Memories of a Nightmare, Nightmare of Memories

[Kylerryth]

The world was on fire.

The cackle-crackle of fiery laughter and billowing, twisting columns of black smoke rose before him in a scene taken from one of the layers of Hell: the cobblestones were cracked, shattered in some places, and black-lipped, jagged craters dappled the street leading to the traitor's manse. The outlying buildings had been ravaged: fires still burned bright and hot, their orange-red tongues licking the broken windows like a lover's probing tongue, like infernal cunnilingus; their dancing light illuminated and shadowed in wicked and weird ways, bathing and tossing and arching movements that seared what they touched in a flash of flame, like a kiss to remember, like a feverish sea. Smoke poured out of giant holes in walls and rooftops; smoke climbed into the sky and replaced the clouds with oily cumulus formations and, instead of optimistic silver, the glowing blood-red lining of battle. Some buildings were no longer standing, their supports' stolidity having given way to the fire's salacious advances; they were now smoldering and smoking ruins, little more than piles of blackened wood and scorched stone covered in a blanket of ash that, now and then, was stirred by winds that smelled of blood, death and fire. Glass littered the street before every structure, and it glittered and glinted in the queer firelight like the devil's tears, only reflected thousands of times across thousands of tiny, dangerous mirrors.

He was alone. The world was on fire, the flames growing closer and hotter to him, and he was alone.

"Help me!" he screamed. "Someone! Anyone! Help me!"

He was alone. He was helpless, defenseless, and alone. He was sweating. He was crying. He was no longer sweating or crying; his sweat and tears evaporated before they had a chance to fully squeeze out. He was alone. The world was on fire, and the flames drew nearer, more and more curious about the struggling, crying, screaming thing in their midst.

"It burns!" he screamed.

"Help me," he screamed. "Help me!"

He just screamed.

He was alone. He could not draw the Power, could not even feel it, and he was alone.

"Oh, Light!" he screamed.

"I don't want to die!" he screamed.

And then it appeared, a wraith with a white-toothed smile and a red-lipped second grin, wavy blonde hair ablaze and those blue, so blue eyes cold enough to transform the surrounding fields of fire into an arctic wasteland. A sword was in its death-pale hands, the same it had used to duel with him on the worn training grounds in northwestern Myrken Wood and in the shadows of the Red Hills -- and, finally, among the burning ruins of ships on the docks of Orvere. It was the sword that could have ended his life, had its owner not hesitated for one critical second.

It was the sword that, here and now, slid between his ribs and through his heart and out his back with a sound like the cry of mankind, like the candle of hope snuffed by the breath of a black god. Blood dribbled from the entry and exit wounds; blood pooled at the tip of the blade, which scraped against the ground. When had he fallen? He couldn't remember. It wasn't hot anymore, though. Strange; the fires still raged, consuming the world.

"I don't want to die," he breathed. It was cold, so cold, and growing dark.

"I already did," said the wraith.

The last thing he saw when the wraith twisted the blade and killed him was a sliver of the sun's golden eye peeking through the smoke-blotted sky, as if it just wanted to be sure the apocalypse was going according to schedule.

* * * * *

Coran woke in a cold sweat, his shirt twisted and clinging to his torso, and bolted upright, blankets and sheets falling away in a thrash of limbs. Hands darting to his chest, feeling for the dream-wound, he breathed heavily, eyes wide and unfocused; he felt weak and nauseous.

When he didn't find the dream-wound, Coran drew his knees to his chest and folded his arms across them, laid his head atop his arms, and cried.

[BrokenDreamer]

In the past weeks her own sleep had been a fleeting thing -- so often disturbed by her own private horrors. It did not help that the rumors of Dark Elves had finally reached her ears despite the ivory tower she did appear to dwell within. No one would know that it was Faeryl's own crooning voice that this fair Elfin maid did hear in her sleep, whispering of how her own home had crumbled beneath the feet of marching Drow.

A forced insomnia as was secretly done so often when dreams of the slumbering sort were far too much for her to handle, it was the reason why at such a late hour this pale thing could be found out of her bed. The blind female had crept the well-remembered route down the stairs and to the kitchen, to beg whatever staff did linger for those late evening patrons to fetch a cup of tea. It was upon the landing that small bit of herbs was produced from folded handkerchief to slip into her own drink. Something to help keep the mind a wakeful thing. Too much or too long, it could be an addicting thing. She was careful. Just a little bit, only when it was at it's worse.

Such keen ears, it was in passing of Coran's own room that she would hear the most faint of distraught sounds. So quiet and yet enough that it caused one's very heart to stop ... for a moment, the slim digits of one hand did press against the paneling of wood. Torn between what should be done. The drink was hot and burnt the tongue but greedily gulped it was once mind had made its choice, mug settled upon the floor outside the door and left abandoned.

