A New Nightmare

Dreams lead to very strange places. But then again, when one is within a dream, one isn’t likely to question it all that much.

Fenn certainly wasn’t. Not yet.

Not yet, despite the fact that he found himself perched in a confusingly solid and cottony cloud, miles high above the ground. Despite the fact that this cloud was roughly ship-shaped, its sail semi-sheer in the direct sunlight. Despite the white birds circling effortlessly through the thin air.

A stiff breeze tousled his hair and twirled his antennae. Absently, Fenn peered over the edge of his fluffy skyship. He wondered whether his recently-grown wings would be strong enough to support him. Should he fall, that was. Perhaps, the boy mused as he tapped his chin, he should fall, and test his limits. Papery wings fluttered against his back in anticipation. Perhaps it would be a good idea to climb over the raised edge of his sailing cloud, to dangle his feet over the blue yonder, to drop from his dizzying height, cloak streaming behind him, ground soaring upward.

The boy reached out over the side of the boat, grasping at empty air and staring downward as he considered his possible descent.

Further scrutiny of the landscape inspired a hesitance within Fenn, his hands pulling back to grip the swirling tangibility of the skyship’s railing. Some of the terrain registered to him in the same way that a childhood book does when one reads it again as an adult. It was a patchwork of familiarity and alienating other-ness; of things he distinctly did not remember being present. The continent he floated over was roughly Corone-shaped. Heavy snow and smog drifted over it in harsh patches; so did swaths of a dark and seething corruption. Didn’t that belong in Raiaera? Didn’t those two rivers exist in… Dheathain? And those forests should not be that far north. Why all these little mistakes bothered him so much, even in his dreamy state of mental suspension, he couldn’t say. Intuitively, he knew it was out of place. Maybe the little fae just liked it best when the world matched up with the map he made in his head. A bird swooped near him, and it looked rather like a raven, aside from its blanched plumage. “Fearful featherless,” it croaked at him as it passed. “It’s safer here. It’s safer. Down there lie the memories.”

Fenn’s face soured. He walked back from the railing. His hind sank into the thick cloud-fluff as he sat down at the base of the mast; he needed away. Away from the birds. Away from the wrong, wrong ground. Maybe it was best to stay where he was. Maybe, it was easier to remain in his comfortable cloud, drifting wherever the breeze wanted him to go.

The night had past by quickly as Morus spent what felt like an hour hidden inside a crate. He could hear a commotion outside; a few hurried footsteps, men crying out in the distance, and frantic marching back and forth. But the last flickers of sunlight waned through the cracks in the wood, and he could tell the frenzy had died down with the sunset. He peeled back the crate’s lid as careful as a thief, and snuck out into the alleyway behind. Beneath his cloak was a prize that caused all the commotion; half a loaf of bread he’d stolen earlier kept warm against his body. A few winding pathways later, and he found himself back at the shack he called home for now.

It was no simple hunger that made his hands brave enough to snatch food though. He required a meal any time he slipped into the waking dreams. He needed the strength to concentrate enough to remain aware that he was real when all else wasn’t. Amidst a pile of blankets and pillows pilfered from various shops, he got himself as comfortable as he could. A single candle burned on a barrel near him, lighting the smoke trail of a stick of incense that stood next to it. In one hand, he lit up a pipe filled with herbs to cause a drowsiness, and in the other he took a few mouthfuls of bread to snack on before his mouth became too dry.

Between the chews and puffs of smoke, he found his eyelids growing heavier. Soon he felt his physical body seemingly melt into the pile on which he lay, and his limbs became too great a weight to bear. Each breath became ebbed and flowed like an eternity, and then, the sudden snap into falling.

The slip into dream was always sudden, like a quick fall into a hot bath, but tonight there was something different about it. Though his mind was freed from his body, his stomach still quaked and rumbled as though sick. His mind’s eye was dizzy and couldn’t focus the firmament of dream into anything more than a vague haze of purple and black rushing by him. His head ached, his limbs felt aflame, and the tugging at his stomach began to become more than he could handle. The boy knew something was wrong; it had never been so difficult to travel dreams before. He’d done it on countless nights in a thousand states of mind and never encountered so much trouble. He could feel his very being being ripped at by some unknown force, but the second he felt he could not take it anymore, he was out. And falling.

Falling towards a cloud shaped like tall ship sailing the skies. Morus tried to summon some force as to lessen his decent, but wound up finding out just how solid the vessel was. He hit its deck with a light thunk and a small wisp of clouds circled the mark. As he rose to his knees clutching his stomach, he noticed a curious creature staring back at him from across the ship.

“Be not afraid, friend fae,” the nausea had become nearly too much, and he could feel dry heaving beginning in the back of his throat. “I do — I am not as great a threat as I appear.”

He tried to collect himself, but his mind was awash with static and what he could swear was rolling thunder echoing in his ears. Something was not right in this dream either. Despite the sun in the sky and the cool breeze on his skin, something fiendish was waiting in the wings.

