Cold Dreams and Sightless Endings

Faroe switched her weight to her opposite foot. Her eyes narrowed, trying to make the words register. What was that he�s saying? He wants something to drink, right? Cider? Of course he does. Everyone likes cider. She heard herself saying something, felt her mouth forming words . . . but why was she telling the man about cider?

She pursed her lips together in a vain attempt to make her head steady. To her ears, the speech sounded like complete gibberish.

Frightening was something it wasn�t, however. Oh, of course she knew what she was saying, what she was doing, and why she was doing it . . . but only in the back of her mind. She thought it was more frustrating then anything. It wore her out to think about it too much. Gave her a headache. Still she did, though. A lifeline, was it? But a lifeline to what? She didn�t know. Eyes turned down, seeing her hand move through the familiar motions. Left, right, up, down . . . pull the chords of magick in the air. There. Now the man has cider. Why did he want cider?

Something told her to leave. Was that Aura? What was she doing here? And what was she saying about her going home? That might be a good idea. Home . . . she could think well there. Faroe fell off of the stool in a hasty motion, gently brushing Musashi�s hug away. She thought she caught a glimpse of the bard, whom she saw a few eves ago, but slid past him as well. Once outside her thoughts cleared to a tolerable level. Oh, Goddess . . . the dreams. Why were they doing this to her? She couldn�t remember what had started them. A dance . . ? Her eyes flickered downward, making sure she was still on the path. Her feet fell in rhythmic motions, puffs of dirt forming about her ankles when she stepped. As always, she found the repetitive motion calming. It gave her sanctuary from her thoughts.

The next she knew, she was shouldering out of her cloak and moving to a seat near the fire. Why was it still burning? Her eyes fluttered shut as soon as she sat. The crackling of the fire surrounded her . . . the flames licking higher behind her closed lids. So near . . . she could almost touch them . . .

The flames died down, revealing a white sphere, of which she was standing in the middle of. The edges were so far away . . . she knew she couldn�t reach them if she tried her whole life. Her head felt cemented in place. It wasn�t able to swivel around, stuck. No need to panic, though. Wasn�t this like d�j� vu? Yes, that�s it. It�s happened before, so no need to be scared.

Before her new environs could record in her head, they grew a shade darker. Almost unnoticeable to the inexperienced eye. This wasn�t what Faroe�s was, though. She could feel the magick . . . feel it snapping, jumping, and dancing throughout the bubble. Why couldn�t she raise her arms to touch it?

Gradually, slowly . . . again it changed. This time, the dark rising from underneath her feet, sending ripples upwards and to the top of the sphere. With it, it brought the cold. The unbearable cold. If Faroe couldn�t feel her body before, now the feeling was gone.

Tingles. The tip of her fingers . . . needles pricking. Painful . . . agonizing.

Now, numbness. Skin turning brittle . . . it couldn�t happen, could it? She could feel it, but couldn�t. Why cold? She could not handle it. So much worse then water . . . so much worse. Her teeth clenched with so much pressure she was sure they would�ve snapped if she were not . . . where she was. A dream . . . but so real. Disturbingly real. Slowly, achingly, the numbness faded. Now a dull throb. She could handle that. So much better then the cold. . . . Faroe could almost feel it, as if it was coming back, just by directing her thoughts to it.

This sudden realization made her thoughts dart more to the white bubble again. Was the darkness more of a grey now? Good . . . positive, optimistic thinking. Lighter . . . white . . . no more dark.

She could�ve laughed at herself. The myths she often read spoke of the battles between Light and Dark, Love and Hate, Peace and War, Good and Evil. Was this what she was doing now? Fighting the bad? The evil? Was there some sort of cruel, insane symbolism embedded into this?

The questions. So many questions. The answers never came . . . leaving her still asking them, still searching for the solutions- to what, she did not know- in the waking hours. Was this why she felt so out of control? So distant?

More questions. She had soon learnt to hate them. Look around yourself . . . it�s changed.

