Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
The boy was flotsam. Unmoored on an internal sea of his own making, Eames could only see flickers, whiskers of shadow on an interior wall. He'd no idea what the boy's memory produced, only that they were here in a dream where everything was immediate and to dream it was to see it. There was a bed there, in the corner, the linens rucked, and Eames observed this with the quiet observation of one calculating quickly.
"I've nothing," he said, candidly. This didn't appear to trouble him, nor did the sound of footsteps. This wasn't his dream and the certainty of that pushed at the door. "Come on, darling. Why wait around for him? He won't be polite about it." The smoke tendrils whisped around Eames's own wrist as he reached long, slim fingers and closed them around the hand of the boy and yanked him solidly in his own direction. Namely the door.
Which gave. Heavily, and with a protest of noise and spat them into a labyrinth. It wasn't clever, but Eames was very far under, prone to suggestion and the boy who had been locked in a castle had left the rime of old stone in his head. The maze was part garden and part stone. It smelled green and faintly floral and the stone was damp. The maze was walls and walls and uncertain directions and there was a bench close at hand, also stone. They were clearly at the center of the maze.