What is to come is not always as great a mystery,
as what has really been.
Cold moonlight washed through the room, whispering a tale of the winter outside. A sleeping figure huddled in her bed, wrapped in warm covers. She moved restlessly in her sleep as clouds soared through the moonlight and let their shadows caress her face. Moaning softly, caught in her dreams, she tossed and turned. Suddenly her eyes flew wide open and she sat up with a start. She could feel her heart racing, the dark ominous feeling from her dream refusing to let go. Something was coming.
Something from the past.
She sat still for a while in the moonlit room, staring emptily into space. Then she shook her head and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She got up and walked over to the window, wrapping her covers around her like a makeshift cloak. The silvery light lit up dark smoke blue hair and emerald eyes; mirrors to the soul of someone who had seen her world crumble before her eyes, and learned the hard way that life is not always as simple and perfect as it ought to be.
Outside the chilling moonlight created a world of black and white, with hard contours and painfully sharp shadows. A dreamscape, where nothing was truly what it seemed.
Sylphiel shook her head, still not able to shake the overwhelming feeling. Her dreams had been troubled for quite a while, and now finally this. It was like that time several years ago, before the fall of Sairaag. She had known then, that something was wrong, that something was about to happen. This was as strong a feeling, but confusing all the same. Both ominous and promising, both frightening and wonderful at the same time. She tore her eyes from the glowing landscape and walked back to her bed. She sat down, drawing the covers even closer around herself, reluctant to give up their warmth. She closed her eyes and frowned, trying to recall what the dream had really been about.
Short, disjointed fragments of memories, like pieces of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle where she could still not make out a picture. There had been images of Gourry, sweet warm Gourry with the honest eyes and carefree smile. Fire-eyed Lina was there, the quiet chimera and the young princess, too. In the dream she had once again felt the presence of Flagoon in her mind, an awesome feeling, like nothing else she knew.
But the holy tree was gone now. Destroyed when Hellmaster had turned the desolate ruins of her city into his playground, a shrine to himself, a city of ghosts.
The blue-haired girl opened her eyes and sighed. She would get no more sleep tonight. Shedding the heavy covers she got up and dressed, a soaring ball of warm light chasing away the shadows from the little room. She went down the creaking stairs and into the kitchen, earning a flat stare from the cat sleeping in one of the chairs as she woke it from its feline dreams. A few soft strokes over silky fur, and a muffled purr told her she was forgiven for now.
With a cup of hot, honey-sweet tea she sat down across the table from the cat, who was now busy taking a morning bath, and looked out through the window as gray morning light chased the night away and draped mist over the frosty hills. She sipped her tea, letting memories from the dream come back one by one, like pearls sliding down a string. As the picture slowly became discernable the teacup was left forgotten on the table, the blood colored sun rising unseen. Not until she was certain she remembered every detail, every little thing did she move. A shudder ran through her body and she suddenly clenched the teacup in both hands. The cat gave her a curious look as she slowly shook her head.
"No..."
Her voice echoed hollowly in the silence.
"It can't be. Impossible."
The cat looked at her for a while longer, then performed the feline equivalent of a shrug and went to find something better to do. The blue haired girl sat alone in the kitchen, her eyes still empty, as if looking at something no one else could see.
"No..."
Awareness.
Senses not used to working suddenly exploding with activity.
Pressure all around, heavy, choking masses of dirt.
There was no air, but that didn't really matter because there was still no real need to breathe. Newly recreated fingers moved ever so slightly.
The stale smell of earth and moldering plants. An urge to break free, break out.
Still no real need for air, but it would come, soon enough. Dazzled senses tentatively giving orders to nerves and muscles just created anew, getting a weak response as fingers once again moved. Fluttering butterflies of memory, caught and examined as the efforts to move grew stronger.
Something small, with a multitude of legs and a decidedly unpleasant feel to it, slid hurriedly across his face. An automatic gesture to try and brush it away made his hand dig into the earth around him, and suddenly the urge to get free became overwhelming. Movements jerky and uncoordinated at first, then more and more forceful moved frosty dirt and stones aside. Brittle new fingernails split, fingers bled, but he was still not quite able to feel pain, knew only the need to break free. Struggling for what seemed forever, digging, reaching for the surface like a drowning man, he slowly made his way upwards.
The darkness and the choking, claustrophobic pressure seemed to go on forever, and his shattered mind had all but given up hope of ever getting out, when suddenly one of his hands broke through the surface into cold air. A final effort brought him above ground in a cascade of rocks and sand, aching lungs burning with their first gasp of breath. The sheer adrenaline rush carried him a few feet further, then he collapsed into a trembling heap on the frosty ground.
The air was cold and painful to breathe, the roaring thunder of his heartbeat deafening.
The sun hung heavy and ripe like an amber fruit in the sky, chilly mists softening the contours of the world. The pale, feathery clouds flowing above were reflected in glittering gold and emerald depths as he slowly opened his eyes.
The story idea is mine, obviously, since I doubt anyone else has a weird enough mind to consider something like this. It was all based on a dream I had, actually. Amazing, now you know that too.
The quotes are from Oshiro-sama's Letters to a Red Priest (in other words, I made 'em up) and can't be used without my permission. If you ask nicely and give me credit you'll most likely get my permission, but anyways...
Many heartfelt thanks to Jen for actually encouraging me to write this, to Syrena for beta reading it and telling me it's good (don't hit her), and to Wendy for not smacking me too hard with that fish of hers...
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