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>You are Elia
>You are eleven-years-old
>Against your juvenile will you sit, birdbutt uncomfortably glued to the seat of an old chair
>Across from you in his own seat at the kitchen table, is your father, Matias
>And while your gloved talon taps out code for an SOS into the knot-wood table, daka curls his body over a checklist your Seminary instructor gave to you, his lithe silhouette traced in dim everflame lamplight
>The only saving grace in these long, after-dinner study sessions is mom’s unconscious lilt
>Her birdlike voice carries from the kitchen with the same ease and warmth as vanilla
>You peek around daka to catch a glimpse of her at work
>You see a lithe, feminine crow, beak down down as she
>There’s a hushed, clumsy whisper in your ear
>With a startled cheep you spin backwards in your chair
>Your heart kicks itself like a drum
>There’s a familiar dining room window, its frame now darkened as the night wore on
>Strange though
>You don’t recall ever leaving this window…
>…slightly ajar….
>The window funnels a steady breeze inside the house – a breeze that tickles your loose feathers
“Only the wind,” you say in a self-assuring gasp, even as your heart kicks like a beaten drum
>You drop your gloves on the table and plunge a talon into your stitched-on dress pocket
>You have to be sure of something
>A brass key meets your touch
>For just a moment, you’re frozen in place, watching daka bring a cold wash clothes to his wife’s unconscious forehead
>It all feels so…
>…vivid
>So why is your dream token here?
>Why?
>There’s no way you’re-
>…
>You’re not-
>…
>Are you?
>Your father’s relieved squawk carries throughout the house
>“Elia, come quick! She wakes”
“Coming, daka!” You cheep in nervous reply
>You start towards the kitchen
>But instinct compels you to turn your head over your sh
>There’s a hushed, clumsy whisper in your ear
>With a startled cheep you spin backwards in your chair
>Your heart kicks itself like a drum
>There’s a familiar dining room window, its frame now darkened as the night wore on
>Strange though
>You don’t recall ever leaving this window…
>…slightly ajar….
>The window funnels a steady breeze inside the house – a breeze that tickles your loose feathers
“Only the wind,” you say in a self-assuring gasp, even as your heart kicks like a beaten drum
>You drop your gloves on the table and plunge a talon into your stitched-on dress pocket
>You have to be sure of something
>A brass key meets your touch
>For just a moment, you’re frozen in place, watching daka bring a cold wash clothes to his wife’s unconscious forehead
>It all feels so…
>…vivid
>So why is your dream token here?
>Why?
>There’s no way you’re-
>…
>You’re not-
>…
>Are you?
>Your father’s relieved squawk carries throughout the house
>“Elia, come quick! She wakes”
“Coming, daka!” You cheep in nervous reply
>You start towards the kitchen
>But instinct compels you to turn your head over your shoulder one last time…
>…to confirm that the black window…
>…a portal to a vast and wild nothing…
>…is empty…
>Darkness responds with a stiff breeze
>The old paneled glass squeals against the gale, as if bidding you away
>You still grip your dream token tight
>Every dream has something to teach you
>But that doesn’t mean it’s always a pleasant lesson
>Moments later you’re kneeling on your skirt beside your father, who cradles your mother’s head in his lap
>“Why, mijota?” He says in a gentle whisper, his half-closed eyes fixed on the disheveled face of his wife, “why, in all of your graces, did you choose to give HER a voice again? You know how much she asks of you.”
>Loose feathers, unfurled and ruffled in a panic, slip off the back of your father’s neck as the breeze reaches deeper into the house
>Their feathers gather and bloom around two of them, like the petals of a black flower opening
>Daka’s gloves are beside him on the floor
>He strokes with the grain of your mother’s plumage, smoothing down her feathers
>You gather your young courage like you’re gathering wildflowers and scoot closer
“What is wrong with her, daka? Is she alright?” You say, still clutching that anchor to reality in your dress pocket
>Denica’s lungs pull hard when she hears your voice
>“She will be alright, little feather…” dad says, voice distant, perhaps tempered with a vague sadness you can’t place, “When you are older, your minn and I will tell you everything. But for the time we have…”
>Matias briefly turns a concerned glance over his shoulder, and levels it at you
>“…you must learn as much as you can.”
