Hello there folks! It’s just a short one today, but we’ve got the final portion of Dream No More for you. It’s definitely a darker, sadder turn than you’ve seen from a lot of my work, but I hope its still entertaining nonetheless. In a way, it’s bittersweet. We’re getting back… eh, let’s not narrate it. Read on to see what’s happened to one of Tellest’s legends!
Dream No More
-Part Two-
“Garrett!” a feminine voice cried. “Garrett! I think it’s working. I think he’s finally coming to.”
A golden aura seemed to fill the small cottage, not least of all when his vision settled upon the blonde young lady before him.
“Zoe,” he whispered.
She brought her hands to her face, covering her mouth and her nose. Even in his stupor, he could see the tears rushing to her eyes.
Several urgent steps pounded against the wooden floor.
“Did he just speak?” his son asked. “Conrad, you’ve done the impossible.”
Randall turned his head then, seeing the beaming smile of his boy. Garrett reached over and grabbed his hand.
“Son,” he muttered, giving a gentle squeeze.
With wide eyes and a beaming smile, Garrett looked to his sister. She rested her head against his shoulder and wept.
Beside them, the cleric finally leaned back. His hand still resonated with a golden tincture, but as he drew away, that glow seemed to fade.
Looking at his surroundings, Randall couldn’t suppress a sigh. He struggled to sit up, but his son’s hand kept him stationary.
“Take it slow, Father,” Garrett insisted. “You’re in no rush. Let us take care of you.” He turned to his sister, nodding. “Will you be alright?”
“Of course,” she said, dragging her thumb across her eye.
Garrett patted his father’s chest, standing up beside the bed. “I’m going to find Uncle Grant and Rhianne, Father. If we wait, we’ll never hear the end of it.” He turned around, his steps resounding against the floor again. “Come and speak with me, Conrad. Keep my mind at ease.”
Both men withdrew from the house, the door – so distant from Randall, it seemed – slamming shut.
At his side, Zoe slid her chair across the floor. She had never let go of his hand, sharing in that gentle touch. As she drew closer to him, she saw the moisture on the rims of his eyes. His brow furled, and he couldn’t abstain from looking out the window on the wall to his side.
Though he had found the strength to stroke her hand with his thumb, he found himself drawn to the bright blue sky outside. The clouds rolled over the cottage, obscuring the sun for several moments at a time.
A tear dropped from his eye, rolling down his cheek.
“Father?” she said. “Father, what’s wrong?”
He croaked out a sob, and in that moment, he seemed to shrink in the bed. Randall looked at his daughter, his lip trembling.
“Zoe, you have to let me go.” He struggled to sit up, but his daughter cast her miniscule weight upon him. Even had she not, he realized his muscles had atrophied while he was confined to the bed.
He turned his head to the side, yearning for the sky outside.
“Let me go,” he begged. “Let me fly.”
Michael DeAngelo
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