The blackness had differed to a spiraling motion. Everything was moving, pulsating. Were those stars? Yes, beautiful specks of light, smearing together. Twirling . . . so beautiful. An orange tint smoothed into her sight, enveloping the design. It was the most lovely, amazing thing she�d ever seen, perhaps she even forgot the coldness from earlier. Clouds flew into the scene, blending with the cochlear motion to make it appallingly perplexing. They moved with an unseen wind, whipping across the �sky� so much more quickly then normal. But what was normal, in this place? The red color was still her, fading as the clouds formed. The sun, maybe? Faroe stood, gaping in veneration, eyes wide. The smell of damp wood, like right after a rain, wafted by, teasing her senses. How could something so awe inspiring, so gorgeous, exist? Even as she thought the question, she knew it was pointless. This wasn�t real. Just a dream. Or her imagination . . .

It seemed as though a few days had passed; just standing, watching.

The shadows, the darkness, were forming again. Couldn�t it just leave her alone for a few minutes? Of course not. Whatever she wished wouldn�t come true. Whatever she didn�t wish wouldn�t come true. But- what would- was what she wished wouldn�t.

A flash of events . . . every horrible thing that had happened to her sped in front of her eyes. They were so brief, not even seconds, but Faroe could see each with staggering clarity. She felt her heart swell with pain, grief, hatred, agony, and depression . . . every feeling that pecked against her bubble. Her bubble of comfort, of safety. She writhed again, chills racing through her veins.

Then it stopped.

Quiet.

Still.

The white sphere.

~ ~ ~

Faroe peeled her eyes open, immediately not recognizing the area around her. After a small amount of time, she saw she was standing in the forest near Novafyre. The trees were dense and hard to navigate if you weren�t on a path . . . but Faroe new them very well. She was luckily standing on the main road, a clean slender line that threaded through the giant trees like a river.

She began to walk, visions of her dream fluttering like moth�s wings across her eyes, every time she blinked. A cough prompted her to turn, allowing her to face a heavily cloaked man. She had seen far to many shadow-dressed beings to be scared, but this one gave off a certain aura of terror, sheer terror. He started to speak, in a very matter of fact, informative tone. "Hello Faroe. Have those nasty dreams been bothering you again?" His tongue flicked against his teeth, a clicking noise emitting from his lips. This action caused her to grimace and recoil involuntarily. The fact that it was something she did often made no matter. "There is a way to stop them, you know. Do you remember how they started?"

Faroe couldn�t do more then shake her head. Her lips felt nailed together. He sneered, lips pulling up tightly at the corners. "Of course you don�t. I don�t expect you to. But even though, I have something to tell you." He took a step closer, lowering the hood of his cloak. A raven imbued braid fell out, his now revealed sable eyes matching them. They were as dark and as bright as a hawk�s, and as unreadable. Another contraction of his mouth twisted his lips into a distorted smirk. "They�re coming, Faroe. It�s coming. What, you might ask? Everyone always says that, you say? But, it�s never true. People don�t know this power . . . they . . . underestimate it." His grin dispersed. "Don�t not believe it, Faroe."

Stupid man, she thought. Was he the one sending her the dreams? Still, she wasn�t able to voice her thoughts. Another reason to damn him for doing this to her. Again, why her? Why do big, important people pick her to deliver their messages?

"Faroe!" The sharp utterance of her name hit her ears with force, and she began to listen to him once more. "You must go now. Do what you wish with this information. Good or Evil, none will triumph," he said cryptically, then disappeared. Just like that. No fancy poof of blue smokes, plainly gone. No longer there. Why did she suddenly have the urge to hit something very hard?

~ Later, at Novafyre. ~

Faroe sat in the middle of various mountains of papers, looking exasperated. She was searching, for information on the dreams . . . prophets . . . Good and Evil . . . and several other subjects pertaining to the aforementioned. The only thing she was successful in finding was an enchantment to place on her new weapon, and that wasn�t as important of the other matters.