>With that, Denica’s tired eyes labor open
>“Mijota!” Matias cries
>He goes to hug his wife, but she does not return the gesture – whether by lack of strength, or disinterest, you can’t tell
>Because she rolls her head to the side, to stare at you, her daughter
>Her breathing is a ragged flag
>“Elia, daughter of mine…” she gasps, her voice intertwined with another’s
>The demon’s voice
>“…child of crows…”
“Minn?” you say, instinctually rising to stand
>You take a nimble step back as mom’s eyes take on an all-too familiar psychotic sheen
>“…bringer of storms…” she croaks, as if trying to peel apart the two voices inhabiting her, struggling in her soul
>The everflame lights in the room drop to weak flame, casting your mother’s shadow huge against the wall
>“Denica, please, we’ve still time-” your father pleads,, his voice dropping in decibels like leaded balloons
“…how you are hunted… like the fox and the wolf…”
>Minn rises from the firm hold of her husband
>She starts towards in a strobe, steps in her movement missing, eyes fixed on something beyond you – something in the dining room
“The fox and the wolf…” you squeak, stumbling backwards. “Daka, make her stop!”
>For what it’s worth, Matias did try as hard as he could
>He anchored himself in the door frame and held his wife by the wrist
>Akin to a single crow holding back a train
>“The red fang comes, daughter of crows,” she seethes forward, the resonate duality of her voice is sharp against your ears, “swift as shadow will not save you; your secrecy they know.”
>You dare not look behind you – what minn is fixated on – but you ARE a little worried about bumping into the front door
“W-What hunts me?” is all you can get out, words heavy as free falling artillery
>You grip your dream token like the last branch before a sheer drop
>“Vulca, red around their necks; red collars, red collars, red fangs, red fangs, they hunt you now…” she pauses, no longer looking at you, her twin-voices trailing off into a frighted hiss, “driven to field at the drums; yet die all the same,”
>You catch sight of daka broadening his shoulders
>His talons bared
>Ready to fight
>He’s looking past you too
>“Elia! Get away from the window!” Your father commands
“Red fangs?” Is all you say to minn
>You’re rooted in place, your attention fixed on your mother’s face
>The way it seems to become ‘her’ again
>“Child of feathers,” she says, slow and pained, her voice now her own, “you must leave for the world beyond this place. Something in the dark has called…” she says, turning her focus away from you, and to what’s behind
>Denica sticks out one talon and aims it over your head
>“…and you have answered it.”
>Right as the dream breaks apart…
>…right as dad starts forward — to grab you and rip you by the arms back to safety…
>…do you make the mistake of turning around to see what minn is pointing at
>Your terrified shriek bends the world around you inwards, centering your blurred focus on the window
>A pair of small, white eyes, burning against a black silhouette like angry stars, bore into you from behind a thin pane of old glass
>The floorboard beneath your trembling legs start to crumble like they’re made of sand
>And as you surrender to the dream’s collapse, now pressing your dream token to your breast as the ground gives way
>You manage to catch a few words – not of your kin, nor of humanity
>Yet you understand these words all the same
>“This one…”
>Your vision swells with absence of light, like stars dying in your peripherals, as you fall backwards into an abyss
>The last thing you hear is a faint whisper calling down to you as you plummet
>Two words
>Two words that undress you down to the feathers
>Two words that still call to you…
>…even when your eyes gently flutter open,
>…and you take in the soft angles of light cascading into the barn you found for you and Gullen to rest in
>Two words that ricochet around your skull as you pack up your rucksack
>Two word as Gullen tiredly resigns from watch duties
>Two words that follow you on your hike back onto the route towards Ciril, your parent’s worn map your only guide
>Two words that ember in you, like fading smoke trapped in your lungs, only filtered out like ash through tired conversation between yourself and your companion
>Two words that remember, a stumbling whisper, a carriage given motion with no stag or horse to pull it
>“…dream… walker…”
oulder one last time…
>…to confirm that the black window…
>…a portal to a vast and wild nothing…
>…is empty…
>Darkness responds with a stiff breeze
>The old paneled glass squeals against the gale, as if bidding you away
>You still grip your dream token tight
>Every dream has something to teach you
>But that doesn’t mean it’s always a pleasant lesson
>Moments later you’re kneeling on your skirt beside your father, who cradles your mother’s head in his lap
>“Why, mijota?” He says in a gentle whisper, his half-closed eyes fixed on the disheveled face of his wife, “why, in all of your graces, did you choose to give HER a voice again? You know how much she asks of you.”