The boat dipped and rocked as a dark and abrupt figure smacked into its poofy deck, with a bit of a harder sound than what one would expect from clouds. Fenn startled, clinging shameless to the mast as the foreign presence — person — hauled himself onto his feet and spoke. His heart thudded against his chest. After a moment, he relaxed, realizing that the visitor had clarified himself as not-an-attacker. Though, perhaps “not as great a threat as I appear” was an unfitting phrase. This visitor appeared as a dark-haired boy, reeling back in some sort of hazy daze, his gaze dull and tired. He didn’t look a threat. He looked young, younger than Fenn’s (probable) thirty years of age. Young and a bit sickly.

And yet, he must possess some unspoken power to be present in such a dream the first place.

Fenn blinked and glanced around.

Ahh. The wrong-landscape and the talking bird clicked into perspective. This was merely one of his dreams — and his ability to recognize it as such meant that this mysterious dreamwalker-boy was here with him.

That this dreamwalker-boy was not a mere figment of his meandering mind.

This visitor still stood half-doubled over and bleary-eyed, causing Fenn the twanging notion he should offer… something. Aid? Healing? But how did one go about curing ailments inside a dream? Willing it away? The little fae doubted that his control over his dreamings extended to the avatars of outside minds. Fenn approached over the dense smog of the deck, creeping forward on skittish feet, like a startled ant. Yes, this dreamwalker-boy intrigued him. Intensely. Few others wandered into his mental spaces with such impunity; truthfully, he only knew the intrusions of his good friend (and boss) Banrion.

Banri. What was it she said about unexpected hospitality making unexpected allied and whatnot? Her advices all tended to blend together… Gingerly, Fenn reached up to tap-pat the boy on the shoulder. He hoped it came off as reassuring. Was that hospitable enough?

It was about then that the fae remembered that the altered reality of dreams granted him speech. Oh. Right. <Name?> he asked hesitantly, his voice a light buzz and his mouth not moving in the least. Certainly, Fenn was not going to lend his name until he knew the stranger’s! He didn’t yet know what sort of voodoo this kid had. <Why are you sick?>

A part of him worried that something about the quality of this dream itself made the stranger seem ill. The winds washing over them had shifted somehow. There was a bitterness to them, and a bite. A heat. It made Fenn’s nose wrinkle, and his antennae and ears alike wilted in the face of it. He glanced sternways into the sky. Darkness gathered on the horizon, pierced occasionally by grey flashes, and if Fenn wasn’t imagining it, it was moving toward them. Shudder.. His dreams tended to pull apart under the strain of a visitor, or when he woke up, but this was… not how they normally unravelled. No, this was something else.

<Do you know what that is?> he asked, still accidentally and uneasily gripping the intruder-boy’s shoulder. <Did you bring that with?>

Above them, the flock of snowy ravens cackled.

“Morus,” said the boy, finally managing to conquer his churning stomach a bit. He felt a flush of embarrassment on his face as the fae patted him on the shoulder, causing him to recoil slightly and rise slowly on unsteady feet. His toes dug into the cloud deck, steadying him just enough to stand at a slight angle. The boy managed to remove the hand from his shoulder with a graceless anxiety, and stare down at the dreamer who he’d intruded upon. He was startled to say the least, and Morus knew it wasn’t just his appearance that had brought about the feeling.

“I’m not sure what’s causing my body to betray me,” he whispered just quickly enough to get his words out before a roar of thunder interrupted him in the distance. There was a heat to the air around them, a warmth that seemed familiar, like that of a storm rolling in. “But I imagine that has something to do with it.”

Off in the distance from the starboard side of the cloudship came a sweeping black figure. It was a mockery of the cloud they stood on, made of black mist and three times the size. Its mighty bow looked like a massive maw filled with swirling teeth, and between flashes of lightning, the ship looked as if it had a pair of glowing eyes that stared right at them. It didn’t so much sail in the sky, as swim with a cruel purpose; and everywhere behind it seemed to darken and crackle with the same tempest it was made from. Morus looked around frantically for some way to steer the ship, but the squallcraft was coming at them at such a speed that he never stood a chance. He tried to brace himself for impact.

The cloudboat shook and cracked with neary a sound as it was split in two in the middle. Puffs of white mingled and turned into the hot black storm that seemed to consume it. The boy felt himself stumble to the portside, catching himself on the banister just in the nick of time before he fell. Below him he could see the lands below enveloping in flame, like a map whose edges came too close to a candle. He ran back to the fae, and grabbed him by his small hand.

“We need to get out of here,” he yelled. His earlier sickness seemed a distance memory in the chaos. Though there was no crack of the bow or gnashing of teeth, an uncomfortable hum grew steadily louder in the air around them. “I can manage something, but I need you to hang on.”

In front of him, at the head of the boat, a ripple of purple and azure began to flash in the air. The dreaming was unweaving before his very eyes, slowly at first, before widening to a portal just big enough for the two of them. The trip through would be rough, as the boy had never made it with a companion before, but there was no time to waste as their boat began to sink, both into the sky and into the darkening maw that consumed it. With one deep breath, he dragged the fae with him into his portal and away to some semblance of safety.

It was, for once, not a good thing that Fenn remembered he could voice himself in dreams.

