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It was that he’d given up everything and gotten nothing for it in return. It was that he wasn’t a dreamer, and he wasn’t a dream, and he couldn’t be human; there was nothing left. Just a turquoise ocean with no sign that he’d ever been. Something had to change.
Please let me do this thing for you. Please. Please just be safe.” All of this was the opposite of safe, but Declan knew what she meant. She didn’t really mean safe, any more than his life before this had been safe. She meant something I can control.
The most incredible part of watching Ronan manifest them hadn’t been the sundogs themselves. It had been when Ronan said to the vast dreamspace that knew every part of him: I’m trusting you. A savage fuckup like Ronan could trust his subconscious that deeply. Could she?
You have nothing but yourself and what is that?
Ronan had loved Richard C. Gansey III far more than he loved himself at that point, and he hadn’t known how he was going to ever face him when he returned from out of town.
He needed to start realizing that possible and impossible didn’t mean the same thing for him as they did for other people. He needed to break himself of the habit of rules, of doubt, of physics. His what if had grown so tame. You are made of dreams and this world is not for you.
He would not let this world kill him slowly. He deserved a place here, too.
“So you just want us to die?” Hennessy demanded. “Or stop dreaming,” suggested another one of the party. Bryde broke in gently, “That’s a little facetious, don’t you think? We all know by now that dreamers must dream. So that’s not truly a bargain any of you or us could strike. That’s a thing you offer so that you can sleep at night. That’s the story you tell your children when you call them. That’s not a thing you tell another adult with a straight face.”
“This isn’t a negotiation, it’s stalling. We’re about to be shot at with some very large weapons. I told you what it meant if you called me.” “More hiding,” Ronan said. “Running and hiding are two different things.”
