25 Years Later

"Play it again, Hank!" a man calls out. "Or play the one about the dog that saved the prisoner after he killed his cheating whore of a wife!"

"Ol' Red," I chuckle into the microphone. "You got it."

I start singing and dragging my fingers across my guitar strings. I don't play it very well anymore. My voice sounds like I gargle glass. But the people in this bar don't care. The clock is frozen somewhere between my fourteenth and fifteenth minute of fame in this smoke-filled room, and they still treat me like the rock star I thought I was destined to become.

I finish the song, reach for my glass of whiskey, and down what is left.

"That's it for me tonight, ladies and gentlemen," I rasp into the microphone. "But I'll be back tomorrow night, and I'll be playing until they turn off the lights, so y'all come back now, ya hear?"

I get cheers, claps, and a few whistles. I nod graciously and look at the tip jar, where the real appreciation is shown. There should be enough to buy a bottle of whiskey to get me through the day tomorrow and a few cigars. Thank goodness, because I'm lighting my last one. I puff it to life as I walk to the bar and sit down. The bartender brings another glass of whiskey and puts it down in front of me.

"Thanks, Jon," I grunt, puffing my cigar a few times before sipping the whiskey. "Aw man, the cheap shit already?"

"You get the good shit while you're on that stage," Jon chuckles. "If you want me to pour you something better, go do another set."

"Not tonight," I grumble, downing more of the whiskey. "I need to save something for tomorrow night. People tip a lot better on the weekend."

I used to be able to sing my heart out all night long without a care in the world, but those years are behind me. I turn forty-three this year. There's not much youth left in these old bones. Everything was great until I hit my mid thirties, then everything started falling apart. My hip hurts every morning when I wake up. My back feels like it's on fire most of the time. My fingers ache, even after a few minutes of playing guitar. Rheumatoid arthritis, according to the doctor. Eventually, my hands will be so useless I won't even be able to play my guitar badly. I have no idea what I'm going to do when that happens.

I get through a couple of drinks and half of my cigar before last call. Then it's time for my sorry ass to stumble home. I'm wobbly as I approach the door and nod to a guy who is kind enough to old it open for me.

"Appreciate it, friend," I remark, puffing on my cigar as I step outside.

"No problem," he replies. "I enjoyed the music tonight, but I was hoping to hear one of the songs from your album."

"I don't sing those songs anymore," I grunt, wincing as I feel some pain course through my body. "Just covers these days."

"Can I ask why?" he gives me a curious look.

I stare at the guy for a moment. He's not a regular at the bar, so he must have come to hear the music. That means he's a fan. I don't have many of those left these days.

"Because those songs are too fucking happy," I growl, then puff on my cigar. "And it's been a long time since I felt that way."

The guy looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. He simply nods and walks towards his car. It's not the first time I've disappointed a fan. Hell, I barely made it through the tour for my album. Several shows got cancelled because I was in no condition to perform. I don't think anyone was surprised when Nashville Records cancelled my second album and cut me from the label. By that point, I didn't give a fuck anymore.

"Goodnight, Hank," Jon says as he steps outside and locks the bar. "See you tomorrow."

"Sure thing," I grunt, walking in the direction of my apartment.

When I got signed to Nashville Records, I thought I was going to live in a house that made Graceland look like a cottage. I was wrong. I got a nice big check when I signed, blew it because I thought the money would keep coming, and the next thing I knew, I could barely keep the lights on. My debut album—my only album—landed in the middle of the charts and a couple of my songs made it into the rotation on the radio. I still get a few dollars every month in royalties, but it's nothing to be proud of. Certainly not enough to live on. It's barely enough to drink on.

"Fuck, I have to pay rent next week," I mutter as I walk. "I really hope the tips are good this weekend."

I ponder my troubles between puffs of my cigar, then I almost trip on something. I stumble, spin around, and everything looks different. I'm no longer on the sidewalk in Nashville. I'm standing on a pile of red dirt. A copper sky looms above me and the only thing visible in it are two large moons. One is blue and icy. The other is red, like the dirt beneath my feet.

"I-I've been here before," I say, blinking a few times and dropping my cigar. "I haven't had this dream since I was a kid. But… if I'm dreaming…"

I must have passed out. That's the only explanation. I had too much to drink and blacked out on the way home. It wouldn't be the first time. I instinctively look to my right, expecting to see a band of riders, but all I see is the amber horizon. I stare for several minutes, then start walking in the direction I used to run.