A somewhat unholy shriek tore directly forth from his mind as he hurtled into the pulsing portal ripped out of the fabric of the dream. One of surprise, and of panic, as if to drown out the thrum of the nightmare they leapt out of… and the rainbow hell they descended through. Cool colors flared up around them, violent streaks and shades that hurt the fae’s sensitive insectoid eyes. It was loud; the thrum of the nightmare continued to echo as they plummeted, along with discordant whispers. Words and almost-words cut through the eyestrain. Perhaps, shades of sound seeping in from other sleeper’s dreams.

Fenn spared a fearful stare back through his wind-whipped hair. Dark cracks spidered the not-reality of sky they had left behind as his dream, in the absence of he himself, tore apart. Sharp teeth and thick smog reached out for them as they fell, only to be closed off as the portal twisted shut behind them.

The fae squeezed his eyes shut too and clung to the dreamwaker, still voicing his terror.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Out in the physical world, Fenn’s frail form gave a frightful fit of shudders and rolled over. The black direwolf lying in the grass next to him snuffled his face in concern. After confirming that he was still breathing, she yawned, wrapped her tail around him, and dropped back to sleep at his side.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Luckily, the ground was not far from where the two were thrown into the next dream.

A rush of green and brown and purple was the first thing Fenn saw upon being spat out into the next dream. There wasn’t much time to process the colors before impact blinded him. Coughing and spitting dirt and leaves, he braced himself onto his feet, knees wobbling. There was still some residual terror in his system, from the fall and the nightmare-smog alike. Dew was wiped off of his face as he glanced about their new surroundings. Below them grew a springy carpet of mosses and delicate flowers with curled petals. Above them, about ten feet above, grew the same; a literal mirror reflection of the ground. The strange plane of plants stretched along as far as the tiny fae could see, out into a muddled brown mist. Amid the mists drifted small fireflies, glowing like lavender stars.

The dreamwalker-boy, the Morus child, was still struggling back to a standing position. Fenn held out a hand in offering of help. His hand was waved off with a couple prickly, skeptical motions from the dark-haired waif.

Well then! The puck puffed out his cheeks and sighed. His antennae and ears pulled back in a similarly disgruntled sense. If Morus didn’t like touch, that was fair, but he couldn’t help but be a little disappointed that in a plane of reality where his touch was not so offensively frigid to other creatures, he’d ended up with a companion of a frosty demeanor.

It was only after Morus glanced coolly over the fae’s shoulder that Fenn remembered there had to be a third entity in this dream — the dreamer themself. He followed the boy’s gaze.

A teenage girl in a stained dress kneeled in the dirt. One hand clutched a trowel. The other held a bag of shimmering seeds. Judging by her greenish skin, heavyset figure, and tusked jaw, she was an orc. She considered them with a tilt of her head and a serene smile. “Hello people,” she greeted the two them in broken common, not appearing surprised in the least. From her slightly vacant stare — glazed eyes, slack jaw — Fenn gathered that she was strongly under the mental fog of her dream. “Not expect see faeries today.”

Tentatively, Fenn waved back at her. The spoken words reminded him of something. Ah, yes! Were he and Morus not having a conversation before that nasty nightmare business? He hadn’t even introduced himself properly!

<Fennik,> the fae suddenly announced back to the dreamwalker waif. <It’s Fennik, by the way. Most call me Fenn. Sorry for the screaming.>

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Alone in his hut, Morus’ body curled up admist the heap of his bedding pile. His clothes were soaked in sweat, and his brow furrowed every few moments with a tiny cringe of pain. He clung to himself tightly, managing a shiver as the candle next to him extinguished itself. All was silent around him, save an argument of some people on the street nearby about who owned the rights to a nearby begging spot.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

“Your screams were called for, young Fennik.” Morus’ voice, as always, was a grave affectation. He took to one knee, partly because he was happy to finally be able to do it to someone, and partly to still his lightheadedness from knocking him off his feet. “I fear if we stayed there a moment longer, that phantom would have swallowed us both whole. And if I’m right, and I usually am, neither of us would have woken up in our beds.”

The dreamwalker’s breathing was haggard still, and all his limbs were more tired than he was used to in dreaming. The fall through the portal was even rougher than when he first found Fennik, and he was fearful of how much strength he had left to open any more. The chorus of voices that made up the dreaming was louder than ever, and had lost the rhythm of their song. It was chaotic, disordered, and deeply terrifying to the boy. It seemed to trouble his fae companion as well, who’s eerily wide twitched a bit in fear at the idea of his near death experience. He was young, or seemed it, though Morus had little interaction with the fae outside the countless stories he had and still read about them. The boy could recall something about some insectoid features, from some byzantine scroll, but seeing them up close was fascinating.

Or perhaps just a needed distraction.

Truth be told, the dream they found themselves in was good enough for that. Ground and sky were matched in the same carpet of moss and plantlife, stretching endlessly in all directions. Bright purple bugs fluttered about, providing the only light on offer, and even the dreamer, a curious orc girl, was something of a curiosity. She strolled over to the pair, her dress just brushing against the grass, and seemed to want to engage in her fevered conversation.

