CW:

Mental/Soul panic attacks. Memory of soul torture. Time moving forward. BEG chapter.

My first Waking Nightmare came on the third day.

The manor has this enormous room that’s like… mostly a bath! The water never cools either so it’s just always perfect.

After a brief distraction of soft scales and kisses as I straddled her for a bit, we pulled apart.

Tretion is relaxing along one side, and I've waded out to sort of… swim about. It isn’t deep, barely up to my chest. And as I slide away, giggling at something she said, my Naranggas slip free since the first time I arrived here.

I’m able to dunk under the water and enjoy the smothering warmth of it all for a few moments before the lack of cold delight takes its toll.

I come back up and… and…

I’m back in Thendra’s bath, and my dark goddess has given me a command…

A bark of laughter, “Fine then. Sing to me the word of this curse, nothing else.”

I try to follow it on terrified reflex, forgetting where I am and drawing up my Amwella. Forcing the horrid words through clenched teeth, and the curse is biting with all the furiosity of a jungle cat as I try to obey my dark goddess.

Looking back up to her I try to convey everything through my eyes.

Please. Please make me stop. Please! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I’m yours now, I understand that! Please tell me to stop. Please please please please please–

It’s the bath that stops the curse's bite when I slip and tumble to the bottom, and end up inhaling a lungful of water.

But… it doesn’t save me from the nightmare.

Doesn’t stop the hungry Reavers or hateful Fae from clawing at my mind. Simply… simply wraps me in paralyzing choking agony before Tretion can pull me up and out of the water.

She’s not as strong as Thendra, and it takes her longer to drag me to the edge and lift me to cold tiles so I can gag and vomit the water from my lungs. Cold hands help lessen the nightmare, but I am wracked with echoing snarls and that final look as my mother pleads…

Please… she had mouthed, but didn’t get the chance to add. "Just… let them fix you. Let them unweave you back to your real body and silence your songs."

"You can’t bear them well."

“No.” I’m weeping between rasping breaths. “Pleeease. I’m so sorry. I…”

Tretion's hands hover over and around me, ensuring I’m on my side and able to expel the water. She begins to say something… But it’s drowned amidst the muck drowning my mind and soul.

Usete and Awnya’s face blur together. A horrid mixture of them growling that I should stay in the horrid Fae wood with them. “Stay and be fixed.”

I’m scrabbling to my feet and running. Endless snarling Reavers nipping at feet and ankles as I scream and hiss and claw my way free.

I’m back in the Dead Dreamer’s Wood. Cold, alone, jerking at every little sound. Not worried of some forest creature hunting me, but of the hateful sibling and the Fae mercy they promise.

I can see my forest home, rush to the door, tear it open. But the ground writhes up to stop me from escaping.

I hiss and growl and scream. Naranggas cut and bite and whirl at the muck of dark ooze and horrid things that drag me from my home. Eventually I am buried up to my chest in the bubbling mess, Talons snagged and engulfed.

I’m sobbing and pleading now. Begging for it to just… “Let me go home. I’ll stop. I’ll live alone. I’ll never sing again. Just…. Just please don’t take this body from me. PLEASE. I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’M SORRY I’M SO BROKEN AND HORRIBLE AND–”

By the time it all fades, I’m sitting naked and damp beside the closed gateway to the manor. Slumped, trembling, and engulfed in a hug of bubbles that stop me from moving.

Tretion kneels close by but does not rush to approach, face wracked with worries but… trying to remain calm as her tendrils lean toward me.

“I… I’m so sorry.” I blubber as the mess of bubble hugs slowly begins to slop back into the floor.

She shakes her head, tendrils bobbing about. “Don’t be.”

I don’t know how I have any tears left, but I’m already falling back into a sobbing mess. “I’m… I’m messing everything up again. That bath was so nice and–”

“Lyra.” She says with such… such focus that I find my words catch in my throat. She locks her smoky eyes on mine. “You are perfect. You are safe. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“B– But…” I choke on the words as I feel another hateful memory begin to rise up.

Tretion sees my fall back into despairing, pulls me back with confident words. “Lyra. I love you.” She moves a little closer, but… doesn’t force any connection.

Just… being close in case I need her.

I shudder at those words. Still… still so unused to them.

Naranggas reach out and grips her soul like it’s an anchor dropped into the deep oceans.

Love tinted with confused worry and a strange sense of… focus. A beacon in a storm of her own turmoil helps calm me.

