It was a big gamble, and her stomach writhed with nausea every time she thought about it, but there was no other choice, no other option. Tristan was absolutely adamant that he couldn't -- physically couldn't -- go on past the wasteland line, and he wouldn't let her stay here. Where else was there to go?
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And finally -- worst of all -- she was scared that she'd wake up, back on the train, all alone. That she'd make it back to the world, to life, only to discover that Tristan had been right: he couldn't come with her. She didn't know what she'd do if that happened. She could only hope, pray even, that fate would not be so cruel.
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Despite her assurances to Tristan, Dylan was nervous about returning to the train tunnel, about trying to climb back into her body. She thought about what Jonas had said, how he'd warned her that she'd be going back into her body exactly as it was. She wished it hadn't been quite so dark in the train carriage. She had no idea how badly she'd been injured, what it was that had ripped her soul from its physical shell. She had no idea how much it was going to hurt when she woke back up.
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This was it. This was the place where she'd died. She stared down at the railway line, waiting to feel something. Loss or sadness -- pain, even. Instead she just felt the creeping sickness of fear and anxiety, the same nervousness she'd been fighting all day. She swallowed it back; she'd already made her decision.
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Nowhere.
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Dylan could think of no other reason for it except that she was with Tristan. Whatever happened, so long as she stayed with him, she could survive; she could cope. The bright sunshine was soothing, too. It helped keep her niggling thoughts pinned at the back of her mind, banishing them to the shadows where they belonged.
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It was a lot to worry about, yet somehow, despite all this, as they ploughed their way through the final day's march, the sun stayed high in the sky, the clouds nowhere in sight.
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Dylan expected to recognise the end of the journey, to be able to pick out landmarks that would tell her they were almost there and allow the excitement and nerves to percolate. But the last hill was just the same as the one that had come before it, and the one that had come before that, yet suddenly they were standing at its peak, looking down on a set of rusting rail tracks.
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He didn't sound nervous, like she was. Or eager. He sounded sad. Like he was convinced this wasn't going to work and he was dreading Dylan's disappointment. She didn't let his cynicism faze her; she had enough trouble silencing her own doubts.
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"So we just follow the tracks?" she asked.
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She took a deep, steadying breath. "We're here," she said unnecessarily.
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"Okay." She swung her arms back and forth a couple of times, dithering. "Okay, let's do it."
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"We're here," he agreed.
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Tristan just nodded.
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Tristan didn't move and she realised he was waiting for her to take the lead. She took one deep breath, then another. Her feet didn't seem to want to move. They felt leaden, too heavy to lift from the dew-soaked grass. Was that just fear, or was it the wasteland, reluctant to let her go?
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Her hand slid into the pocket of her jeans, fingers stroking the satin softness of the petals on the wildflower Tristan had given her. It had wilted since he'd picked it, but she'd refused to throw it away. Instead she held onto it like a talisman. Something to bind her to the wasteland; something to bind her to Tristan. Dylan only hoped that would be enough to keep them together.
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Tristan could not possibly have missed the train tracks; they were the only thing to look at in the undulating landscape.
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"It's going to work," she muttered to the air, far too low for Tristan to hear. "We will make it back."
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Setting her mouth into a determined line, she trudged forward. One hand gripped Tristan's tightly and, step by step, she dragged him along behind her. He was limping now, one hand permanently fixed to his side. But he'd be all right. If she could just get him through this last little bit, get him back to her world, he'd be all right. She made herself believe it.
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They walked down the hill until Dylan was able to step up onto the sleepers that turned the tracks into a ladder. Then she turned -- after checking with Tristan that she was heading in the right direction -- and began to follow the line towards the tunnel mouth. The tracks curved through the countryside, so at first she couldn't see it, but then, out of nowhere, they turned a corner and there it was. A giant hill stood immovable in their path. The tracks seemed to wind towards it, then disappear: a road to nowhere. The closer they got, though, the larger a dark arch at the base of the hill seemed to grow, until Dylan could clearly see where the train had entered the mountain. Entered, but not left.
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"Dylan." Tristan pulled her to a stop, spun her to face him. "Dylan, this isn't going to work."
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"It will --"
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A black hole. Gaping and wide, it seemed to call to her. She shivered, the hairs standing up at the back of her neck. What if, what if, what if? Doubts whispered ferociously again at the back of her head but she tried to ignore them. She set her chin high in the air and marched determinedly forward.
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"Why did you come, then?" she challenged.
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Dylan played with her tongue between her teeth, stared at him. For the first time he look like a sixteen-year-old boy, small and uncertain. Rather than frighten her, though, his uncertainty gave her courage.
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"No, it won't. I can't go to your world. I don't belong. I don't belong anywhere but here." He seemed to be pleading with her; half-angry, half-desperate.
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Tristan lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, looking for all the world like an awkward teenager.
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"Because… because…" He blew out an exasperated breath. "Because I love you." He dropped his head to the ground as he said it, missing the shock and joy that rippled across Dylan's face. A heartbeat later he pulled his gaze back up. "I want you to be right, Dylan. But you're not."