“You come to make Guntilde’s garden grow better?” Her vernacular was certainly orc, but there was a sweetness to it that Morus wasn’t familiar with. Perhaps judging her against her warrior ilk was an unkindness. Her sweetness aside, the dreamwalker had no interest in engaging right now. There were still troubles in the dreaming, and the feeling had not gone away. As cozy as their dream was now, it could be devoured all the same by whatever entity Fennik and he had encountered before. And even if that weren’t the case, any misstep in talking to her might cause her to wake up. It was safely kick them to another dream, but with the torrent travel seemed now, Morus was not exactly up for it.

“We will soon, but shouldn’t you water those seeds you planted?” The boy spoke slowly and carefully, and just as he had hoped, the girl turned around to find a watering can that wasn’t there moments before. Logic in dreams worked differently, and if eased into it by sensible suggestions, the dreamer could summon up anything they wanted. Though Morus had no real power outside of travel, he had learned this technique to cope.

Fenn watched, with his mouth open in a small circle of surprise, as a wooden watering can sprouted from the soil just before Guntilde turned around. She considered it, grinding her tusks together thoughtfully. “Water baby plants,” she agreed, lumbering over to pick it up. Muddy water sloshed out of its rim as she handled it. The fae smiled. That can really had come out of nowhere, hadn’t it? It actually made him curious about pushing the bounds of reality. Or, dreaming. This was his first time existing within a not-his dream, and the little fae would be lying if he said he wasn’t in a bit of a buzz about it. What could he do here? How far did his powers reach? Would they interfere with the slumbering orc-girl? There was nothing to do but find out.

Though, the fae thought with a glance over his shoulder, he should probably be cautious with his explorations. He wasn’t certain how Morus interacted with the dream. Morus, who, in the most casual fashion the street-waif could, had settled himself down onto the earth for a very dignified bout of keeling-over-from-exhaustion. Intrigued glow-bugs drifted down to land on him as he did so. A muffled groan echoed from his vicinity; the dreamwalker boy definitely needed a moment to catch his breath. Fenn didn’t know what happened if you died in a dream not your own, but he suspected that the waif was right regarding the stormy phantasm, at least. It would be nice to be able to wake in his own bed again.

But for now, they were here, amid this surreal jungle of greenery. Guntilde called out plaintively to them, startling Fenn out of his stupor. “Help baby plants?”

Shrugging, he kneeled beside her on the ground, eyes bright with curiosity. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to play along with her desires in this dream. At the least, he supposed it wouldn’t cause her any sense of jarring that might wake her up. <I suppose thirty is young. For fae. Are you young? For your size, I mean. You are small too,> he mused absently to Morus as the orcette poured water onto lumps in the soft soil. Not so small as Fenn, but still, definitely a young human <I have not met someone who can warp dreams like I do, besides my Banri. You have talent! Especially for being a mortal child; Banri says that mortals aren’t very magical. Not like us. Where did you learn it? Or were you born with it?>

Morus did not answer. Perhaps, the young teen was too tired to focus. Oh well! A clack of tusks interrupted him instead. “Guntilde born with green thumbs,” the orc replied in her cheerful obliviousness.

Though she meant it figuratively — relatively speaking; her people were naturally green, come to think of it — her words gave Fenn a kneejerk thought. Here he could make the figurative literal. Without thinking, the puck placed his hands on top of the soil and concentrated. This was a dream. Dreams were malleable. They were a fabric, and he was starting to learn how to unravel their threads. If he reached out… Yes. Beneath the springy earth, he felt the tension of thought that made it so.

This was a placid dream. It responded with neutral indifference to his will; with little more than intrigue and a slight attention. Guntilde’s subconscious attention. Tendrils of a pale verdant dripped up from the ground underneath his hand, bearing buds that unfurled large yellow petals. On the mirror-ground above, a similar splash of yellow began to sprout. Fenn’s antennae drifted in the direction of the blossoms. The sugary nectar scent emanating from them, mixed with dirt and damp, was appealing to him. Maybe it was just how it reminded him of honey. This was very different from the physical world. There, his touch would have flash-frozen those seeds without mercy — intentionally or no.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he had just made the plants happen in here, or if he’d just sprung into motion something the orcette had wanted to happen anyway. Still, the fae looked at it in satisfaction. Best to start small, if he was going to start mucking about with this sort of dream-manipulation.

“Good grow,” Guntilde praised, bearing a broad grin. “Very green leafs, like you, cloak faerie.”

<Maybe we could grow Morus some medicine,> he joked.

The orc snorted, starting up at the buttery flowers that still steadily crept up in height. “Need Gran Ti-Ti’s liver soup for sick boy.”

Mockery was never something Morus enjoyed, at least not when it came at his expense. Sarcasm flowed freely from his mouth like wine from a bottle, but a slight against him rustled some deep-dwelling pride within. The dreamwalker took himself deathly seriously; it was hard to blame someone who’d borne witness to so much horror for that idea. But the years had passed to lessen the sting of it all, and no one was interested in another sob story on Althanas, a world with a thousand tales of murder and woe. Even for a diviner and traveler of dreams, who unwillingly conspired with demons to gain power, the boy had to admit there was some levity to the vision he had found himself in.

