Walls extended around her and Rye knew they were fake. The realization came with the subtle fear that she was dreaming again. Gone was the cold stone floor. In its place the wooden floor was grainy but in a fuzzy way, and the air felt like more than nothing, as if it was an uncomfortably heavy blanket trying to crush her from every side.
It was a lot lighter than being awake at least. Small comforts.
Rather than ponder why it was better, Rye decided to leave that pain where it was, and move forward. Maybe that way she’d find a place that wasn’t patches of walls mixed with the encroaching feeling of needing to vomit.
The hallways were a struggle to navigate, every surface solid one second, then murky like a swamp in the next. But voices came to her, at times muffled, then again clear as glass.
A wall that must have been a door opened in front of her and immediately she was assaulted with the smell of life, the sound of it, and it's very… recognizable odor. The room was stuffy with the smell of sex, clinging to every rosy couch, coming from each of the whizzing, frantic shades sitting and zipping about, dressed up like peacocks.
And peacocks were birds, which meant they weren’t real and this really was all a dream.
“Milady, so beautiful, have a flower.” A shade plucked what seemed to be a piece off itself and pressed it into her hair. “Pink does color you so prettily.”
“Thanks?” She moved on, slightly perturbed. She could feel the stem sticking through her head and out her ear. This dream was weird, but in that unfamiliar way that Rye was certain she could never have ever dreamed of.
Was this even her dream? And what was she supposed to do with that information? Why was she even aware enough to think this much?
The press of shades turned more insistent, pressing in at every side.
“No pinks. No reds. Verdant greens.”
“Compliment her eyes.”
“So sweet.”
“A rose for a romp?”
She couldn’t push herself through, could barely breathe, because even though she knew this wasn’t real, there was a primal fear tearing up her throat that if this went on too long, she might wake up again.
Something grabbed her hip and she squawked. With a blink, she found herself outside the press of people-shapes. Looking down at herself, it became clear that she was a bit like them, if more… blue. With a thought, she moved left and right, bobbing like a leaf in the wind.
‘I’m a ghost,’ Rye thought, ‘Ghosts aren’t scared by anything.’
The shades didn’t bother her further, and they seemed to have settled down anyways. The theater around her appeared from nothing just as willfully as everything else. She knew it was meant to stay when lights from the sky all focused on its center.
Cesare walked out on the stage with nothing but a lute to protect his decency. His pink tail swished nervously and from her seat at the side – someone handed her a glass of dream-liquid, because apparently that was part of the show – she had a good view of his smile, his curly horns, and his butt.
“This song is from a land faraway, a land known for its beautiful coasts, beautiful women, and its philosophers, of whose beauty I will say nothing.”
The crowd chuckled. It seemed to calm them down, both him and her.
“Now, without being overly dramatic. Here is, Like a plum so sweet.”
He cleared his throat.
And then followed a sweet, sappy love song. It could have been for anyone, it seemed addressed to the world, yet all Rye could think of was that it was meant for her. No, no it was arrogant to think that she was the center of someone else’s dream. But the thought was planted and like a flower it grew and bloomed under every sultry syllable. She sank further and further into her seat. His prose wasn’t bad, but his allusions… which girl wanted to be described as a port in a storm, an avalanche of love, and a merciless storm of whirlwind blades?
Hopefully he was better at this while awake. Half of that had to be inspired by Elia. He couldn’t have put much thought into it, it was a dream after all. But the attention made her feel all fuzzy, and he had a nice voice besides.
To her shock, as she managed to look up through her fingers, she caught the tail end of a little slug sliming its way up his head. He kept on strumming along like it was not even there.
Should she tell him? She had to, but the thought of standing on stage… But he was right there! But oh, the shame, the embarrassment…
She had barely thought of it and then she was on the stage. Dang dream logic.
“Oh! Didn’t expect to see you here.” His eyes were fogged, unfocused. He wasn’t aware that he was dreaming. Good. They couldn’t use this kind of complication in the middle of fighting a giant conjurer slug. “Hi. Hello. Welcome to my cabaret without pants.”
She jumped him, but the slug took just that moment to disappear down his ear.
“Caba-what?” she asked as they tumbled through the air, floating.
“Without pants,” he answered casually. “Like a theater. With drinks. And other entertainment.”
Someone booed him and threw their glass of dream water their way. Rude. Cesare winced and from one second to the next, a hail of projectiles and old vegetables pelted him from all sides. The world seemed to shrink then, until it was just him, and her hand trying to pry that slug from his ear.
It peeked out the nose, smiled with that small, human-faced smile, then disappeared into his mouth.
