Ghostwalker - Erik Scott De Bie [72]
With a frustrated growl, Walker slammed his fist into the ground, and though she could hear bones crack, he did not seem to care. Then he coughed so violently Arya wanted to cover her ears. Blood came up-the legacy of ancient wounds. Arya touched his hand in concern, closing her fingers around his. If Walker noticed, he made no sign.
When he spoke, his voice was calm but sad. "I do not know," he said. "Where do these songs come from? I do not know. How do I remember them? I do not know. If I remembered my own name, would it still hold true? Would I still be… I…" The last words were quiet, helpless.
He seemed on the verge of opening to her, as though…
Then nothing. He fell silent again.
Arya felt frustration well within her, along with deep sympathy. How long had this tortured man existed in this state? He could not open himself, could not confront the demons of his past, the feelings of his present, or his fears of the future. Whenever he tried, whenever he came close, he would cough violently as though to tear himself in two. Sometime in his past, Walker had forgotten how to feel. He was a man without fear, hope, or love.
But no, that was not it.
Her heart denied that. It told her he couldn't open up, not because he had forgotten, but because he could not face what would come.
Trusting her feelings, Arya reached out and took his hand.
Walker pulled away.
"Walker," Arya said. She leaned in again, but he pushed her back, gentle but firm. He pulled his gloved hand from her grasp.
"Do not do that again," he rasped, menace-and pain-dripping from his broken voice.
* * * * *
Somewhere in the trees above them, a pair of phantom lips smiled.
"Yes," said the feminine voice.
Having said that satisfied word, the face became that of thrush. The bird beat its wings once and was gone.
* * * * *
Arya turned away, and he could see her shoulders shaking, whether because of fear or relief he did not know. There. He had done it. Walker had just reinforced everything his training had taught him. Everything Gylther'yel had hammered into him about being alone, everything he had learned about the dangers of bringing others into his violent life, everything he had thought in these last fifteen years was coming true once again.
He would not, could not share his bleak, bloody, and short existence with anyone. No friends. No lovers. No family.
He was the spirit of vengeance, meant to walk alone.
He thought he caught a glimpse of Tarm Thardeyn out of the corner of his eye, but the spirit was not there when he looked. A wave of sadness came over Walker, but he let it pass through him, leaving him empty.
Now that he had done it, how did he feel?
He should have felt nothing. All his experience told him he should feel nothing but ice inside, project nothing but cold outside, and take comfort in his retreat from the world of the living. The dead understood and never judged. The spirits that surrounded Walker would never turn away in fear.
But that was not the way he felt. Instead, he felt… he…
He did not know, and that was what frustrated him.
"You should go," he said, as much to stop his thoughts as to break the silence. "I am…" Then nothing, not even the word he had meant to say, which was "sorry." He wanted to say more-about his fears, his quest, anything more-but the words would not come. He had forgotten how to speak them, he thought.
But all the while, he knew he had not.
Some tiny voice deep in his frozen heart, a voice he had kept hushed for so many years, was trying to tell him how. And he knew. He understood. He was just…
"Afraid," he breathed.
Arya had risen as though to leave, but she turned back. "What?" she asked, her voice a shade above a whisper.
Instantly, Walker was silent, but he had already said the word, and it had been enough.
* * * * *
Arya saw then, as through a tiny crack in his stone will. She saw Walker with his
defenses down, terrified, empty, hollow…
And alone.
"It is nothing," he said.
Arya heard the pain in his voice-not so much in his