Had to. But wouldn’t.

Instead he found himself picking those lavender bugs off his clothing, as they softly floated around him as their point of interest. He groaned now and then about the indignity of it, muffled words beneath his breath that still managed to just be audible enough to be overheard. After gently brushing what seemed like swarms of the things away, he took to flicking at them harshly with wearied fingers, adamant he could hear tiny cries of pain with each one.

He looked over at the orc girl and Fennik, tittering to themselves at his expense, but noticed the strange way in which the fae forcefully manipulated dream. He gathered up some strength to walk over to them, kneeling down in the grass and playfully stroking the plant Fennik had conjured up moments before. The fae boy seemed fascinated by it, and it took every ounce of self control Morus had not to rip the damn thing from the ground and throw it before him. But that, too, was forceful and endangered the dreamer’s world just as much as an outsider insisting upon it. Instead, he smiled at the orc girl.

“Liver soup sounds lovely. Did you say it was over there?” The boy pointed somewhere vague in the distance, causing the orc to look around her with glazed over eyes. Dreamer’s were easy to manipulate so long as they were unaware of the dream. Suggestions could form shape, and confusing words could make perfect sense as each mismatched beat of conversation still felt right. As the girl searched around, Morus quickly grabbed at Fennik’s harm with some roughness, though whispered quietly to him.

“Do not force your will upon another’s dream, at least not for those that haven’t mastered it actively. You can shatter the illusion for them, and force us both back out into the stream of dreaming, falling without purpose. And frankly given its current state, I don’t think I can take another bout of that just yet.” He let loose his grip of the fae’s arm, realizing he may have snatched it too tightly from the wince on his face. The waif looked away in embarrassment for just a moment, perhaps being too harsh with his new companion, and watched the confused orc girl turn back around.

“What were we talking about again?” He asked her with the feigned sincerity only a kid his age could.

Fenn didn’t particularly like it when people handled him roughly. It brought forth disjointed impressions of things he didn’t remember — and was advised best to not recall. The tight pressure around his arm gave him the hazy and incongruous impression of a shackle. As soon as Morus let go, the fae jerked his arm back, as if he’d touched fire, his eyes wide and nervous. A flash of frost crept up his sweater sleeve. It wasn’t his actual magics, but an instinctual imitation of them; apparently, manipulating reality came as naturally to him as breathing. His hands twitched… a twitch that became yet another wince when he realized they had an audience.

“Don’t remember what Guntilde was talking of,” the orcette murmured, brows furrowed, glancing between them with mounting unease. Was it just him, or were flowers around her were drooping?

Fenn jolted, realizing that his seething was having an actual effect on her state of mood, and thus the dream. Hastily, he made up for the mistake. <Mentioned that a really pretty blue flower lives riiight over there,> the fae snipped, bobbing his head in a direction away from them. <Needs water.>

“Oh. Yes, thanks.” With a sigh of relief, she turned away on earthen feet. The plants in her wake perked up.

There. It was easier to be mad when he didn’t have to tip-toe around a doe-eyed dreamer. Though, how long could they keep directing her away like that before she came to suspect — to really suspect — that something was off? Who knew. Either way, as soon as she had her back to them and a good ten paces of distance to not overhear anything, he could help but push back against Morus a little. <That different from what you do?> the fae asked as he pointed to the yellow flowers, sour-mouthed and clearly miffed. He plucked one from its stem, turning it white with frost. <She liked it. You change the dream too, yes? Just indirectly. With words.>

To his credit, Morus held his ground. Fenn could see the slight twitch of his eye, the tightening of his hands, the slight sneer to his mouth. But he didn’t lash out again. The waif crossed his arms together. “But I don’t force it to change. Again, how hard it it to make you understand that you could have easily woken her? Then where would we be?”

The fae snorted and waved the sharp words away with a shiver of his hands and flower, both still sparkling with accidental dustings of ice. <Could have woken, but did not.>

Fenn still struggled to comprehend what was wrong in altering a dream. Wasn’t this like picking pockets? If he didn’t get caught, if he was good enough to get away with what he did most of the time, what what did it matter? What was wrong with having a little fun? Alas, Morus didn’t even have to say anything to continue reprimanding him. As if taking a page from the fae’s own book, he simply stared into Fenn’s gaze, half-lidded blue eyes pushing against bold green. The fae stared back, cheeks puffed up, wings rising stiffly outward as if to make himself seem larger. It didn’t do nearly as much to his intimidation factor as he wanted it to, however.

Eventually, he wilted. <Alright, alright, sorry. Will try to not to do it again.> Not looking directly at Morus, he shook the dream-ensorceled frost from his sweater and cloak, as if to make a nod to his words. <No certainty. But I try.>

A thought struck Fenn; so did a sudden and smug grin, all bright canines and squinched eyes. He lifted up his hand. The frosted flower found itself a place in Morus’ hair.

<Keep it with you. A sign of my promise! Something happen to flower, poof, my promise comes undone,> the fae instructed in as serious a tone as he could. Not laughing was a monumental task, but absolutely necessary here. If there was one thing Fenn had learned from his mentorboss Banrion, it was that fae were practically expected to be dramatic in the deals they struck… and mortal folk tended to eat it up. Besides, it’d be worth actively abstaining from from his instinctual magics if Sir Serious spent the rest of their time together with a dainty buttercup on his head.