She takes a deep breath at the touch, and gives me a smile. “I’m here. No matter what. Always and forever.”

And then I’m scrambling to tumble into her arms. Sobbing and clutching desperately at this wonderful watcher with everything I am as she returns the embrace.

* * *

I feel the prickle of the Reaver’s gaze just as my foot rests on the bottom step leading upstairs. I’d normally disregard their attentions. Move through the manner like the apex predator they generally regard me to be and a head straight for Thendra.

Whatever blighted magic the cunt used to birth this brood has allowed them to inherit the watchers' Amwella smothering sight. It’s nothing to a mature Fae, but this…

This is more than idle curiosity. This focus is one of hunger. And while I have no doubt Thendra would flay her living if she attacked a guest, I will not hide behind that dreamer blighted cunt’s threats for protection.

So I stop, not suddenly, but lazily. Like a panther catching an interesting scent, I roll my eyes over without turning my head. A hand is already at my blade’s hilt.

She sits in a group of three, each seem to be consuming some rank flesh from this manor’s larder. A head full of watcher eyestalks casually all turn to look at me, dull yellow and glimmering with Amwella. The group either doesn’t notice or ignores her sudden interest. Most Reavers barely give me passing curiosity tinted with a bit of fear these days.

Like the rest, her skin is a deep hue of some type or another. Very very deep charcoal green seems to dominate most of this one. A few pale markings and tattoos even writhe across her bare chest and arms.

Our contest lasts… maybe half a minute. Near the end her focus seems to roll up and down my body and hesitate on my core. But when my fingers casually tip tap my blade a couple times she smirks and looks away. A twisted sign of acknowledgement, but not submission.

I nearly spit a slow song of fury in her direction, let her feel the wrath of a few storms and reconsider that.

But… I don’t want to waste any more time here than I have to.

Thendra is going over some map of something stupid when I toss the old journal on the desk in front of her. “About thirty pages in, the footnotes and little drawing. Is that the one?”

She barely pauses, then casually brushes the book off to one side. “And if it is?”

I let out a growl, “Then I know to track more of that woman’s blighted business dealings. Maybe find a painting or piece of the manor smuggled away to use as an anchor.”

Thendra purrs acknowledgement, but not interest.

“What about Getrik?” I press, annoyed. “Any word from her?”

She ignores my question, pulls out a quill to mark a few notes on the map.

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I hiss a whisper of song, causing the room to drop just a hint of its heat.

Thendra doesn’t growl, doesn’t threaten, just… sighs. As if my sudden song is a paltry thing of annoyance and not the beginnings of a melody that could freeze her precious collection of tomes to brittle ice.

Jade eyes finally turn up to me. “What would you have me do, Fae?”

I narrow my eyes. Her calm over these past three weeks has been… concerning.

I’ve expected even more rage and dark promises of pain for my lover behind those eyes. Been preparing so many plans and songs to make sure Lyra would be safe and away from this evil cunt when I find her.

But… nothing.

No anger.

No worry.

Nothing!

I’d spent my time between chasing leads researching rumors and tales of Thendra and her Reavers. Found nothing but a trail of blood and misery in her path.

Some stories were so cruel I had to…

I drop the petty song. Find myself glaring at the bed. Worst nightmares bloom and fester of all the things she might do to Lyra there.

Has already done.

“Heard a story the other day, walking the streets.” I murmur.

I didn’t. I’d pulled a poor slave girl from her mistress’s clutches. She’d blubbered a ton while I took her to a new rift, and when I’d mentioned my search for Lyra she’d told me the little she remembered.

While her eyes have drifted back down to the page, I can feel her attention focus on me.

“Of a Fae visiting a certain blighted god’s halls to claim her freedom.”

A smile cracks on her lips. But she offers nothing else up.

“She traded a watcher for her freedom, then bought her back.”

That, of all things, gets a rumbling of annoyance from Thendra.

“Really?” I snort. “This is what gets you upset? Not her spending three weeks locked away with her. This? Why?”

For the next few moments I think she won’t answer.

But then she rises from her desk, and regards me. “Do you know what she paid to claim her watcher?”

“Some say she offered a clutch of souls, others… a ring.” I huff, “Others… Say flesh or song. Stupid ones claim it was just a sight of her naked body.”

“Worse.” Thendra glares past me. “A boon to be claimed at a later date was twisted from my Lyra.”

