On The Count of Three

part 4

The nights were always the worst. When the dark clouded her vision, Twila imagined it was the souls of the deceased. The church had taught her that when people died, they moved to another plane of existence. But in the darkness, she doubted they had ever left the place. She shivered, but not from the cold. Whispering a prayer, she closed her eyes.

"It's just shadows," she muttered as she always did to keep the fear away. "It's all in my head."

The wind howled outside the window, and the sound reminded her of a wailing woman.

"It's just my imagination. It's just-my-imagination."

Why isn't it working? A piercing sound interrupted her thoughts. Screaming, she jerked upright and stared at the source of the sound: her window.

From the other side, the door banged open and Tristan stormed into the room. His stance was battle ready, and he hurried over to her in two strides. 

"What happened?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

Twila didn't know what to say. "I'm fine," she croaked as she tore her eyes away from the window.

He visibly relaxed before he sat down on the edge of her bed.

"Are you okay?" His hand hovered near hers, but he must have thought better of it because he quickly took his hand away.

"No, I'm not," she whispered and looked away from him. Twila didn't recognise the twang of hurt inside of her, but she was certain it would show on her face if their eyes met. Her mother had always said she was like an open book when it came to feelings.

"I am sorry," he said. "For everything."

When she didn't answer, he slowly rose from the bed. "I'll just wait in the hallway."

Before he could step away, Twila reached out and grabbed his shirt. "Please," she whispered. "Don't leave."

Tristan looked unsure, but eventually sat down beside her again. She scooted over to make more room, and once he was on the bed, she instantly felt better.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"Talk about what?" The harshness of her voice made her cringe.

It didn't seem to faze Tristan, though. He simply shrugged. "Look, I won't pretend to understand why—or how—I'm here. But... where I come from, the best way to figure something out is through communication, and that's what you were trying to do, right? To communicate."

Twila wondered if he was aware that he was rambling. It was kind of cute.

Communication...

"It happened two years ago," she said at last. "There was a plague. A terrible, incurable plague. And, my parents wanted to escape, but they were hindered. By me." Absentmindedly, she traced the outline of the scar on her cheek.

Tristan didn't say anything, and for that, Twila was grateful. It seemed to her that he somehow knew that she would need to take her time with this. It was odd, really. This strange boy appeared to understand her better than she understood herself.

She sighed. "I was hurt in an experiment. A flagon exploded and I was cut. The wound was badly infected, and our neighbours didn't want to risk having me along in case I carried whatever had caused the plague. As a result, my parents refused to leave me behind. Instead they stayed in town, and then when the plague..."

Trailing off, she looked towards the window.

"You don't have to continue," he said. This time, his hand enveloped hers. "It's okay."

A tear slid down Twila's cheek. "They got ill, but somehow, I survived. I was the sole reason they stayed behind, but the plague didn't even touch me." She sniffed. It felt good to say it out loud to someone.

After that, a comfortable silence spread between them. His hand was still wrapped around hers, and gently, she turned her hand to lace her fingers with his.

He was the first to break the silence. "Why do you stay here then? It's a ghost town out there."

"Where would I go?" She shrugged. "I want to get away, that's why I worked on the chiller box. It is my ticket out."

"Couldn't you do that somewhere else?" Tristan leaned back against the headboard, glancing in her direction. "I mean... in a place with other people."

She sighed. "There's no one who would house the girl who avoided the plague. They think I'm cursed. Only by impressing the scholars would I have a chance." She chuckled dryly. "Though, I doubt I would ever be put in a regular dorm. They'd probably stuff me into an abandoned teacher's apartment away from campus."

"That's not fair," he muttered. "No one should endure that."

"I don't have any other choice," Twila admitted. 

"That sucks."

His words made her smile. "You say the oddest things." Twila turned to look at him. She was aware that his thumb still traced a gentle pattern on her palm. "Tell me... Where do you come from?"

Tristan was silent for a while. "I live on a ship in the sky." He looked down at her with a wink in his eyes. "When I'm not called away by cute little inventors, I sail through the stars, studying planets from afar."

"That sound amazing. Impossible, but amazing." She leaned against his shoulder, feeling oddly light from his teasing. He thought she was cute. 

He chuckled, making his shoulder vibrate lightly. "Sometimes it's both."

"Are you lonely?" Twila yawned. "On your ship, I mean."

"I have a commander, and a team there with me. I won't be able to steer a ship on my own before I come of age." Tristan chuckled. "I pretty much run the place anyway, though."

"But are you ever lonely?" she repeated. Somehow, it seemed important for her to know.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I think everyone feels alone once in awhile."

"I'm tired of being alone."

He lifted his arm and pulled the covers over them both. Twila took the chance to scoot closer to him. She snuggled under the covers, leaning her head on his chest. The sound of his heart was the perfect lullaby.

"I know," he muttered. "Get some sleep, sweetie. We can talk more tomorrow."

"Night, Tristan," she muttered and soon after succumbed to a deep sleep.