It was only then that he realized with a slight gasp that their true flower-lover had vanished from sight. Ears flicking back, Fenn glanced around. <Um. Where’d Gunny go?>

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

Some paces away, beyond the two’s chilly exchange, a lonely glowbug alighted above a brilliant blue bud. Light flickering, it dove down, as if to rest on the bloom. The flower shifted without a warning in a wash of smog and hot air. Its petals darkened; they flexed and unfurled, revealing glistening teeth. The curious bug drew closer. It did not anticipate the snap that followed.

Neither did Guntilde.

The wooden watering can tight in her hands, she stared at the flower, curls bouncing as she shook her head. What was this? “Needs water badly,” the orc reasoned, not able to process why one of her beloved plants made her so uneasy. Cooing softly to it, she approached, her gait heavy with concern and her can beared. “Here, little friend. Guntilde make you better.”

Making deals with magic creatures was not something the boy was wholly comfortable with. In his not too distant past, Morus remembered the flame and fury found in such a contract with a far more insidious force than Fenn. Still, he was relieved that the fae had listened to reason finally, and wore the flower in his hair with only a little apprehension. He was reminded of his sisters and other girls from his village who took to wearing blooming wreaths in a similar fashion come spring and autumn; the thought of it causing a slight tear to well up in his eye before he pushed that memory deep down to the depths where it belonged.

“This promise will do fine,” sighed the boy, adjusting the blossom in his hair as he did. He tucked its stem deeper into the greasy matting of his locks, securing it firmly in place. From the corner of his eye, he could see a slumped figure lumbering forward on uneasy legs. It was Guntilde, returning without a watering can and with a bewildered look in her eyes. Before Fennik or Morus could greet her however, the pair noticed the sorry state she was in.

Her gown was covered in splotches of red blood that resembled a mad artist’s most avant garde creation. Her right hand, or what was left of it, oozed bits of gore and bubbled in a sickly state, feeding what looked like a strange flower that perched atop it. It’s vines were the tendrils, sliding into the wound and forcing their way inside her forearm, where they pulsed and writhed to reach deeper into her body. The orc girl mouthed at words, but whether they were cries or pleas was uncertain from how soundless her whisper was.

Morus shot up then, his sickness a distant memory to what he witnessed now. He ran towards her and watched as her body fell lifeless to the ground. It kicked a little, rattling and struggling with some last semblance of strength, before she lay motionless at his feet. The boy reached out a hand towards her, but stopped as he saw a new life take hold. The flower was restless. It’s violent tendrils still coarsed within her before tearing new holes in her flesh to reach out and stick in the earth. The ground beneath was soaked in her blood.

Soon all the earth, the verdant fields and blooming bushes changed to revolting red color. Distant cries echoed all around the pair, and whatever light left shifted to a pale red. Vines sprung up from the ground and knitted themselves into the earth above, and soon more appeared from above to weave into the earth below. A ruby spider web of sorts seemed to surround them, growing thicker by the minute. The world around them had less in common with a garden, and was more like a fetid sinew healing a wound. The crying steadily grew louder, heralding the approach of something far more terrible.

The boy could feel it. The dream around them was collapsing, but not before something vile had made its way inside. It pulsed with the rhythmic beat of a drum, steady and slow like a war galley’s call to arms. Though he nary had the strength for another trip, the alternative was far too grim to stick around for. He ran back to the fae, snatching his hand before once again summoning a portal, this time beneath them. He felt the ground give way to them both, but not before the blood-red vines snatched at their bodies, narrowly missing them as they descended into the cacophony of the dreaming again.

In a fur-lined hut all the way out in Berevar, one would be able to hear a variety of quiet snores were they to listen in at the entrance. Past the pelt that covered the door’s frame slept a small group of orcs. Their abode was lit — and warmed — by the faint wink of a guttering fire’s last coals. All seemed at ease. All of the slumberers seemed untroubled.

All but for one.

Shuddering and jerking, sweating, swaddled in a thick afghan patterned with fading flowers, a young orc tossed in her sleep. Her breath came in choking gasps — shorter and shorter.

After a moment, she was still.

~ § ~ § ~ § ~

This time, Fenn’s screeching began before the fall.

Expecting the tunnel of terror did not make it less overwhelming in the moment. They hurtled, weightless, through a rush of heavy air that tore at his wings and cloak. It was all still a whir of flashing lights and noises that made him want to claw out his ears and eyes. And yet, it was almost a reprieve from the gruesome imagery before. Something about the puck’s sense for magic had tingled with familiarity as he’d helplessly watched Guntilde struggle against it, and then fall. It had him frozen in fear, before he’d been whisked down the rabbit hole. His knees had been locked in cowardice as it writhed its way through the orc girl.

That… nightmarish force was the same creeping darkness from his own dream previous.

Of that, he was certain.