She vaguely recalled a few of the patrons- her friends, maybe, ask her of her fortune and the clutter behind the counter. She had waved them off, told them she was busy and to serve themselves. In all the crates she had stacked in the back room, there was not a single scrap of parchment or book that related to the topics she wanted. The next day, she decided, she would bring in some incredibly large boxes from her home to search through. She sat back on her heels, tired and frustrated.

Was that Musashi again? Hello hello! Something told her that she hadn�t said that out loud. She corrected the mistake and greeted him in a fairly normal manner, but after the first few words her thoughts slipped back to the previous thoughts. She felt something pulling at her sleeve a few minutes later and looked down, seeing concern flash in the boy�s eyes. "�.Faroe�. �.are you all right�?" She nodded and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then said something else that her ears didn�t catch. The fencer seemed dissatisfied, but still walked from behind the counter. The tavern and inn emptied soon afterward, leaving Faroe alone; save for the few that were staying at the inn, in the rooms upstairs. After a few minutes a woman; perhaps a traveler, walked in, a worn map clenched in her palm. Seeing first the sign on the door stating Faroe was the owner and then Faroe herself, she strode towards the counter. The curly haired female cleared her throat and asked, "Miss tavernkeep, could you help me find the Forest of Music? It doesn�t seem to be listed on here . . ." She clutched the map to her breast, looking almost possessive, then spread it out on the counter. She pointed to where they were then moved her finger across the lines marked on it, then paused. Her amber eyes raised to Faroe�s again. Faroe realized she was supposed to be giving an answer but didn�t know what was asked. She kept her mouth shut and tilted her head to the side instead.

"Miss tavernkeep? Are you alright?" She asked, slowly.

"Aye, yes . . . I�m fine. It�s just . . ." She paused, not sure if she should tell this stranger about her dreams, about the man. She did seem like one who traveled often, perhaps when the burden of knowledge left her, so would the dreams. It was a childish hope though, and she knew it.

"Well . . . I�ve been having these dreams. Strange dreams they are, and I�ve just recently been able to remember what they are of. There was this - "

Faroe stopped bluntly. She found her mouth wouldn�t open to finish the sentence. The girl was looking at her with a suspicious but almost pitying eye, brow peeked upwards. Faroe raised a hand to her lips and rain a finger across them. The skin felt normal . . . why wasn�t she able to speak? Again she tried. "Before I came here, I saw a - " Stopped again. She was getting agitated by it, but refused to let that show. She laughed in a somewhat forced manner, her voice choking in her throat.

"Don�t mind me, I�m out of it tonight." The girl shrugged, not really seeming to care. "Could I get a room?" She inquired, interest in the forest she asked of earlier lost, and not seeming in the least perturbed by Faroe�s strange actions.

"Of course, m�lady." Faroe told her, sadly aware that no one would; could, know of her problem. Was it better off being a secret? That wasn�t something that was not easily answered. Another question she could add to the list of things to brood over during the day. Snapping back out of the clouded realm that she knew less formally as her thoughts, she directed the girl to a vacant room, learning her name was Qyest in the process. When Faroe returned downstairs it was mostly vacant. A few patrons had entered and were talking and some dozed in the window seats. Why was she even there? Wasn�t it to take her mind off of things?" It wasn�t helping. Outside . . . home? No, that �s where the dreams happen. But that�s also where she�d be able to think . . . to search for answers. Couldn�t she do that at the tavern? Too many question. She began to hum a scale, the notes rising and falling. Redundant. Comforting. Way off tune, but her ears didn�t pick it up.

There. No more thoughts. At least not for now . . .

Maybe she could write it down. Write what down? The dreams. Yes, paper . . . a pen. She could write it down, aye, then give it to someone. Help, maybe!