Again, he did not notice. The dream had to go on, and pulled by a mocking, invisible line, Cesare jumped to his feet.
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say about love?”
“We don’t!” echoed the crowd.
“You don’t care about me, about my art?”
“No!”
“Right. ‘Cause that’s not what you’re here for~.”
Lights flashed on, bright, colored, and from every side, even below. When she opened her eyes, the shades were all gone, and she knew why she recognized this kind of place. Cesare sang and sang as she looked around the stained seats, the bar serving strong alcohol, the second story balcony where rooms were variably marked private, public, and bathroom.
His song was crass, lewd, and downright painful in a very different way this time. With a title like “That’s not what you’re here for”, the euphemisms wrote themselves. But as Rye watched the slug peek out his pink lips and laugh at her, his face was all rigid like porcelain, and unlike Mouggen’s sunlight mask oh so brittle.
The slug disappeared down his gullet and Rye finally had enough, gathering all her bravery and strength, and kissed him on the mouth. Not in any way she’d usually kiss a guy, but instead sucking with all her strength until she caught the slug between her teeth.
Good thing he wouldn’t remember any of this, since it was just a dream.
His eyes unblurred. Rats.
“Rye?” he asked and she bit the slug.
The dream popped and she was awake again. People were strewn around, writhing, all except the pink lizard man who just looked confused at being awake.
She spun to the right, seeing that Yolon had barely moved. He looked down at her with a distinctly annoyed expression. She hadn’t gathered her souls yet; they were right there in front of her and–
You have died
Your souls and shards are lost
And she’d forgotten the souls, and they were gone, and Elia would not forgive her. She cried. There was no way out. Elia would have found one by now, she was sure of it. But Rye was at the wheel and her competent side was missing. They were doomed.
A massive hand came down to grab her. Of course Yolon the sea-slug had human hands. What else was it supposed to have, flippers?
Aurana was still watching, too. She was making a mess of herself in front of a god.
‘F-focus. What would Elia do? What would she do?’
Rye threw a wand at Yolon. It bonked off its skin quite harmlessly. It opened its mouth and Rye screamed, ejecting herself from her body in reflex. She turned, but where she expected Elia was about to get eaten, Yolon’s face was obscured by a massive cloud of pink wool. The creature sneezed and coughed, letting Elia fall to the ground where Cesarer caught her. He activated his other boon, and without making a single sound snuck right around the giant snail-thing and away.
But he was only buying time. Yolon was tearing through his cotton at an alarming rate. Without everyone together, they didn’t have a chance.
Rye stopped as her brain went into overdrive. She had entered Cesare’s dream, she could thereby enter other’s as well. Unlike them, she had a measure of awareness and control. The silver circlet they’d gotten from Commander Hall was giving her the awareness to resist Yolon’s influence.
She needed to wake somebody else up. Someone stabby preferably. But she couldn’t touch them while in her ghost-form, could she?
Time was wasting. Decisions had to be made. She zipped over to where Mouggen was lying draped over Karla, likely in some vague gambit to protect her. Rye only hoped this would work.
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She touched them up and down, feeling a pull towards their heads. This could work. Her boon was called [Dream-haze projection] after all. And falling asleep at the drop of a hat was the one thing she had always been better at than Elia.
‘Except conjuration. But that’s worse than useless now.’
One breath in, one breath out. In half a heartbeat she turned into a swirl of vapor and was dragged straight up their noses.
----------------------------------------
The next dream was brighter, somehow. The walls were made of glass, catching the directionless light until there was not a single shadow left, not a single doubt.
Rye found it even harder to navigate. She’d prefer the stuffy insides of Cesare’s cabaret. In here, where everyone could see, she felt her every word would be weighed with a spoon.
As always, there was sound as well. She’d never focused on the sounds inside a dream, but found them useful for determining that she was inside a holy place of sorts. Not a temple, all things were kept quiet in reverence to the gods in those.
She hurried after the angelic chanting, getting closer to the voices, but further away from any other sign of going forward. Two people started a conversation right next to her ear where there was only a solid wall.
“Speak plainly with me, Moug Enn,” said the first, a wizened and even voice. “I see your worries. They are written on every strike in your every letter.”
Mouggen was the wrong pronunciation? He probably didn’t even know that himself. How sad. She continued on, ducking into a suffocating hallway as Moug Enn took his time in answering.
“A young man came to me, asking if the golden sun would give him twins. I said it may, but that he would need to do his part. Then, a midwife came to me, and asked if the sun would keep her husband safe. I said the legions were never a safe place, but that she may rest easy for both their undying souls. An old crone came to me then, and said our red sun owed her two chickens and ten eggs. I said that Wroti does not deal in produce, but gave her a handful of irons, for she was clearly bereft of sense.”
