Thirty-three – 01

[This post is from Marin’s point of view.]

The bottom dropped out of my stomach, a sudden chill seizing me in an iron grip. “Thom,” I said quietly, struggling to keep my voice steady as I asked the question again, “what’s wrong?”

“Other than this damn fever?”

“Yes,” I said, resting my palm against his cheek. He leaned into my hand, his face hot against my skin. “Since I’m pretty sure that’s not what you want to talk about.”

Thom choked on a quiet chuckle and shook his head slightly. “No. Hell no, it’s not.”

“Then what?” I edged a little closer, tucked one leg up underneath me. I hadn’t intended to linger for too long, but the others wouldn’t miss me, at least not for a while yet—and if they did, it didn’t matter. This was more important.

This would always be more important.

“I’ve been having dreams again,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut, as if the weight of my gaze was too much. “Visions of the past, not the future. Finn’s memories.”

My breath caught. His fingers flexed in mine as I squeezed his hand. “You never talk about those,” I whispered.

He shook his head slightly. “No, I know. I just—it’s uncomfortable sometimes, that’s all. The whole as it was before so will it be again bullshit.”

“That’s not—”

“I know it’s not. It just feels like it sometimes.” He exhaled, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling. “It’s just that this time, everything is centered around one thing and I can’t figure out what it means. Hell. I’m not sure I want to know.”

Biting my lip, I nudged him gently. Thom blinked at me, then scooted over in the bed, toward the wall, leaving room for me to curl up beside him. He watched me with a concerned look on his face.

“Mar, I didn’t—”

“You never do,” I said, cutting him off before he could tell me he didn’t mean to worry me. “It happens anyway.” I wrapped one arm around him and the baby, resting my head against his on the pillow. “Keep talking.”

“Right.” He sucked in a breath. “I—do you remember anything about the invasion?”

“Which one?” I asked, my tone dry. “It seems like there were a few.”

“When she came,” Thom murmured, shifting his hand to rest on my arm, thumb rubbing back and forth against my elbow. “Do you remember that?”

A shiver shot through me. “Which ‘she,’ Thom?”


I felt sick and squeezed my eyes shut. I must have stayed silent for too long because his fingers wrapped around my arm at the elbow and squeezed gently.


“No,” I whispered, feeling sick. “No, it can’t. It can’t.”

It’s not possible.




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