There are many who welcome the setting of the sun as that most primal herald of night, for night is the time of dreams.
To drift among phantasms of the mind, to be lost in their swirling and infinite permutations, is for many a kind of reprieve. The burdens of the waking world are peeled away, layer by layer, undone and unraveled and sewn anew into unknown tapestries of endless meaning. For most, these dreams are good; and at their end, the sun is welcomed once again.
But there are those who are not so fortunate.
Those for whom the promise of dreamlike wonder is more a temptation than a promise. For some, the vapors of an unreal world churn violent and seek to smother. From within their twisting and tortured shadows are set loose demons of the soul.
Things that some may wish to forget.
Figures of those who have betrayed, hurt, marred and maimed.
Figures of a loved one.
A protector.
A liar…
She runs through the dark again: down an endless road and clutching desperately to one who is so small. But she will not be saved.
In the wake of thundering footsteps, she is thrown to the ground— her little one is gone. Taken from her.
She has failed again.
And he is upon her now.
Nowhere to run.
Again.
Again.
Again he—
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Ingrid’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of movement. She shot up from her bed in surprise, only to fall back against the pillow as a sharp pain ran through her body.
“I am sorry,” Perry whispered, “Did I wake you?”
She opened her eyes again and peered into the corner of the room. Perry was kneeling down beside the open fireplace; there were several dried logs beside him.
“The embers were dying down, so I thought I might—”
“There is no need to explain,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
He watched as she turned back over in the bed, laying her back to him. Perry quietly placed several new logs atop the dying embers and turned them until he was satisfied. He then stood up and leaned his hand against the stone edifice of the fireplace. The old bed moaned as Ingrid adjusted herself. Then her voice drifted over to him from the dark.
“It seems that the celebration was well received.”
“I think they enjoyed it,” he answered. “The townsfolk were rather excited.”
“They are very deserving of it.”
“We even managed to convince them to warm up to Telhari,” he added with a chuckle.
“It is only right that they do so,” she answered. “Without his help, we would certainly all be dead.”
“He is not the only one.”
She could feel him standing there, his attention drawn to her.
“You and the others should be praised for your efforts,” she said quickly.
“And what of your efforts?”
“I have done nothing worthy of such praise.”
“Why do you shy away from my gratitude?” Perry asked in frustration. “Were you even slightly less ill, I would have carried you out there myself!”
“I do not want the recognition,” she said abruptly.
“Yet you are deserving of it.”
“And yet I would deny it still!”
She had rolled over now and was facing Perry, watching the patches of orange light dance across his face. His scent was of ash and winter air. His eye’s were genuine and passionate, yet they stung at her such that she shied away from them.
Perry stood there at her bedside in speechless misery.
Her wounds were nearly fatal. He had been there beside her as they worked to heal her, and more than once she had almost perished— a fact he was not certain she knew. Perhaps she was simply too tired to engage with him. In too much pain to expend the effort for kindness. Whatever the reason, he resigned to leave her be, hoping that a proper sleep would help her along.
Perry crossed the room towards the door, taking small steps as he went. When he reached the door, he placed his hand on the portal frame and spoke one last time.
“When you are grateful for something, I believe it is best to say so. You never know when it may be lost to you forever.”