The screeching hell of lights ended with a gush of steamy air. There was splashing in the distance. His body smacked — hard — against a floor that was both polished and golden. And, dewed with water. Whimpering, he hid his head under his hands. There was a slightly heavier thump and a similar moan beside him; Morus. The fae heard him wheeze into a sitting position. “Fennik. Fennik… Open your eyes, young Fennik,” he heard the waif coax after a moment. It was a statement made with a rattling of the chest, and followed by wet coughing. A cool hand shook him by the shoulder. “We made it out.”

<By the skin of teeth,> the fae mumbled back, reluctantly dragging himself upright.

Now that he was alert, a part of him stirred in surprise at where they had landed. They were between a wall and a grand marble pillar, thrice as big around as the two of them put together, and carved with Fallieni stone-chasing — textured patterns. No, wait. Fenn tilted his head, squinting. It was Fallieni in appearance, and yet, something about it was not quite right. Fenn was certain he had been to Fallien before, at least before he’d lost a significant chunk of his memory. He recalled enough to recognize its architecture… sort of. The fae ran a hand down the engravings, frowning. The flourishes were too loopy. Too loose and unrefined. He was starting to feel that this was what one might think Fallieni chiseling might look like, had they never actually seen up close in Fallien.

Some of the designs were quite flower-like.

The words came out suddenly. <Guntilde didn’t make it, did she?> he asked, already knowing the answer. <She couldn’t have…>

For once, Morus’ grim demeanor wavered. His gaze fell to his feet. “She did not.”

<That’s our fault. We gotta make sure it doesn’t happen again. Bicker less now, and pay more attention. Okay? Let’s find the dreamer here. See what goes on with them,> he said, antennae twirling anxiously.

A nod was Morus’ reply. While Fenn took a moment to calm his fluttering heart, rocking back and forth on the dazzling floor, the waif peered around the grand pillar swamping the rest of the dream from sight. Whatever he saw must have been astonishing. The waif teen’s face relaxed from his stoic stoney glare to something else. What emotion was that? Not one familiar to the puck; it was a little languid, a little wantful, and not entirely there.

<Are you sick?>

“From dream traveling,” Morus replied, brushing off the question with a heavy breath and… a flustered glance? “Obviously.”

Fenn shook his head suspiciously as Morus returned to his gawping. No, dream traveling explained the waif’s wobbly legs, and the way he slumped against the grand pillar. Not the fuddy-duddy look on his face.

Twitching wracked his antennae as a wash of steam drifted behind their pillar, carrying with it some strange perfume. Along with the sweetness of roses, he identified a weird musk hanging in the air ambiguously as… “lady”. It was a sort of scent he remembered faintly from… oh. His frown deepened slightly. That was one of those memories that wasn’t fully there too, wasn’t it? The only other figment attached to the lady-musk memory was a glimpse of violet. That was all.

Suddenly impatient with intrigue, Fenn let out a last deep breath and hauled himself to his feet and peered out around his fellow dreamwalker.

Their pillar was one of a set ringing a vast room. Pools burbled with turquoise waters, rose petals, bubbles, and hisses of steam. They were fed with jets of water from towering fountains. Seeing all the pearls crusting them made his thiefy hands itch. If only one could carry riches out of dreams! Alas.

Oh, wait. Fenn closed his incredulous mouth. There was something else besides shinies in those pools; women. Fallieni women, draped in sheer cloth that clung to their every curve. They giggled amongst themselves, buxoms bouncing with an energy that Fenn (though not an expert on mortal anatomy) was pretty certain mammaries were not wont to possess.

The real part of them that drew his gaze was their faces; they were all practically indistinguishable from one another. Fenn shivered as one of them glanced his way. Something about those empty, empty eyes made him wonder if he could get away with crawling back behind the pillar. The fae puffed his cheeks shyly as, upon a dais, he spotted a man atop a throne with one of the wall-eyed women draped across his lap. Two others fanned him delicately. A necessary task, Fenn thought with a muffled snrk of a laugh. He was heavyset and ruled by thick forests of blonde hair, like men of the north commonly were; even in nothing more than a loincloth, he was probably sweating a storm.

As if sleepwalking, Morus stepped out from the pillar’s shadow. Fenn, wings aflutter with uncertainty, had no idea else he could do but follow.

The heavy man’s eyes snapped up at the sudden movement at the edge of the pools he oversaw. “Ahh, visitors! Welcome, to the humble palace of Geogri,” the man announced through a meaty Salvarian accent, and with a proud lift of his multiple chins. “I expect that you will find-“ the man’s voice faded out as he stopped, squinting at the two younglings afar down from him in concern. “Wait. You aren’t the dancers I summoned for.”

Oh dear. Fenn glanced to Morus, hoping for the quick-tongued waif to find an explanation for their presence here.

The dreaming had been another cruel series of twists and turns. It seemed to pull and stretch at the pair as they correned through, screaming futile curses into the winds of the ether. Morus could swear that black tendrils had followed them in, cut off from their fetid source and desperately searching for a new host to burrow within. As waves of ice cold wind and ear shattering howls lapped at Fennik and the boy, the timeless seconds of dream travel felt like aeons stuck between the waking and sleeping. It was only when Morus felt he couldn’t stand a second more that the pair were finally depositing into yet another dream. Both were jolted from their fright by the sudden fall against cool marble.

