Page 40 of The Other Side

“It’s okay,” Osian whispered. “You’re shocked. Just take deep breaths. You think you can walk?”

He helped Drum to his feet and Drum took hold of his hand. Osian looked surprised, then pleased, especially when Drum rubbed his finger on the piece of amber on Osian’s wrist.

“Let’s get back,” Osian said.

They started to walk. The moon emerged from the clouds.

Drum remembered. He remembered everything.

That was where he’d lived until he was ten. That was where he and Osian had played. They’d dammed streams, made dens in the woods, climbed trees, taken care of injured animals, made a pact and signed it with blood. They’d found those amber pieces of resin holding the dandelion seeds and Osian’s mother had got them silver bracelets. Osian’s father had helped secure the amber jewels. Drum and Osian had done everything together, including sit next to each other in school. Osian’s parents and brothers were kind to him. Drum’s parents were not. They were fucking awful.

I had a dog. I’m a faery. Oh my God.

All those happy places he sometimes went to in his dreams…they really existed. The river with the kingfishers. The hill with the white flowers. Osian’s obsession with plants. The foxes…

Drum’s hand was still wrapped tightly around Osian’s. The warmth of it was the only anchor keeping him from floating away into the slipstream of his own shattered reality.

I'm a faery. The thought echoed in his mind, surreal and terrifyingly loud.

He looked at Osian. Really looked at him. The sharp curve of his jaw, the strange, ethereal depth in his eyes. This was the boy who had helped him build fortresses for bugs out of fallen pine needles. The boy who had shared stolen honey-cakes when Drum’s parents had locked him in the cellar, then snuck them in through the bars. The boy who’d given him flowers.

“Drum?” Osian’s voice was gentle. He squeezed Drum’s fingers. “You’re white as a sheet.”

Drum tried to speak, but his throat felt like it was blocked with emotion. How was he supposed to say it? Hey, I remember those ten years of my life I completely blanked on. I just got them all back in a five-second panic attack.

He pulled his hand away, not out of rejection, but because his palms were sweating. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block out the image of the silver curtain, but inside his eyelids, the vivid colours of Faeryland were blinding.

“What did I just see?” Drum whispered, his voice cracking.

“It’s a lot to take in.”

Drum couldn’t breathe. The ground felt unsteady beneath him.

“Drum.”

A warm hand touched his shoulder.

“Breathe.”

Drum closed his eyes. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly panic loosened its grip. When he finally opened his eyes, Osian was still there. Waiting. Patient as he’d always been. The way he used to wait when Drum got frustrated trying to build a den. The way he used to wait for Drum to get his breath back when he fell out of trees.

“I’m not human,” Drum said. He looked directly into Osian’s eyes. “Neither are you.”

Osian froze.

“The stream behind the elderwood grove…” Drum said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush as if he was afraid he’d forget again. “We tried to dam it with river stones. You fell in and ruined your tunic, and your brother Caelan laughed so hard he choked on his tea. Your mother made us sit by the hearth until we dried, and she gave me one of your spare shirts. It had a little silver thread embroidered on the collar. An O.”

Osian’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink.

“And the fox den…” Tears stung the corners of Drum’s eyes, blurring the sight of his oldest friend. “The vixen bit your finger because you got too close, and I had to use the crush-leaf ointment to stop the stinging. We hid there when my father came looking for me. I remember, Osian. I remember how much you love flowers. You adore them. It was you who noticed those amber gems with the dandelion heads. Your parents helped us make the bracelets.”

Slowly, the shock on Osian’s face melted into something raw and fiercely emotional. A brilliant, disbelieving smile broke across his lips, even as his eyes welled with tears. He lunged forward, closing the small distance between them, and threw his arms around Drum’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder.

“You’re back,” Osian choked out, his grip tight enough to bruise, holding on as if something might try to steal him away again. “You’re finally back.”

And when they could walk on, they talked and talked along the way, reminding each other of what they’d done, what they’d seen. It was as if they’d never been apart, the friendship as strong as ever.

When they reached the cottage, Osian pulled up short. “Wait.”