***
It was morning, the sun was coming in through the shear curtains, the wind pushing them about lazily. The bed was soft but there were no sheets. During the summer it seldom got so cold at night that sheets were necessary at all.
Without opening his eyes, he knew where he was, the feel of the pillow underneath his head, the mellow aroma of teas mixing with the smokiness of burning wood in the kitchen. He could hear the servants going about the business of getting the house in order for another day.
He would get up and venture down the hall, across the courtyard to his mother's room. There he would find her, weaving while she sang under her breath or still in bed herself. If it was the latter, he would jump in bed with her and she would hold him and call him my little prince.Â
Everything was right.
Desmond wanted to keep his eyes closed. Everything was right just as it was, right at this moment. There was no need to open them.Â
But somebody was shaking him, their hands had him by both shoulders and they were insistent.
He fought them. He fought the urge to open his eyes. To wake up. He didn't need to open his eyes, everything was alright as it was.
'No'Â
They kept shaking him and they were calling his name. Why did they know his name? They shouldn't know that. It made things hard.
He couldn't feel his pillow anymore or smell the tea. He wasn't in his room. He wasn't going to see his mother. That was over and this wasn't real.
***
His head swam as he opened his eyes, bitter reality coming back. Under him was hard-packed earth. The smell of death and things burning filled his nostrils. His arm ached dully below the elbow.Â
Above him faces hovered, looking at him.
"What... did we.. were we successful?"