The dream feels different this time. When I was younger, I always knew I was in a dream. I never noticed things like the dirt crunching under my feet or the sweat trickling down my neck. This feels… real.

"Wake the fuck up, come on," I mutter, slapping myself across the face a few times. "I thought I was done with this damn dream."

I get to the spot where I normally see the man in the brown robe, but there is no sign of him. For many years, I would wake up when I was approaching him. Then one night, after getting the shit beat out of me outside of a bar in Memphis, I followed him into the woods. He took me—somewhere. There was a little girl with the greenest eyes I'd ever seen. She called me a hero and I ran away. Those green eyes haunted me for years and years. They came to me every night when I slept, and every time I looked into them, they were gushing blood.

"Fucking nightmares," I sigh, looking around.

I'm not sure what to do, so I walk in the direction the old man led me. The path feels familiar and I'm able to walk it like the streets in the neighborhood I grew up in. I know every turn I should take. Landmarks stick out, like a tree that is bigger than it was the last time I was here, but still has the same gray hue. Some things are different. The trees no longer look alive. The flowers no longer move out of my way, and I trample across several of them when I walk.

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"The clearing should be just ahead," I say, pushing deeper into the forest.

I have no idea what to expect, but I woke up not long after I made it to the clearing last time. I'm not sure what triggered this memory and brought me back into this dream. I barely remember my dreams these days. They're always strange, but nothing like this.

I find the clearing and as soon as I step into it, I see the tattered remains of make-shift tents and thatch huts that have been destroyed. Some of them have been burned. As I get closer, I see skeletons on the ground.

"Oh, fuck," I mutter, grimacing at some of the smaller skeletons.

It looks like the people put up a fight. There are broken weapons on the ground. I spot a few flimsy swords, broken spears, and various tools some must have used to defend themselves. They were no match for their attackers, judging by the damage some of the skeletons have received. A few are missing heads, arms, legs, and some are cut in half.

"This wasn't a battle," I sigh. "This was a massacre."

Was I supposed to stop this? The little girl called me a hero, right before I ran. What the hell is wrong with me? This is a dream. I need to wake up.

I walk closer to the cave that looms behind the bodies. It looks like some people tried to retreat to it, but they were cut down. The cave isn't as dark I would expect. There's moss on the side that illuminates more bodies, and lots of dried blood. So much blood it looks like it would have been almost ankle deep when it was fresh. The source is a pile of stacked skeletons dressed differently than the others. The remnants of brown robes can be seen on most of them—robes like the old man that claimed he brought me here.

I go deeper into the cave. It's a winding maze of caverns and tunnels, but for some reason, I seem to know exactly where I should go. I keep walking until I see light ahead. It flickers like a candle or a torch.

"Hello?" I call out, walking towards the light.

I step into a cavern that is lit up, and bigger than the house I grew up in. Between the moss and the torches on the wall, it's bright enough to see everything. There is decayed food, metal shelves with broken bottles, and lots of stuff I don't recognize. Then I hear a cough.

"Who's there!?" I yell, spinning in the direction of the cough and seeing an old woman laying on a cot made out of straw, animal skins, and metal rods. "Are you okay?"

I rush over to her. She looks like her best days are long behind her. Her wrinkled skin tells me she's in her nineties—possibly older.

"Y-you came," she whispers, her eyes parting enough for me to see haunting green eyes. She coughs a couple of times, then turns her head towards me. "I wasn't sure if there was enough magic left in the talisman."

She turns her hand over and opens it. I see a metal talisman that reminds me of something—the mark on my arm. I quickly look down and roll up my sleeve. They're an exact match, except mine looks jagged like a scar. I haven't seen this mark on my arm since the last time I was here.

"This is your doing?" I ask, feeling slightly confused. "You brought me here? In a dream?"

"It was never a dream," she whispers. "Our worlds are cosmic neighbors. Separated by a thin veil that can be opened and closed by magic."

"Magic?" I question. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I'm your wife," she whispers, a slight smile turning the corner of her lips. "Or I was destined to be, until you ran away."

I look down at her again. Her green eyes meet mine. There's no doubt in my mind those are the same green eyes I looked into twenty-five years ago—no doubt they're the same green eyes that bled in my nightmares for years.

"Y-you were a little girl," I stammer.

