[This post is from J.T.’s point of view.]
He knew that it might have been foolish to come out alone, but at the same time, dragging someone else along hadn’t felt right. Besides, Carolyn’s fairy friends would be keeping an eye on him and they would be able to alert her—and, by extension, everyone else—to any danger that arose. J.T. drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, standing at the top of the hill that overlooked the barrow.
You can turn back. You don’t have to be here.
Except he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, he did need to be out here, that he did need to do what he was about to do.
He walked silently down the hill, not stopping as he came to the edge of the barrow. His skin prickled, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing up on end for the barest moment as he stepped onto the slowly growing grass that blanketed the spot where nearly a year before they’d buried their dead. J.T. sank down at the center of the barrow, sitting cross-legged.
Nearly a year. Has it really been that long?
It had, but it was hard to imagine, harder still to believe. He should have been graduating—would have been, if things had been different. Marin would have been gone, off to graduate school. Thom would have been somewhere else, working at a job that was probably going to destroy his soul sooner rather than later. He would have been looking down the barrel of everyone who meant anything to him scattering to the four winds and a lifetime of summer stock and small parts unless he managed to catch a break.
But theatre had been what he loved—still loved, if he was honest—but he couldn’t help but think now that maybe it was better that things hadn’t turned out differently.
“There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio,” he murmured softly, staring off into the distance, his eyes unfocused, seeing only vague shadows and light and color. “Sure as hell more than I ever dreamed of, Nan’s stories or no.”
Something Hecate had said to him when she was only semi-lucid had nagged at him for days, vague mutterings about the blessing and the curse of being a spiritweaver. He hadn’t understood most of what she’d said, since it had been in what he assumed was ancient Greek—or something similar—but the gist of it was that he had a dangerous gift.
If it’s a gift at all.
Either way, I need to learn how to use it and I’d better do it fast.
Good for J.T., doing something constructive. Still, bringing someone out would have been a good idea. That way he wouldn’t have to wait for someone to get to him for the rescue. Also, groups are less likely to be attacked in the first place.