Truth be told, the dreaming wasn’t the only thing to scar the mind of the waif. He thought of Guntilde as she lay lifeless on the ground, her body but a shattered husk of what it had been. The orc girl had been an innocent. She had been targeted only because two invaders had barged into his sacred realm of dream. Her gardens of the mind were the fertile fields of her true soul, and now they were scorched and destroyed by an all consuming black that was hot on the heels of Morus and Fennik. How many more would suffer the same fate as the pair fled in their cowardice.

”How many more times can I stare helpless to watch somebody die,” the boy thought, meekly slamming a fist against the gilded floor.

And what a floor it was.

The pair found themselves in a palace so opulent, that even Morus had trouble recounting anything so fabulous from the many story books he had read. Wide pillars of intricately chiseled marble dotted the room from golden floor to a glittering ceiling. Warm mists flowed in the air, along with the sweet scent of fresh cut flowers. Pools of water sent waves of steam as the occupants inside splashed about in glee. And those occupants. Morus did not notice their identical faces or bodies, which was strange given how much he seemed to focus on them. In fact, he was so entranced he never heard Fennik’s further words, which he nodded to unthinkingly, and completely missed the large, hairy man at the top of a dais who demanded to know who the two intruders were.

“Uh, don’t you remember, oh great lord, bidding for two humble servants to assist your greatness?” The waif thought on his feet enough on the street that such lies came easy to him, at least when he finally gained some semblance of awareness of his surroundings.

“Geogri remembers a many things, an-”

“Because he is as wise as he is mighty,” the boy said, cutting him off as seamlessly as he could. “But even the mighty need wine servers to watch their entertainment.”

“Ah, yes,” the man fumbled. “You, moth lad, fetch the wine vase! And you, boy, grab the oil gourd before the dancers arrive.”

“The oil what now?” Morus was flustered in word and appearance, reddening a bit from the steam as well as the implications.

“The gourd, you fool. Quickly now, on the far wall to your left!”

The boy nodded, but sent a look back at Fennik. A knowing, lingering look that meant they needed to speak when it became convenient for them, although who knew when that was when at the beck and call of a lecherous fool’s dream palace.

Wine… vase?

Fenn nodded twitchily at Morus’ telling glance, and grabbed a white vase brimming with purple liquid from where it suddenly stood.

Boy! Were he not painfully aware that this wine was but a dream’s figment, he’d be more than ready to down the whole of the slosh himself. Why was this dream filled with such intangible temptations? A long-suffering sigh heaved out of him as he dragged the heavy porcelain behind him.

Speaking of temptations…

Fenn watched with the slightest of uncertain smirks as a red-cheeked Morus took hold of a container brimming with silvery oil, and then nearly dropped it as one of the wrong-faced women splashed past, his eyes about level with her b— oh. Ohh. Fenn’s smirk drew up to the edge of his ears. Suddenly, the fae was starting to catch on to what Morus’ current ailment was; hormones. Adolescent hormones! He’d heard that mortals got very strong reproductive urges sometime after hitting puberty. Obviously, his friend was addled by his own brain’s biology. An understandable plight, if rather inconvenient!

…the fae briefly paused as a girl passed he himself. He tilted his head, squinting. Well, they were very squishy, but…. Hrmmmmmmm. Whatever nuances of extreme fascination were being picked up on by Morus were eluding him. Maybe he needed to study mortals more. It seemed he’d lost a lot of his understanding of them with his memories.

“Wine boy! To me!”

Shrugging, Fenn went back to dragging the vase up the slick steps all the way to Geogri’s curious throne. The weight jarred him uncomfortably with each step. Stupid wet stairs. It made him almost wish that he hadn’t made that pact with Morus; it’d be nice to just force the dream to accept that the wine jar was mysteriously at the very tip top of the path winding upward. He winced as a purple gob of wine spattered out. “Be careful with that!” Geogri called from on high. Dumb Morus. Dumb flower. Dumb dreamer-man. Dumb dumb wine that wouldn’t even make him a little drunk — if only he could douse his memories of the last dream away! Dumb inability to alter this one. Grumbling, he couldn’t help but find himself closing his eyes for half a second. His mind’s gaze strayed to the gilded fabric of Geogri’s dream. He was very definitely not pulling at the threads — not touching, not re-weaving.

Just looking. Just curious. Yep. No touch.

As one would guess, the ladies present were but projections; puppet’s of Geogri’s unconscious, his own idea of what “woman” was. Fenn watched their threads dance outward from the self-crowned king of this dream. It seemed odd, to construct this idea of a person based on one aspect of them. Should not other people be regarded as inherently unknowable until they had said something of themselves?

<Mortals have funny heads,> he huffed at the top of the stairs.

“What was that?” Geogri slurred as one of his personal lady-puppets at attendance took the wine vase a poured out a glass.

<Nothing.>

A hullabaloo — a great BANG — caused all to snap to attention. Fenn looked down, through and across the fountain’s spray. A grand entrance of a double-door that he was pretty sure had never been there before had burst open.

“The dancers!”