"When you met me, yes," she whispers, letting go of the talisman and tracing a mark on her palm that resembles a bird. "But the prophecy was clear. The hero would step through the cosmic veil. He would have the Mark of Bahamut…" She raises a frail hand and touches my scar. "He would end the Eternal War, take the raven-marked maiden as his queen, and they would reign for a thousand years. A thousand years of peace."

I swallow hard and look at the mark on her hand. It does slightly resemble a raven, I suppose. It could be any bird.

"But you didn't do that, Hank," she sighs, her hand falling back to her side. "You ran away. The ritual was completed and our connection to Bahamut was severed. The lucky ones were slaughtered. The ones who weren't so lucky were enslaved."

"If I was supposed to reign for a thousand years with you by my side, then a lot of time must have passed," I deduce based on the woman's appearance. "You don't look a day over… one hundred?"

"I won't even make my first centennial," She coughs several times. "Trying to use magic after the connection was severed took a heavy toll, but I was the only one who survived, so I had to do something. By the time I had channeled enough magic into the talisman to use it again, I was an old woman, and it was far too late."

I look down and try to force myself to wake up. I've never been trapped in a dream this long. The old woman chuckles when she sees the strain on my face.

"All this time and you still want to run away," she gurgles, then coughs. "I'll send you back, Hank. I just wanted to see you one last time before I died. Can you fault an old woman for not wanting to die alone? For wanting her husband at her side in her final moments?"

"I was never your husband," I sigh, kneeling by her side. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll sit with you."

I feel a twinge of compassion for the old woman. Leave it to my fucked up brain to conjure up an entire alternate reality in my dreams. I'm scared to admit how different it feels this time—how real it feels. I take the old woman's hand and squeeze it gently.

"I used my Dying Wish to bring you here," the woman whispers. "When I'm gone, that magic will fade, and you will return to your world. Are you a hero there, Hank? Is that why you couldn't stay? Did they need you more than we did?"

"I-I'm no hero," I grind out. "I'm just… a washed-up musician. I'm… I'm a failure."

"You were destined to be…" she begins, the she coughs and the life slowly drains her from her green eyes.

I squeeze her hand and tears prick my eyes. Why the fuck am I crying? I don't know this woman. I haven't cried since my mother died right after my first concert. But the tears trickle down my face anyway. A strange feeling tugs at my heart and I try to shake it off.

"I-I'm sorry," I say, finally letting go of her hand.

The talisman falls from the old woman's hand to her chest, and then it begins to glow. I wait for it to take me home, just like the old woman said. I close my eyes and can see the sidewalk in front of me, like I'm fading into a dream. I didn't pass out. I'm still walking home from the bar. I can taste whiskey and cigar smoke on my breath.

Then everything swirls like a twisted a kaleidoscope and I fall to my knees. I try to get up, but I can't. I'm on a jagged, rocky surface. There's fire around me—no, it's lava. I hear rumbling and lava spews in front of me, then a scaly head rises. It looks like a red dragon with lava gushing along it's scales.

"My power was a gift!" the dragon roars.

"W-wait, what?" I mutter.

The dragon's mouth opens and it spews lava at me. I shift on my knees, but I can't avoid it. The lava blasts me in the face and I feel my skin melting. I scream in agony as the spewing lava engulfs me and my flesh burns.

"You were supposed to be the hero!" the dragon roars, his bellowing rage louder than my screams. "I promised my people a thousand years of peace, and you ran like a coward!"

I sob helplessly as I burn in the fiery lava. This is the worst pain I've ever felt—worse than any pain imaginable. This is no dream. I'm a charred, burning mass of flesh and bone, but I'm still alive. I open my eyes slightly and see the lava building up in the dragon's mouth again.

"P-please," I whisper, my lips cracking as I speak. "I-I didn't know."

The dragon spews lava and a fresh wave of torment washes over me. I scream and pieces of my charred flesh fall from my lips.

"You could have been my avatar for a thousand years," the dragon rumbles. "Instead, it will be a thousand years of suffering. Then I'll let you die—so you can burn in my belly for all of eternity!"

"N-no, please!" I rasp, but I'm hit with another wave of lava that silences me.

"This is the destiny you chose!" the dragon roars.

I scream, sob, and wail as I continue to burn. Every nerve in my body radiates with fiery pain that sizzles and sears. It feels like my blood is boiling inside my veins—whatever is left of them. I can't move. I'm stuck on my knees, unable to do anything but suffer.

Green eyes flicker in front of me, but this time, I see the old woman's entire face.

She's laughing.