I jerk back to fully stare at the massive cunt. “You can’t be serious.”

A boon promised to the god of slaves and slavers…

I absolutely will NOT be sharing that with the other Fae. Getting them to accept my way was already nearly impossible. Especially since I still can not find her.

Thendra rumbles in affirmation.

“Dreamer’s Tits, Thendra.” I spit. “That’s… if that old blighted thing calls in that favor… Does she know how much they could ask? What refusing will cost!?!”

* * *

It’s three months before I can even whisper the words.

Tretion’s asleep when I first let them escape my lips. I know from the cold thrumming off her soul and the weaving of soft dreams they tell me, that she doesn’t hear them.

But… that’s okay. She knows. She feels them weeping from my Amwella when our souls dance.

The words are for me.

And after speaking them I can’t help but fall into a sobbing mess that does wake her up.

She’s so wonderful.

Just… pulls me closer without question, lets me smother my soul in her cold scales and wandering affectionate tendrils as I sob them over and over and over.

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you!”

* * *

“What else can you tell us about the Blight Weaver’s songs?” Opherity, an older looking Fae with a subtle amount of bird feathers about her form presses. “These horrid things she’s used to enhance and twist the curses.”

I grind my teeth at the… the stupid fucking name. “As I’ve said, multiple times, I don’t know. Lyra’s songs are generally soft things, only slightly tinted with very understandable pain due to her own curse’s bite.”

I’d grown so tired of these meetings. Running from Fae Court to Fae Court, just to hear another bumble of my elders squabble and claim to understand all this. Time that could be better spent following leads, scouring books for hints to how to get to the manor, and freeing literal Dreamer Blighted slaves.

Not that I’d share that task with any of these old fools, even if they thought to offer.

“Where did she even learn those words?” Yeklan, a sort of cat like Fae, hisses. “Certainly not from Yuna.”

I sigh and fiddle with the hilt of my dagger. “I honestly don’t know. I think that Reaver cunt Thendra has–”

Opherity interrupts me with an exasperated sigh, “Yes yes, we’ve… considered your claims. But this woman is nothing but a brute. Her victory was due to luck and the intervention of the Blight Weaver. To believe she somehow taught the one of our kind anything about Fae song is… quite unlikely and not worth our time.”

“More likely the Blight Weaver’s cursed her and others throughout Theradas.” Another elder prompts.

“Lyra wouldn’t–” I begin to say.

Yeklan adds. “Might even be weaving more as we speak.”

“Elders.” I nearly hiss, immediately my fury gets their attention… and annoyance.

For one so young to embrace her primal urges shows my youth and lack of understanding in their eyes.

I sigh, “Apologies for my… outburst. But none of you have even met her. Haven't heard her songs or seen her soul. She is kind and loving, just… hurt and twisted by a series of incredibly horrid events. She needs healing, not… not scorn. And certainly not the unweaving some have suggested.”

Yeklan’s ear flatten, but Opherity speaks before he can voice his disdain.

“Awnya, we understand that… that this is hard.” She says so gently it annoys me. “Your affections for her might have pulled a less blighted woman from the rot and ruin. But we must consider that at some point since your time with her in the Fae wood her mind became touched by it.”

“She spent twelve years in the Cursed Woods.” I counter. “If that time didn’t ruin her then how could a few days or even weeks in Theradas even hope to do more?”

“Maybe it was her journey to Theradas that signaled her inevitable decline.” She offers. “Why else would she leave with such a horrid woman If her own flesh did not stink with the subtle blights of that city?”

“It’s as I said, she offered her life for another’s. An act of love and–”

“We have to assume that if she returns, that she brings even more horrid blights.” She whispers. “And We must protect the Hearthfires.”

I jerk back, “She would never try to… That’s not possible. Why would she ever want to spread a blight to them? Why would she ever return to the Fae Wood after all that’s hurt her here?”

Opherity steps up to me, touches my shoulder, “Awnya, I know your relationship with him has been strained, but your father would love to see you more. He can… help explain this all in better ways and–”

I brush her hand off me. “It was his Dreamer Blighted actions that brought us here. I could have gotten her away, gotten her healed. But he did exactly what you're all doing! Assuming the worst without even talking to her. Just… treating her like… like some…”

“He was right to.” Yeklan growls.

I turn to glare openly at the little shit.

