It called to him, it pulsed in his brain and nagged at his limbs. It had him sitting by this lake for days, his eyes piercing the tons of water and shallow waves as if in the depths he saw it. Surely he could. And she needed it. But it was not the horn, it was the memory of it. Perhaps the only piece of it that stuck. After all, she had taken the pain from him. Made his life simple again, made him better.
Gloria wouldn’t lie. And it wasn’t there. Why was he here then, trying to fight the fear this lake had given him in the first place? He was trying to get it, had he already tried, of course, Catch was upset with him. Upset with him for something. That must be why. Hadn’t he known? Of course, the memories began to fall into place as if they had always been there and a momentary lapse had caused him to forget. The sensation is not unlike suddenly recalling the name of an old friend, he had known, he did know.
“We are both G’leuse, Gloria,” the words barely escape his lips, a trembling whisper just as she pressed off.
The memories were not concise, seen from behind a fog, years and distance far greater than time’s natural and steady progression. All of who he was, somehow askew, disconnected, disparate pieces that could not be linked. Entire chapters censored and removed and the only clue to inform them is the context around the space from which they were taken. But in this moment, it is potent. In the drowning Jerno he sees a child so like the red haired girl, a mirror of himself at that age.
The waves were growing, a storm building and one moment she is standing in the shallows and the next, she is crushed by the swell. He withstood it, the undertow pulled fiercely to take out his legs but he had dug in, leaned forward and braced against the savage ocean that sought to claim them. But she simply disappeared.
The bed gown slips through his fingers, but is it not a diaphanous thing and he was not slow. Grasping forward wildly he might catch it, he might tear it; for a moment the frantic action of his arms is all he can do to try and stop her. His legs petrified, solid, holding their ground as if he expected that wave to come, to eat him alive.
“Gloria!”
She hadn’t even screamed, the wave had come and the pale, freckled face vanished, the long flames engulfed and extinguished. What had he done? Nothing. So close to her, the best chance that she might be saved. It was his responsibility and he had dug in, resisted, stood and watched. Terrified.
It is a matter of seconds before he follows. But they are long seconds, his legs and the water fight his will. Even so, he is swift. His limbs are long, sure, and carry him easily to where he might even still stand at the depth where she has vanished. Don't let it happen again. Get her and get out. Get out. Get out. The wild grasps more purposeful, more focused as his hands tangle into fabric and his hands search for a body he might pull up.