Her hand began to travel across the paper that was conveniently placed on the counter, writing implement heavy in her grasp. The letters that used to flow out of her so easily seemed like lead, like each stroke of the pen was a great labor. Her tongue ran across her lips, other hand coming to rest upon the tablet. Too hard . . . she couldn�t do it. Failure. The pen fell out of her loose fingers and clacked to the ground. Faroe followed suit, sliding down then slumping against the wall. Why was she limited to just simple, basic actions? Writing was so easy. . . So important . . . if she couldn�t do that. . !

Her thoughts lapsed. Where�s Liam? He never did tell her where he was going. He�s coming back, right? She hoped so. A loud shout from the other end of the tavern caused tears to well in her eyes, so close to overflowing . . . a glass filled to the brim with water, a rock hovering above it, threatening to fall in. She wasn�t sad, however. Or was she? Thoughts . . . questions. Just go away. Leave me alone; let me be . . . They wouldn�t. A dark cloak, hovering, waiting . . . eating at her, swallowing her. Where was she? Remember . . . She was always so happy. Why not now? Why the sadness? The cold. They were linked . . . She�d always known that, in some distant reach of her mind. Leave me alone, she thought again. Was she saying it aloud? She hoped not. No need to have people thinking she was crazier then they already think she is. I�m not crazy! She screamed at the thoughts. No one looked her way . . . good. She wasn�t speaking out loud. One thing went her way. Next she knew, she was walking again. Away from the tavern, the talking. Perhaps not such a smart idea . . .

Birds chirped mournfully as she passed. At her? Mimicking her feelings? There they are again, the questions. Go away. Dusky light filtered through the boughs, creating a myriad of grey orange colors on the path. Which she was on. Another point for her. Slender beams cast through the thin leaves and onto her face, melding with her skin. A crack of a branch sent a knife through the silence, the cool luminescence screaming in protest, then dying. Again . . . crack. Her mind turned to face it, the shock of paranoia getting to her instantly. Who was there?

Silence.

Still.

The sound of raindrops hitting the thick canopy of leaves came to her before the sensation of small droplets rolling of her skin. That too did come, but with a much-delayed reaction that was either her own or another�s doing.

Where�d the crack go?

She rotated on one foot; eyes open wide, pupils dilated. No more sound, but a deafening quiet.

No sweet serenity, no soothing euphoria.

Dead.

Not as apt a word as she�d have liked, but would have to do. What else could even come close to describing it?
Another question hit her, having been asked before but demanding more attention then the others.

She�d lost herself.

Wasn�t acting normal, now.

There wasn�t an end in sight . . . in sound, in touch, in taste, in any of her senses.

Could she stay like this . . . stand to stay like this, much longer?

She could feel snaky tendrils, cracks, covering her �shell�. Of course it wasn�t real . . . more of a metaphor then anything. Even so, she kept hold of the circle of comfort. Did everything she could to keep it sealed . . .

It wasn�t working.

Why should it?

Why shouldn�t it?

An animal skittered in a bush near her, puling her from the Thought Cloud. No more crack, but no more horrid silence. The dulcet sound of rain had come back, soaking into the deep grey dress she wore, and into her hair as well, turning it the color of dying embers. It was more of a relief then a hindrance, it make her know she was real. Not just a mind floating in a body. She walked on, feet now light. There was a certain sense of elation in her heart now, too.

Sudden changes . . . her reality shifted. Was the moon fuller? The stars brighter? Perhaps. Silvery strands fell across her face, eyes brightening to their usual glint.

Wished did she, wished it would last. But, alas, the dreams would return. Maybe worse, maybe better.

Her legs carried her to a nearby tavern, the Tavern of Sun and Moon? She entered anyway, deciding the name of the establishment wasn�t important. Her eyes caught someone greeting her, and she returned the gesture, suddenly feeling very tired. She trudged over to a table, collapsing into it; her now strangely dry and revived of color hair formed a curtain across her gaze. Her eyes shuddered and closed, the low murmuring of the tavern fading into the background and lulling her to sleep . . .

Dreamless?

Of course not.

But sleep none the less . . . to wake, and have the cycle return.

Always spinning . . .

Revolving . . .

Unstopping.

The cold dreams.