Opherity huffs, “I… think we’ve talked enough about this today. Maybe you should–”

But I’m already turning to leave these fools behind me.

* * *

Tretion had shown me her library within our first week together, but it’s in the fourth month that we begin to spend long hours there. Her, taking up dozens of thick and odd tomes to begin reacquainting herself with the incredibly complex process of awakening Lenelope and inscribing a new soul into her body. Me, discovering such a variety of amazing stories. Mostly silly things full to bursting with romance and sex and silly adventures devoid of real pain. All wonderful and so calming to my soul.

A perfect balm to keep the Waking Nightmares away for days and days…

It’s so big too! Three levels and balconies and like… an eternity of books and scrolls and paintings and everything ever! I can’t help but yelp in surprise as Tretion reminds me that it’s mine now too, and that every book here is for me to enjoy if I want to.

But eventually, Tretion begins to move us to the manor’s heart to start her work.

The process is… odd. A long half-month is spent just gathering supplies and setting up her workspace in the bubble filled room.

Then It takes nearly a full day just to get the manor to wake up, and that was with my help pushing through the curse to help sing little murmured pleas alongside Tretion’s weird gurgling old language.

The manor and I fall asleep a few times as Tretion works over her beloved companion after that. Lenelope’s body snuggled in a bath of bubbles while my watcher fiddled with the soul she was spinning from the manor’s offerings and working to weave something about something into her brain or… something.

Really complicated and so far beyond my ability to understand.

Fae song is all will and focus when it comes to the nameless little things we try to weave into our own body. That and… and having the right Fae words to express those desires. I can’t even begin to guess at what new words I’d have to find and memorize to replicate what my Tretion is doing…

My watcher told me how the woman Lenelope was faded when her body died that first time.

Mentions how more than a few hours of severed soul links to the mind seem to clear it of its memories. But, apparently she worked extra hard to keep this crafted being’s mind safe after death by preserving her in this bubble mass the manor keeps here.

Didn’t want to put this kind lady through years and years of life as a husk until people's thoughts started to spark true. And… and without the memories from her past even those would be muted and hollow for years and years.

But eventually Tretion is shouting in joy as her beloved companion begins to stir. Wraps her in such a loving embrace while Lenelope sputters and coughs up some bubbles. Eyes rolling about as if she’s only just been asleep and not dead.

Then her gaze falls on me, going wide with fear. “L– Lyra?”

Old memories of soul death flashing in her eyes.

“She’s fine, Darling!” Tretion pulls back and takes the woman’s face gently in her hands as she begins to panic a little. “It’s okay! You’re safe she only–”

I squeeze my eyes shut and… and… try to… to keep the shadows back.

Feel the guilt and shame of that murder writhe up to begin strangling my mind with… with worse memories of Reavers and Fae and–

“Beloved! It’s all okay.” Tretion calls out. “Reach out and hold my soul tight if you need to!”

I whimper, make the mistake of pulling Naranggas close to cover my soul instead of reaching out to the cold source of relief.

Dreamer bless my watcher, she… she needs to focus on Lenelope, not the messed up little monster who killed her. Should just… just… Let these shadows continue to claw and bite and tear at this little soul that doesn’t deserve her love or affections.

Words. Too many. Too slow and painful. Tretion explaining to Lenelope that I’m not a monster to calm the panic she’s rightfully feeling.

Just… too certain that I don't deserve the pain and mind torments.

As the blighted punishment consumes my everything I feel cold arms wrap around me. Then tendrils weaving and wiggling through my hair. “C’mon beloved, take hold. C’mon. Please don’t face this alone.”

I ignore her, but… My Naranggas don’t. They curl out and obey her command despite my futile efforts to ensure this hurts me as much as much as–

A new hand on my knee. Soft and warm.

“I… Lyra, I forgive you.” Lenelope murmurs. Then she’s beside me and wrapping us both in a hug. “Thank you for helping her wake me up again.”

That, more than anything Tretion could say, cracks the Waking Nightmare’s shell. Turns it into a pitiful sobbing thing composed of very normal guilt and shame as my watchers' loving emotions roll over me.

* * *

“It’s been over a year, Awnya.” My old mentor sighs.

I’d not exactly snuck into her chambers… but there were apparently three other elders very very interested in talking to me about my estranged lover. And after the last time I’d shared my progress went so poorly… Well, I thought it best to avoid it. Fae are slow and easily distractible things.