>Loose feathers, unfurled and ruffled in a panic, slip off the back of your father’s neck as the breeze reaches deeper into the house
>Their feathers gather and bloom around two of them, like the petals of a black flower opening
>Daka’s gloves are beside him on the floor
>He strokes with the grain of your mother’s plumage, smoothing down her feathers
>You gather your young courage like you’re gathering wildflowers and scoot closer
“What is wrong with her, daka? Is she alright?” You say, still clutching that anchor to reality in your dress pocket
>Denica’s lungs pull hard when she hears your voice
>“She will be alright, little feather…” dad says, voice distant, perhaps tempered with a vague sadness you can’t place, “When you are older, your minn and I will tell you everything. But for the time we have…”
>Matias briefly turns a concerned glance over his shoulder, and levels it at you
>“…you must learn as much as you can.”
>With that, Denica’s tired eyes labor open
>“Mijota!” Matias cries
>He goes to hug his wife, but she does not return the gesture – whether by lack of strength, or disinterest, you can’t tell
>Because she rolls her head to the side, to stare at you, her daughter
>Her breathing is a ragged flag
>“Elia, daughter of mine…” she gasps, her voice intertwined with another’s
>The demon’s voice
>“…child of crows…”
“Minn?” you say, instinctually rising to stand
>You take a nimble step back as mom’s eyes take on an all-too familiar psychotic sheen
>“…bringer of storms…” she croaks, as if trying to peel apart the two voices inhabiting her, struggling in her soul
>The everflame lights in the room drop to weak flame, casting your mother’s shadow huge against the wall
>“Denica, please, we’ve still time-” your father pleads,, his voice dropping in decibels like leaded balloons
“…how you are hunted… like the fox and the wolf…”
>Minn rises from the firm hold of her husband
>She starts towards in a strobe, steps in her movement missing, eyes fixed on something beyond you – something in the dining room
“The fox and the wolf…” you squeak, stumbling backwards. “Daka, make her stop!”
>For what it’s worth, Matias did try as hard as he could
>He anchored himself in the door frame and held his wife by the wrist
>Akin to a single crow holding back a train
>“The red fang comes, daughter of crows,” she seethes forward, the resonate duality of her voice is sharp against your ears, “swift as shadow will not save you; your secrecy they know.”
>You dare not look behind you – what minn is fixated on – but you ARE a little worried about bumping into the front door
“W-What hunts me?” is all you can get out, words heavy as free falling artillery
>You grip your dream token like the last branch before a sheer drop
>“Vulca, red around their necks; red collars, red collars, red fangs, red fangs, they hunt you now…” she pauses, no longer looking at you, her twin-voices trailing off into a frighted hiss, “driven to field at the drums; yet die all the same,”
>You catch sight of daka broadening his shoulders
>His talons bared
>Ready to fight
>He’s looking past you too
>“Elia! Get away from the window!” Your father commands
“Red fangs?” Is all you say to minn
>You’re rooted in place, your attention fixed on your mother’s face
>The way it seems to become ‘her’ again
>“Child of feathers,” she says, slow and pained, her voice now her own, “you must leave for the world beyond this place. Something in the dark has called…” she says, turning her focus away from you, and to what’s behind
>Denica sticks out one talon and aims it over your head
>“…and you have answered it.”
>Right as the dream breaks apart…
>…right as dad starts forward — to grab you and rip you by the arms back to safety…
>…do you make the mistake of turning around to see what minn is pointing at
>Your terrified shriek bends the world around you inwards, centering your blurred focus on the window
>A pair of small, white eyes, burning against a black silhouette like angry stars, bore into you from behind a thin pane of old glass
>The floorboard beneath your trembling legs start to crumble like they’re made of sand
>And as you surrender to the dream’s collapse, now pressing your dream token to your breast as the ground gives way
>You manage to catch a few words – not of your kin, nor of humanity
>Yet you understand these words all the same
>“This one…”
>Your vision swells with absence of light, like stars dying in your peripherals, as you fall backwards into an abyss
>The last thing you hear is a faint whisper calling down to you as you plummet
>Two words
>Two words that undress you down to the feathers
>Two words that still call to you…
>…even when your eyes gently flutter open,
>…and you take in the soft angles of light cascading into the barn you found for you and Gullen to rest in
>Two words that ricochet around your skull as you pack up your rucksack
>Two word as Gullen tiredly resigns from watch duties
>Two words that follow you on your hike back onto the route towards Ciril, your parent’s worn map your only guide
>Two words that ember in you, like fading smoke trapped in your lungs, only filtered out like ash through tired conversation between yourself and your companion
>Two words that remember, a stumbling whisper, a carriage given motion with no stag or horse to pull it
>“…dream… walker…”
drives her shoulders forward, kneading hayflour and dried fruit together to make taak
>Taak for dinner
>Taak for breakfast
>Taak for mittag…
>Your stomach grumbles at the thought of poverty food
>Things…
>…things are tough all over
>“And you remember the meanings of the colors the demons use on the- the vulca collars, yes? Surely they will test you on something so basic tomorrow?” Matias asks, turning his gaze up to meet yours
>His pen hangs dripping above re-used fragments of your old dream journals
>A tired groan wanders out of you, your mind racing at the speed of erosion to recall anything to do with Vulcada – Foxers – and the colors they choose to put on their demon vulca
“I- I do not think so. The collars and their color meanings – these are things taught to a hatchling,” you say, trying to hide your mild annoyance, “and I am too old for those to matter. We last covered-”
>Sensing your impatience, Denica – mom – chimes in from the kitchen
>“That’s a VERY important lesson, little feather,” she purrs, pausing for a moment
>The aged crow’s sentinel-like gaze sweeps over her small assemblage of clean dishes, laid out to dry on old towels, and then to you
>“Try to think of this as ‘safety training’ instead of a rote exam preparation, alright? You aim to go beyond the walls, so you must know how to identify WHAT is beyond the walls.”