“I have yet to hear a question,” the wizened voice answered.
The space around her narrowed until she had to crawl.
“When next I am given a sacrifice to the gods, should I tell them that we haven’t heard a word from the greatest of them in decades? Not Worga the Conquerer, Beheader of Dragons? Not Our Red Sun? Not Aurana?”
“The people mustn’t know. It would only scare them. This age can ill afford the fear of man.”
“The gods are not listening! Great brother Titus, we are priests and warriors all, but in whose name do we escort the undead to our capital? In the name of the daughter who controls two thirds of the pontibat now? Or in the name of an executioner?”
“A rot of tar has been seen growing in Loften.”
She stopped, suddenly very interested in this conversation.
“The walls to Loften are closed now, just like the path to Gatheon was before. All people are seen off, be they citizen, pilgrim, or other. Only the undead are allowed in, and I’ve heard tales that the weak ones are being left in front of the gates all the same. But the rot made it past the four cardinal gates. Soon, Loften will know the war it has seeded the world with. It may be safer to wait out the end of days in our domain.” The older voice took a long silence to let his listener process. “Of course, that would go against our very purpose. And by this point, faith alone is not holding the world together at the seams, but people like you and I.”
Moug had been alive when signs of decay were already showing itself. So, the apocalypse wasn’t a sudden thing then, but had crept along like a snail and was just as subtle. What year did it happen?
What year was it?
Nevermind. She didn’t want to know, she needed to move on and find the worm before–
Moug answered, finally. “In the year of MCDIV, dragon and demon rose up against the gods and failed. Our great Lady Worga declared the immortal war. She took her legions, and all able-bodied immortals, and left to wage it on the forest and on hell, from whence only Wroti had once returned, crippled, in the age of stone. That is the story as it is told. And yet I cannot shake the feeling that the gods were running from something. I must see it for my own eyes, Loften, this place the gods left behind. When I’ve seen it all, I shall return.”
1404 in old empyrean. Moug didn’t talk about it like it was some prediction. It happened, past tense. A thousand years after Rye had been born. Honestly, it didn’t seem that much. She’d imagined she was forty years in the future, maybe three hundred at most. Three hundred was a lot, you could imagine three hundred.
Two thousand? That much time was much harder to grasp.
She’d known of course that getting home was unlikely, she’d assumed there would be some problem. But having her fears confirmed in the worst way possible felt like being stabbed with a hot knife. Everyone she knew wasn’t old and wrinkled, everyone was dead or even worse, a dreg.
The snail poked out from a nearby crack in the wall, looking at her yet it had no eyes.
She grabbed the snail, screamed at it. “Why? Why are you showing me this? Why do I need to know?”
The snail squealed. In a flash the floor was gone, and the walls and thoughts dissolved as she tumbled down, deeper down through her memory. Windows zipped past, showing brief glimpses into her past, when Cali and Marcus had hidden a frog in her boot, when she cried over not finishing her homework on time, the first time she loved and was loved, if briefly.
Mother would have killed her if she knew her first had been a quarter-bekki in the back of the barn. She’d hidden it well, but still couldn’t sleep from anxiety for a week straight.
So much of her life repeated the same few pictures. Had she really worked that much? It all seemed so useless now. All her life she had worked hard, studied and sacrificed, all for nothing. Where was the fairness, where were her just rewards? Did the law of sacrifice not apply to all? Why was she punished then, why was Sam punished, why, why, why?
The ground hit her like a wet pillow. The air around felt warm, and sticky as she tried to keep her last piece of dignity, but the slug escaped her grasp and plopped right into the great red sea in front of her.
“No! No, no, no, stupid, I…” The one thing she could do, wake everyone up before the void slug ate them, and she screwed it up. She screwed it all up, always. Something had to have gone wrong, otherwise how would life contrive for Rye to become a knight instead of her? It was a divine punishment, it had to be.
How unfair.
Her eyes fell on the red water, and on the pale face staring back up at her.
“Oh, hello Karla,” she said between sniffles.
The face gingerly deposited the slug neatly wrapped in blood-red strings on the riverbank.
“We are not Karla,” it said. “Karla is over there.”
Karla pointed to the middle of the sea of blood, where there was a small island. There, Rye saw another Karla building herself a sandcastle, happily humming away despite the sand being stained red from the sea of blood.
“But you look just like her,” Rye said. The face grinned, sharp, triangular teeth sitting row by row. “Um. Fair point.”