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"Tristan? Why did you come?"
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He huffed out a black laugh at that. "Do you?" he asked.
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"You promised me you'd try," she reminded him. "Have faith."
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She had come a long, long way for this chance and she wasn't going back now. Not without at least trying. Besides, they couldn't stay here. Tristan was hurt. Whatever had happened to him, the wasteland was hurting him now. He was wrong: this wasn't where he belonged. He needed to get out. Dylan told herself that and tried not to listen to the whispering voice at the back of her head suggesting that his injuries, his agonies, were happening because she was trying to make him leave the wasteland. Squaring her shoulders, she headed into the dark.
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The black was disorienting at first, and their footsteps echoed off the closed-in walls. The air smelled of damp. Dylan shivered.
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"I have hope." She blushed. "And love." Dylan gazed at him, green eyes scorching. "Trust me."
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Tristan had no choice but to follow; she refused to let go of his hand.
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"Are there wraiths in here?" she whispered. The air was silent, but surely they would lurk in such a damp, desolate place.
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"Almost," Tristan said. "It's dead ahead. Just a few metres."
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That was small comfort, but it wasn't enough to chase away the chill that was raising goosebumps on Dylan's arms and making her teeth chatter.
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"Can you see anything?" she asked, not liking the silence. "Are we nearly at the train?"
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Dylan slowed. It was so dark she could barely see her hand in front of her face, and she didn't want to bang into the bumper at the front of the train.
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"Stop," Tristan barked. She complied at once. "Reach out. You're there."
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"No," Tristan replied. "They aren't allowed this close to your world. We're safe."
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Dylan felt out with her fingertips. Just before she reached full stretch, her hand came into contact with something cold and hard. The train.
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"Help me find the door," she ordered.
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"Here," he said, taking her hand and placing it mid-air, just at the height of her shoulder. Dylan scrabbled around and felt the texture of dirt and rubber under her fingers. The tread on the floor of the open door. It was high up, she realised. They were going to have to climb.
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Tristan gripped her by the elbow and guided her along several metres.
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"Ready?" she asked. There was no response, but she could still feel his hand on her arm. "Tristan?"
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Dylan moved closer, ready to clamber up. Her fingers pulled Tristan's hand from her elbow and curled it into her palm. She was taking no chances; she wasn't letting go of him. She didn't care how awkward it was. She was not going to be tricked again.
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"Wait." He tugged at her, pulled with enough pressure to turn her round. Tristan's other arm snaked round her waist and he drew her to him. The tunnel floor was uneven and so, for once, his face was level with hers. She felt his breath tickling her cheek. "Look, I…" he started and then fell quiet. She heard him take a deep breath, then another. He gripped her chin, lifted it a fraction. "Just in case," he whispered.
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"Ready," he whispered back.
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Tristan kissed her like he was saying goodbye. His mouth pressed hungrily against hers and he squeezed her so tight it was hard to breathe. Letting go of her face, he slid his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer still. Dylan screwed her eyes shut and tried to fight the tears that sprang forth. It wasn't goodbye, it wasn't. This was not going to be the last time she felt the heat of his embrace, smelled him, held onto him. It wasn't.
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"No," Tristan whispered back in the dark. His voice was husky; he sounded almost frightened. Dylan felt her stomach twist nervously.
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"Me neither." She tried to grin but her mouth wouldn't work. She reached blindly for his hand again. She wasn't going to lose him.
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Still holding on to him, she hoisted herself through the half-open doorway and then shuffled round to help Tristan up. It was difficult, and she smacked her hand against the buckled door, making her knuckles throb, but eventually they were standing together in the doorway, blind and breathless.
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"Dylan," Tristan murmured, his voice just beside her ear. "I hope you're right."
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They were going to share a million other kisses just like this.
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Dylan smiled into nothingness. She hoped she was, too.
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Cautiously, she edged forward. The carriage was silent, but her pulse was roaring in her ears, so loud she could barely hear the sound of Tristan breathing just a step behind her. Her stomach was squirming. What if this didn't work? What if her body was battered and broken beyond repair?
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"I don't know how we do this," she said quietly. "I think we have to find me. I was somewhere in the middle, I think."
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"Ready?" she asked again, breathlessly this time.
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Dylan had time for just one, quick intake of breath, then she was falling. She reached out, desperate to stop herself tumbling down to the graveyard floor. Reached out with two hands. Two empty hands.
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And what was lying on the ground between her soul and her body? What were they going to have to crawl over? Blood? Body parts? That stupid woman's bags? Dylan laughed at that, a tense bark. She turned to share the joke with Tristan, and felt her trainer swivel much too easily. Something slick was under her shoe. And it wasn't spilled juice, she was sure of that. Disgusted, she tried to yank her foot up, but something caught her heel. Off balance, she shuffled with her other foot, but there was something in the way. Her weight tilted back, leaning precariously, then tipping just a bit too far.
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