>He lips turn up in an assuring smile
>It takes a prayer to the Ancestors to keep you from collapsing like a tower made of old brick
“May I nest, daka? I will be useless tomorrow if I do not sleep,” you whine, puffing air into the fires of your frustration, “can we not revisit the hatchling material tomorrow, before I go to Seminary?”
>Your plea falls on deaf ears, because before you can level even further complaints, your father…
>…breaks out in song…
>“Orange as the sun on a clouded day,” Matias says in a sing-song breath, though his timbre is more an embarrassed whisper
>Oh Ancestors he’s even doing a little jig in his seat
>Your eyes tilt back in your skull
>“Come, Elia, you know the rest!” he father urges, as if trying to count you into the rhyme
>You groan like you’ve had a sharp piece of obsidian slipped between your ribs
“T-That rhyme… it is for hatchlings. Please-” is all you can stammer as you try to cover your ears and eyes
>Maybe enticed by the prospect of further torturing his daughter with embarrassing nursery rhymes, Matias racks his chair forward into the table
>The violent shudder forces you talons away from your ears and onto the piles of notes built up around you
“Daka, please stop!” you cry
>“Gray means rain while a storm does rage…” Matias’ voice climbs on, like a bird seeking a branch in the sky
>And he climbs on
>And on
>And-
>Your father’s blue eyes split wide in sudden panic
>He doesn’t remember the rest of the nursery rhyme, does he?
>Matias spins in his chair to face his wife
>“Denica!” He calls, casting an embarrassed squawk across the small dining room
>Nope, he forgot it
>Your mother’s voice returns, like silk through a loom, her words ringing like clean struck silver
>“Yes, sunflower?” Denica says, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen, holding steady to the frame
>She wears a standard dress, adorned with a white apron, speckled with hayflour
>“What is the next line of kluuma vespos? You remember… the song about the colors and the vulca?”
>You slouch back in your chair and send out a silent plea to any wandering Ancestor to aid you in these dark times
>Or a stray bullet from some demon in the hills outside of town
“Make him stop, please…” you groan
>“Ancestors above, please, teach my husband and the girl some patience,” minn says with some snarky laughter
>She then gingerly composes herself a bit, wiping excess hayflour on her apron
>The crow aims her beak forward, aiming her sapphiric blue eyes at you, like the iron sights of a riflr
>There’s a noticeable shift in the air, like the sudden inhalation of an invisible gas
>Denica’s chest swells with air and this strange, unnatural gas…
>…and she begins to sing
>What comes out of her is not a glistening rendition of a hatchling’s nursery rhyme
>“Green are the limbs and branches to climb; blue as the sky top above the jagged peaks,” Denica bellows as the ceramic bowls in your cabinets catch the jitters
>You jolt forward in your seat, the unfamiliar contours of a foreign language like strange music to your sensitive ears
>Jagged consonants and vowels roll from her chest as minn limps forwards, her talons thumping off the floorboards like a harvester’s plodding footsteps
>So you and dad sit, frozen in shock
>Because you do not hear the gentle, sing-song canter of minn’s singing voice
>What you hear is a sound you’ve only ever heard once before, in Seminary no less:
>A demon’s voice
“M-Minn…w-wait-” you stammer, your lower beak working, searching for your own people’s language, a tongue now forgotten
>You only work a puff of a question out of your jaw before Denica’s hypnotic stare arrests all momentum
>“And red…” Denica seethes, her stolen voice driving the everflame lamps in the room to blaze;
>Her eyes catch the focus and intensity of everflame fire, like polished sapphire set into the skull of a cobra
>“…and red is our flower, fed at the tip of thirsty blades.”