Let them forget about my lover and find other things to obsess over.

I shrug, “And? What’s a year to a Fae?”

“To hear Yeklan yip about it, a year for her blights to fester.” Melivias continues to prepare a small meal for us. Hums a soft encouragement for her little interior garden to ripen their fruits. “A ship adrift. Ready to crash into a shore we can’t hope to predict.”

I snort. “That Watcher was smitten with Lyra, and will drown her in love and happiness. I enjoy wandering at the things she’s doing to her.”

She nods and sits, offering a shared plate of colorful sea fruits for us to pick at. “They worry it doesn’t matter.”

I glare out the window. Not mad at her but… at how much my people keep disappointing me.

She lays a hand on my wrist, a silent assurance. She agrees with me. This is just… gifting knowledge. Preparing me for the storm that might one day arrive.

“I’m going to keep my promises to her, Melivias.” I murmur.

She doesn’t interrupt, only pulls that hand free and begins to pick at some of the fruits. I’d caught her just before her normal rest hours, so her willingness to talk and listen to this old worry again means the dream to me. “Your teachings should always hold up. Especially in the worst of times.”

That the ends don't justify the means, that the means will instead shape the ends. Treating people well and with dignity and love will always lead to better outcomes than treating them with scorn or spite.

She hums, but otherwise doesn’t speak.

Her question is unspoken, and not because she worries it will anger me. But because this is such an old thing to us now. Had this same talk with her almost every month.

“Things are different now. I can just… There are so many things I need to tell her.” I smirk. “I’m sure I can pester her into leaving that all behind, if Tretion hasn’t already done it.”

“And the curse she bears?” Melivias murmurs.

This new addition to the normal routine startles me.

I don’t drop my smile. “What of it?”

“A Fae without their songs is a horrible thing.”

“Oh. She…” I pause, considering adding more problems. “She can push through it.”

She nods, “But what of the damage? Is it possible that…”

A long pause.

That’s she’s dead. Drained of Amwella?

I wince, “Eh… it’s not too bad.”

A long pause.

I won’t lie to her. But…

“Little sparrow?”

She needs an answer. It’s important enough for her to ask as my elder. As one who is asking me to trust her centuries of experience over my mere decade.

I sigh. “Her Amwella recovers incredibly fast.”

A pursing of her lips. “How fast?”

“When I first found her, she was trying to Riftwalk.” I glance down. “Must have tried… three or four times? Between that and that curses sting her Amwella was pretty bruised and drained.”

A longer pause.

“She was perfectly healed after a night of rest.” I look back up to her, quickly add. “No drain on myself or the dream around her.”

“I can think of sparse few reasons for this to happen. And none of them are good.” She replies very carefully.

Probing.

Wanting more information.

Needing more.

This… I trust her. But this was something I really wanted to keep to myself. Lyra had no idea that it’s not normal for even the Fae to recover so quickly. And to not even passively draw soulfire from the dream around her to do it is… concerning. Amwella comes from things, we gather it passively.

So then that brooks a question… Where is she getting it from?

Melivias just… stares, but her feathers are nearly quivering with the questions she would demand of me. Her eyes brimming with so much worry and even some anger.

How could you not tell me this?

I give her a wary smile. “Not my secret to share.” Then shrug. “If it’s what I think it is… look, just honk at Yuna about this. She told me. You could probably get it out of her.”

She looks off to the side. “She’s not speaking with any elders anymore. And is… very occupied.”

I wince. “Usete still not recovering well?”

“They have some good days, but… the commands Lyra laid are… difficult. They need to reconcile. Be able to speak to someone about their pain and be free of any threat of that blighted curse's bite.”

I didn’t expect Lyra to lay something like that again.

But… I couldn’t blame her. What they were threatening her with was worse than death.

“And uh… How’s dad doing?”

“Worse. It’s a slow thing, but even with all the commands removed the curse eats at him. Day by day.” She turns back to face me, eyes wet with tears. “The Amwella healers are doing excellent work, but… they can’t keep up. Not for much longer.”

I nod, my smile frozen and brittle.

Something about his curse was worse than Usete’s. It… it wasn’t just a reactive thing. Almost… alive with hunger. But… they could see the blighted things word. He should be free of its sting ever since I freed him of all commands!

So… why is it still biting into him?

“You need to find her, Awnya.” She murmurs, “Even if she is well and settled, we need to know more about her workings to save him.”