With care the door was tested and found unlocked, eased open so slowly. "Coran?" It was spoken so softly that it could barely be called a whisper, so much hesitancy in those two syllables. The few times she had been within this room had been enough for the female to navigate and what sounds that Coran did create now were more than enough for her to follow.

Tiny hands would a-light upon the bed, those pale things save for crimson dusted digits. A dip of mattress with added weight for she was soon gaining purchase upon the bed with short struggle of long shift and loose, dragging hair. In the black of her world she was reaching for him and in a world gone suddenly backwards it was this timid creature that was soothing the man.

So pale she near seemed to glow in the darkness as she hovered over Coran, crooning soft sounds of comfort and he finding himself a protective curtain of long silken hair. Little need for words, the meaning was easily found in those tender sounds produced -those akin to a mother shushing away the nightmares of a child while hands soothed against cheeks.

[Kylerryth]

If Coran knew about the terrible whispers that disturbed Aislinn's sleep, he could have tried to silence them with the Power.

If Coran knew about the death of Quincy and learned who was responsible, it was entirely possible that further murder would occur within the walls of the Broken Dagger.

If Coran knew about the creature whose glowing green eyes filled the vision of a pretty young girl just before she was torn limb from limb, every part and piece devoured afterward, he could have joined in the search for the brutal beast.

If Coran knew about the drow and what they were doing and what they were about, he could help in the fight to maintain mankind's hold on the surface.

If Coran knew about the concoction Aislinn drank to keep herself awake, however harmless it supposedly was, he could have tried -- and likely failed -- to understand her reasons before pointing out the dangers of what she was doing, dangers she was undoubtedly aware of but was willing to face in light of the alternative.

If Coran knew about the dead and cracked earth surrounding the base of the giant sword at the edge of town, the mere sight of it would likely cause concern, the pungent stench emanating from the monument to battle that only he seemed to smell more so.

If Coran knew about Ariane's plan to leave Myrken Wood, to abandon the past and the memories she had come to be a part of, he might go with her -- and take Aislinn with him, to start anew.

If Coran knew about a little girl staring at a blank wall for hours and hours, it might make him wonder exactly what was so fascinating about the wall ... or, more accurately, what it was the girl saw on (in?) the wall.

But Coran did not know, not any of these things, and life went on.

* * * * *

Were the golden eye from his dream able to peer at the waking world at this particular moment, it would have been sorely disappointed by the snail's pace of the real-world apocalypse.

* * * * *

He did not hear the door open; the combined sounds of his sobs and wordless mumbling drowned the world in the moors of sorrow and loss, and the knowledge that what had been lost could never again be found. He did not hear the nigh-inaudible voice of Aislinn, feather-soft and juniper-sweet, as she tentatively entered the room, closing the door behind her as slowly and quietly as she had opened it. It was not until Aislinn eased onto the mattress that Coran became aware of her, looked up at her, red-eyed and torn by the myriad emotions spiraling out of control within him. Hands tremor-trembling as they slid through the loose, flowing length of her hair, settling on the hilly column of her spine and drawing her close even as she drew close to him, her silken tresses caressing his neck and shoulders while her delicate hands stroked the tearstains from his cheeks, while her pale pink rosebud lips parted to issue soothing words, Coran pressed his forehead to her breasts and took in great gulps of air, filled his lungs again and again with cool winter air and the sweet scent of her, her. New tears sprang into existence; they were collected by her crimson-tipped digits, hot and salty with pain, but Coran was no longer wracked by body-gripping sobs and incoherence: he spoke to her now, his voice raw and sounding as if it was being scraped from the depths of his soul.

"I couldn't bring myself to do it," Coran said, and the great gush of words was interrupted now and then by a pause for tremulous, gasping breath. "Even in the end, after everything we'd done to the city, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I saw her approaching, saw her stalking him like a cat stalking a mouse, and allowed myself to fall before him so he would gloat at his victory. To him, it wasn't killing me that was important -- it was that he'd beaten me, that he'd won the battle and the day. I used that against him, and in the one moment he hesitated to kill me, she drove her blade through his back and then slit his throat.

"I may as well have killed him myself.

"My friend. My enemy. Are they so different, sometimes?"

Coran fell silent. Fresh tears leaked, were once more caught by Aislinn's fingers. Then, so soft she could have imagined she heard it, he said:

"I dreamt the world was on fire, Aislinn. I dreamt that I couldn't channel, and that I was burning alive. There was no one to help me.

"What I didn't realize in my dream was that I was the one who'd started the fire. I was the one who burned the world to a crisp. And, in turn, burned the ability to channel out of myself.

"That's because in my dream I was mad.

"And the reason there was no one to help me was because in my madness, I had taken every single life on the face of the planet."

Silence, save for the slow, steady breathing of the tall young man the tiny blind elf held so close, so dear. Silence, save for the keening of the wind as it raked bitter cold claws over the side of the building and the windows of Coran's room. Silence, save for the whisper-rustling of Aislinn's shift as she pressed against him.