>Dad doesn’t wait for silence to wear off like the glistening hum of a grenade near the ears
>Your father is frantic, like a glass half-full of secrets just spilled
>“Sunflower !Sunflower! Lower your voice if you’re going to use the demon’s tongue! The night watch will hear!” Daka says, his voice a frightened hiss
>The everflame lamps – once stoked with intensity – now temper down to their original strength
>Denica’s haunted, vacant eyes bore holes into you
>She’s hunched forward, unnaturally so, like some craven animal
>“Sunflower…?” your father is already halfway out of his chair, one talon gripping the seat’s wooden frame
>Something is not right
>As if exhaling a held knot of some poisonous air from her lungs, Denica returns to Purgatory…
>….with a startled, choking gasp, and her own talons collapsing her throat to a narrow point
>Your mother then catches herself against the door frame in a final bid not to collapse
>The two of you watch, frozen in horror, as Denica’s posture slackens
>You watch in slow motion as her arms shake…
>…her body swaying in-place, held upright by will alone…
>…as if dangling…
>…like a helpless puppet…
>…with its strings severed…
>…one…
>…by…
>…one
>“Denica!”
>Your dad is already halfway across the room by the time you begin to process the situation
>Still, it’s hard to make sense of the black-feathered slip of bird collapsed in the doorway to the kitchen
>White hayflour-speckles on her apron, her dress crumpled around her
>The myopic depth of field that often accompanies dreams gathers like thick curls of smoke from wet kindling, burned in the hearth
>All at once you get the sense that you’re not all there – be it a panic attack, or something more…
>…surreal?
>Two blinks later and the disorienting miasma settles
>Reality pours in, your watery-blue eyes the floodgates
>Daka tends to minn by the kitchen, his fear and urgency as real as your dream walking
>“You’ll be alright, love, you’ll be alright,” he repeats like a mantra
>You hold your gloved talons up to the everflame light, blue eyes searching for the smallest inconsistency – some frayed bit of fabric or torn leather that your memory doesn’t owe a haycoin to
“Why does this feel so…”
>“…strange?”
>There’s a hushed, clumsy whisper in your ear
>With a startled cheep you spin backwards in your chair
>Your heart kicks itself like a drum
>There’s a familiar dining room window, its frame now darkened as the night wore on
>Strange though
>You don’t recall ever leaving this window…
>…slightly ajar….
>The window funnels a steady breeze inside the house – a breeze that tickles your loose feathers
“Only the wind,” you say in a self-assuring gasp, even as your heart kicks like a beaten drum
>You drop your gloves on the table and plunge a talon into your stitched-on dress pocket
>You have to be sure of something
>A brass key meets your touch
>For just a moment, you’re frozen in place, watching daka bring a cold wash clothes to his wife’s unconscious forehead
>It all feels so…
>…vivid
>So why is your dream token here?
>Why?
>There’s no way you’re-
>…
>You’re not-
>…
>Are you?
>Your father’s relieved squawk carries throughout the house
>“Elia, come quick! She wakes”
“Coming, daka!” You cheep in nervous reply
>You start towards the kitchen
>But instinct compels you to turn your head over your shoulder one last time…
>…to confirm that the black window…
>…a portal to a vast and wild nothing…
>…is empty…
>Darkness responds with a stiff breeze
>The old paneled glass squeals against the gale, as if bidding you away
>You still grip your dream token tight
>Every dream has something to teach you
>But that doesn’t mean it’s always a pleasant lesson
>Moments later you’re kneeling on your skirt beside your father, who cradles your mother’s head in his lap
>“Why, mijota?” He says in a gentle whisper, his half-closed eyes fixed on the disheveled face of his wife, “why, in all of your graces, did you choose to give HER a voice again? You know how much she asks of you.”
