.

I would shake my head. "Always," I'd repeat in my stubborn, naïve faith.

And he would smile.

He was smiling now, again, and it made my heart wrench. I both loved and hated that smile--loved it that he was smiling for me, hated it that there was something behind the smile that I would never know, never understand. He'd always keep his little secrets.

The night wind wrapped around us again, reminding us of its presence; insisting. He stood on the rocky ground, his legs spread, his arms by his side, that strange smile lending a calm, almost serene quality to his expression. His eyes--both pale and dark at the same time--were trained solemnly on me. In a quiet voice, he said the last thing I had expected to hear.

"Vertigo."

Silently, I looked at him and waited for more.

"Close your eyes," he instructed softly.

I obeyed. My faith in him was infallible. Not once had I had my trust in him been proven ill placed. I'd had my doubts in the beginning, and so had everyone else, but this wasn't about everyone else. This was about him. And the way he'd kept his vows.

"Turn around."

I turned and suddenly, unexpectedly, felt an inexorable heat at my back. Waves of it fanned around me, enveloped me, suffocated me. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to cry out, tried to. His name was on my lips but my throat had become as bone dry as old parchment. I struggled to turn back, to find him, to demand a reason for this feverish wave of heat beating down on my body, knowing he wouldn't supply it but overcome with the irrepressible urge anyway. Once again, his voice stopped me, ringing out clearly as though he didn't suffer any of the effects of the intense heat scorching the air.

"Jump."

I hesitated.

"Jump."

He never repeated his commands more than once. He expected them to be followed the first time.

Faith, I reminded myself and jumped.

I fell. Flew. Floated away from the cliff and escaped the treacherous heat. Leaving him behind. My eyes opened of their own accord but I could only a brief glimpse of smoky clouds and a sliver of moon--the storm had arrived--before it all spun before my eyes and I hit water, sinking instantly into the freezing depths.

Instinct took over and I fought the eager, grasping hands of gravity, slipping through its long, slender fingers and finally breaking the surface of the lake. I gasped for air and then forced my limbs to move, methodically swimming toward shore. Toward land. Toward refuge.

Toward a life that would be no life because my reason for living had been left behind in the land of the dead.

But I would survive. So I swam.

And watching me from the heights of the precipitous cliff, amid the crumbled rocks and scorching flames of a dragon's wrath, was a lone figure. He stood unmoving, accepted his fate long before I had ever suffered any inkling, and breathed. Heat suffused him, but he refused to budge, shifting only when he saw me crawl from the water and collapse on the sandy beach. Then he turned and walked into the roaring fire, a sacrifice to appease the angry flames so that I, the hero, would continue to live as heroes were wont to do.

"Always," he whispered.