Silence.

The cold moon shivered and peeked out from behind a night-darkened cloud, and the ever-distant stars, like pinholes in a blanket held up to the light, twinkled sadly.

[BrokenDreamer]

He spoke of things that she could not fully comprehend, of events that she herself held no knowledge of. All she knew was the pain that filtered through his voice, the salty moisture upon cheeks and how she could smell it. When the strength of arms had dared to clutch the feather-light of her form to him, there was to be no struggle. Just acceptance, a melting against with soft cheek pressed a-top the man's head. With crooning still the product of her voice, there was a mingling of words:

"You are not alone, Coran," so quietly spoke and in such gentled way it was barely more than the sweetest whisper.

"I am here and I shall never leave you." The vow of an Elfin was never something to take lightly. "Even if my last breath shall somehow be drawn before your own, I will always be near."

The ways of her people were mysterious things and so often these fragile creatures were taken for granted as but merely humans with unusual shape of ears and a stronger connection with that of the natural world. The difference ran deeper than that and if she spoke of even death not able to tear her away, than it was most fully meant.

She understood dreams though, nightmares ... and premonitions.

"What you say, there is no promise that such a thing shall ever come to fruition."

She was shifting and pulling only slightly away, nothing more than a hair's breath of separation and most assuredly not from those arms. It was so that neck my crane with the softness of kisses to be applied to temple and brow, upon closed eyelids.

"Sleep now, Mela en' coiamin." In the dark of her world and that of the unlit room, hands would smooth through the wilds of hair. "Sleep and I shall watch over you. I promise to keep the bad dreams at bay."

There were other kisses after those words as hands continued to sooth away tears, one that would even find purchase of the man's lips in tender way. The blind female had memorized his face well by sense of touch; there would be no missing of that mark. It spoke volumes more in that one action than all of those words, I am here and all is well.

[Kylerryth]

You are not alone, she said.

Not here, not now, no. Coran could feel the bird's-bones delicacy of Aislinn's body against his own, a considerably larger body developed and toned by farm labor and a self-imposed, rigorous regiment of exercises; could feel the warm, slim fingers that caressed his cheeks and wiped away his tears; could feel the heat of her cheek through the sweat-matted layer of hair atop his head; could hear the soft comforting words she said and sounds she made; could, if he opened his eyes, see the steady rise and fall of her breathing; could feel her heartbeat, a throb that seemed to be keeping time with the throbbing of his temples. She was here, there was no doubt about that, and she was real, his senses told him so.

In that recurring too-vivid dream, however...

I am here, and I shall never leave you, she said. Even if my last breath shall somehow be drawn before your own, she said, I will always be near.

"I don't want to think about that," Coran breathed. The mere thought of her death sent a spike of pain deep into his heart, and life without her would surely be a dark and forbidding existence, bitter even -- or mad. Such was the depth of their feelings for one another; so little time had passed, yet so much had been exchanged verbally, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, that the idea, concept, and/or hope of experiencing life after the death of the other would amount to a prolonged suicide.

Then again, that was the story of Coran's life.

* * * * *

If Coran knew about the ways of Aislinn's people, those enigmatic elves whose courts were places of wonders made manifest and magic abound; esoteric elves whose bond with the world far outstripped any dreams mere humans might possess about communing with nature; extraordinary elves who were aware of the boundaries of reality and traversed them, enabling her people to explore the world of dreams, the past, present, and future, and even the realm of death...

If Coran knew about the ways of Aislinn's people, it was entirely possible that he might be slightly comforted by her words.

On the other hand, being haunted, even by a loved one's ghost, would be more than a bit awkward and a little left of weird.

* * * * *

What you say, Aislinn said, there is no promise that such a thing shall ever come to fruition.

And then she moved, only slightly, and kissed his temple, his brow, his closed eyes, tasting on the last the hot saline tears that even now crept from their corners. Even while she spoke again, Coran's lips brushed against the side of her neck, the underside of her chin.

Sleep now, Mela en' coiamin, she said, and Coran had no idea of what those alien words could mean. He liked the sound of them, though, and assumed that they meant something good, since Aislinn had said them to him. Her hands raked gently over his scalp, stroked his hair. Her roseate mouth, now against his ear, whispered, Sleep and I shall watch over you. I promise to keep the bad dreams at bay.

As Coran laid down again on the mattress, drawing Aislinn down with him, on top of him, her continued kisses leaving blossoms of warmth wherever they landed, he couldn't help but wonder about ... about everything. What was happening to him? What was happening in -- or to -- Myrken Wood? And as Aislinn's lips touched his own in a tender but long and surprisingly vehement kiss, a kiss that Coran returned slowly, then sweetly, then deeply, Coran could not help but wonder about their future, and if Aislinn, out of curiosity, had thought to look at it.