>Loose feathers, unfurled and ruffled in a panic, slip off the back of your father’s neck as the breeze reaches deeper into the house
>Their feathers gather and bloom around two of them, like the petals of a black flower opening
>Daka’s gloves are beside him on the floor
>He strokes with the grain of your mother’s plumage, smoothing down her feathers
>You gather your young courage like you’re gathering wildflowers and scoot closer
“What is wrong with her, daka? Is she alright?” You say, still clutching that anchor to reality in your dress pocket
>Denica’s lungs pull hard when she hears your voice
>“She will be alright, little feather…” dad says, voice distant, perhaps tempered with a vague sadness you can’t place, “When you are older, your minn and I will tell you everything. But for the time we have…”
>Matias briefly turns a concerned glance over his shoulder, and levels it at you
>“…you must learn as much as you can.”
>With that, Denica’s tired eyes labor open
>“Mijota!” Matias cries
>He goes to hug his wife, but she does not return the gesture – whether by lack of strength, or disinterest, you can’t tell
>Because she rolls her head to the side, to stare at you, her daughter
>Her breathing is a ragged flag
>“Elia, daughter of mine…” she gasps, her voice intertwined with another’s
>The demon’s voice
>“…child of crows…”
“Minn?” you say, instinctually rising to stand
>You take a nimble step back as mom’s eyes take on an all-too familiar psychotic sheen
>“…bringer of storms…” she croaks, as if trying to peel apart the two voices inhabiting her, struggling in her soul
>The everflame lights in the room drop to weak flame, casting your mother’s shadow huge against the wall
>“Denica, please, we’ve still time-” your father pleads,, his voice dropping in decibels like leaded balloons
“…how you are hunted… like the fox and the wolf…”
>Minn rises from the firm hold of her husband
>She starts towards in a strobe, steps in her movement missing, eyes fixed on something beyond you – something in the dining room
“The fox and the wolf…” you squeak, stumbling backwards. “Daka, make her stop!”
>For what it’s worth, Matias did try as hard as he could
>He anchored himself in the door frame and held his wife by the wrist
>Akin to a single crow holding back a train
>“The red fang comes, daughter of crows,” she seethes forward, the resonate duality of her voice is sharp against your ears, “swift as shadow will not save you; your secrecy they know.”
>You dare not look behind you – what minn is fixated on – but you ARE a little worried about bumping into the front door
“W-What hunts me?” is all you can get out, words heavy as free falling artillery
>You grip your dream token like the last branch before a sheer drop
>“Vulca, red around their necks; red collars, red collars, red fangs, red fangs, they hunt you now…” she pauses, no longer looking at you, her twin-voices trailing off into a frighted hiss, “driven to field at the drums; yet die all the same,”
>You catch sight of daka broadening his shoulders
>His talons bared
>Ready to fight
>He’s looking past you too
>“Elia! Get away from the window!” Your father commands
“Red fangs?” Is all you say to minn
>You’re rooted in place, your attention fixed on your mother’s face
>The way it seems to become ‘her’ again
>“Child of feathers,” she says, slow and pained, her voice now her own, “you must leave for the world beyond this place. Something in the dark has called…” she says, turning her focus away from you, and to what’s behind
>Denica sticks out one talon and aims it over your head
>“…and you have answered it.”
>Right as the dream breaks apart…
>…right as dad starts forward — to grab you and rip you by the arms back to safety…
>…do you make the mistake of turning around to see what minn is pointing at
>Your terrified shriek bends the world around you inwards, centering your blurred focus on the window
>A pair of small, white eyes, burning against a black silhouette like angry stars, bore into you from behind a thin pane of old glass
>The floorboard beneath your trembling legs start to crumble like they’re made of sand
>And as you surrender to the dream’s collapse, now pressing your dream token to your breast as the ground gives way
>You manage to catch a few words – not of your kin, nor of humanity
>Yet you understand these words all the same
>“This one…”
>Your vision swells with absence of light, like stars dying in your peripherals, as you fall backwards into an abyss
>The last thing you hear is a faint whisper calling down to you as you plummet
>Two words
>Two words that undress you down to the feathers
>Two words that still call to you…
>…even when your eyes gently flutter open,
>…and you take in the soft angles of light cascading into the barn you found for you and Gullen to rest in
>Two words that ricochet around your skull as you pack up your rucksack
>Two word as Gullen tiredly resigns from watch duties
>Two words that follow you on your hike back onto the route towards Ciril, your parent’s worn map your only guide
>Two words that ember in you, like fading smoke trapped in your lungs, only filtered out like ash through tired conversation between yourself and your companion
>Two words that remember, a stumbling whisper, a carriage given motion with no stag or horse to pull it
>“…dream… walker…”
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall