Quote:
Grudgingly, unhappily, and entirely reluctantly, Erik had welcomed two children into his home. It wasn't the first time a man (if the person who had come to his door could be considered a man... He didn't know what else to call him) had asked him to do a service for a good cause. Normally Erik would have refused, normally he would have smirked and slammed the door in said person's face; it had been the children with the man who had stopped him from doing so. They were orphans, without a place to stay because their orphanage had burnt down.
It wasn't so much the unhappy looks the children had given him, either. It wasn't that they had watched him eat jellied toast with hungry looks until he'd offered them each a piece, that had convinced him. It was that they resembed, however remotely, angelic beings. The computer genius had even considered keeping them after the orphanage was rebuilt, that was, until the toddler, who called himself Dante, started climbing into Erik's bed at night. Which meant Virgil was soon to follow (because the older boy never allowed Dante to do anything on his own, the little compulsive creeper...). "Dante's having bad dreams," Virgil would say in that dull, melancholy way of his. "He wants to sleep with you."
Erik, who had been reading his nightly chapter of Isaac Asimov's works, sat up looking disgruntled. "Again?" was his one worded complaint. "How often does he have nightmares?" He pulled Dante into his lap with a sigh, and waited for Virgil's response.
As ever, Virgil took a moment to think, a feathered finger on his chin. "Every night," he said at last.
"Why? What does he dream about?" Erik's first thoughts were on the dreams orphans typically had. Was Dante reliving the worst moments of his life? Was his mind unconciously replaying his parents' deaths like a horror film? He put a hand on Dante's head, ruffling the toddler's soft hair. "What do you see when you close your eyes?"
Dante rarely spoke without Virgil prompting him, and when he did, his voice was breathy and frightened. "The inferno," he said, reaching a hand to Virgil. Unlike many toddlers his age, Dante had no trouble speaking. There was no cute lisp to soften his words. "A deep place, darkness... Being alone..." He sniffled. "Then Virgil came, and saved me. He saved me. He's my guide."
"I am your guide," Virgil agreed, sitting down on the bed next to Erik. "Your protector. No beasts shall devour you. We will reach the Heavenly Gates," he promised, as if in after-thought.
Erik stared. "You've got to be kidding," he said, in that stereotypical way one might when someone has them half convinced of something that goes against all logic. "You two? The Dante and Virgil from the poem? The one everyone was supposed to have read in tenth grade? With the nine circles of suffering, the three beasts and--"
Dante shuddered. Virgil glared at Erik. "We do not speak of these things," he said firmly. "They frighten him. I am his protector and guide. I will protect him from what I see fit, and presently, you are one of those things."
"Come on then, to bed," Erik said resignedly, "and Dante?" he gave the toddler half a smile, "we're getting you a dream catcher in the morning."
It wasn't so much the unhappy looks the children had given him, either. It wasn't that they had watched him eat jellied toast with hungry looks until he'd offered them each a piece, that had convinced him. It was that they resembed, however remotely, angelic beings. The computer genius had even considered keeping them after the orphanage was rebuilt, that was, until the toddler, who called himself Dante, started climbing into Erik's bed at night. Which meant Virgil was soon to follow (because the older boy never allowed Dante to do anything on his own, the little compulsive creeper...). "Dante's having bad dreams," Virgil would say in that dull, melancholy way of his. "He wants to sleep with you."
Erik, who had been reading his nightly chapter of Isaac Asimov's works, sat up looking disgruntled. "Again?" was his one worded complaint. "How often does he have nightmares?" He pulled Dante into his lap with a sigh, and waited for Virgil's response.
As ever, Virgil took a moment to think, a feathered finger on his chin. "Every night," he said at last.
"Why? What does he dream about?" Erik's first thoughts were on the dreams orphans typically had. Was Dante reliving the worst moments of his life? Was his mind unconciously replaying his parents' deaths like a horror film? He put a hand on Dante's head, ruffling the toddler's soft hair. "What do you see when you close your eyes?"
Dante rarely spoke without Virgil prompting him, and when he did, his voice was breathy and frightened. "The inferno," he said, reaching a hand to Virgil. Unlike many toddlers his age, Dante had no trouble speaking. There was no cute lisp to soften his words. "A deep place, darkness... Being alone..." He sniffled. "Then Virgil came, and saved me. He saved me. He's my guide."
"I am your guide," Virgil agreed, sitting down on the bed next to Erik. "Your protector. No beasts shall devour you. We will reach the Heavenly Gates," he promised, as if in after-thought.
Erik stared. "You've got to be kidding," he said, in that stereotypical way one might when someone has them half convinced of something that goes against all logic. "You two? The Dante and Virgil from the poem? The one everyone was supposed to have read in tenth grade? With the nine circles of suffering, the three beasts and--"
Dante shuddered. Virgil glared at Erik. "We do not speak of these things," he said firmly. "They frighten him. I am his protector and guide. I will protect him from what I see fit, and presently, you are one of those things."
"Come on then, to bed," Erik said resignedly, "and Dante?" he gave the toddler half a smile, "we're getting you a dream catcher in the morning."