“You’re not afraid,” sharp-toothed Karla said. “I think that’s what she likes about you most.”
“I assure you, I’m filled to the brim with terror.” Rye sighed shakily, trying to get her hands from shaking. “But I’m tired of it.”
“Of what?”
“Of… of seeing every goal I set broken and made impossible. I wanted to part with Elia, but now I feel more comfortable with her around. I wanted to go home only to find that I was part of this weird prophecy of undead, and that our Loften was burning. I wanted to find out what I missed while I was dead, why I died, but now, it’s like that doesn’t even matter.” She breathed in, and out. “It’s like everything I am is just one nostalgic lie.”
Water-Karla stared at her with big, piercing eyes. “Is lying so bad? Look at me, on the outside we are a princess in name and body, but here we are a queen.”
She kicked the water, the ripples turning into towering waves that disappeared into the distance. Island-Karla’s sandcastle remained untouched, which didn’t keep her from frantically reinforcing its walls. It spoke of a control of the sea of blood beyond anything Karla had ever shown. Or control of a dream. The surreal around Water-Karla felt all too tangible, so much that she nearly forgot it wasn’t all actually there.
“You have it good,” Rye said. “Yolon can probably not take your magic and bury you under its copies.”
“Karla does not know any blood magic.”
“Then what was that?”
“A kick.”
Rye squinted at her. “What are you?”
The girl rose again, threateningly, from the water. “We dream of a bloody world. A world dripping, drying, running, dying. We have been wronged, yet someone must pay the price to make us whole again.”
Yep, this was definitely not Karla. Water-Karla fell into the water with a splash. “But only here are we free. Here we are queen. Outside we must follow, and obey, and listen.”
She started blowing bubbles.
Rye looked down. It was hard to look at her exactly, like this was just a small part of something greater hiding behind a keyhole. But there was no danger here, so Rye relaxed. The music would have given that away anyways.
“For not being Karla, you sure act like her a lot.”
Water-Karla blew bubbles harder. “Outside cold and ugly. Inside, nice and snuggly.”
Rye giggled, wiped away an errant tear. “So you’re afraid then?”
“No!”
“You do seem quite afraid. For a queen.”
Water-Karla gave her an annoyed look.
“Sorry, that was rude.” Rye was still feeling the turmoil clawing its way out of the box in her mind. Focus, calm, think of other things. People outside needed her help. Indulging in her fears was just being selfish. “Can I ask for your help? Once this dream ends, Karla will be in danger. Can you protect her?”
Not-Karla blinked, sinking down until the blood was above her nose.
“Please?”
Two hands emerged from the water. “Hug.” She said, making grasping motions.
A hug by a beautiful creature at the edge of a fathomless ocean? Rye had definitely read stories like this, and they never ended well for the side that couldn’t breathe water. Good thing this was an ocean of blood.
She didn’t hesitate to grab the hands and take a step into the crimson pool. It bubbled, boiled even as a scarlet Karla lifted herself out of the water. The island was empty and the blood flowed around her, until it settled into some mixture between armor and royal gown.
“You really are not afraid?” she asked, fidgeting in place.
“Not of you.” The terror of being lost and out of time weighed a thousand times more heavily than a sharp toothed maybe-demon girl.
They embraced each other and Rye almost cried again. The blood soaked into her body, imprinting her to the core. She felt a prick on her neck and let out something between a surprise cry and moan. It was an odd hug as far as hugs went. But when they separated, Rye only knew she was glad they did.
Other Karla giggled.
“I knew it. You taste as sweet as you sound,” she said, then whispered into her ear. “When the blood runs dry and you still have need of us, say our name.”
“You never told me your name.”
“We are not Karla,” Karla not-Karla shrugged. “Now go on. Go out and bleed for us.”
She rubbed her neck and shivered as it came back wet. Hopefully the bowl water could heal dream-injuries. Rye picked the slug up, crushing it in her hand. Nothing happened. She opened her hand again and curse that damn thing, she was only holding a cocoon.
A tinkling laugh echoed through the halls and it tinged her thoughts red like fire. She was going to catch this slug. She was going to save everyone else, if it was the last thing she would do.
“I have to go. Bye Karla, bye not-Karla.”
She followed the laughter through winding passages of coral and dripping jagged rock. Around a corner she caught a glimpse of it. Like the fattest, ugliest pixie alive, the snail had grown wings, and was using them to great effect. Rye huffed and puffed, nearing her limit when she stopped.
Why should she be limited by how long she could run? She was dreaming dammit, and she was sure if she’d taken the time to learn how her boons actually worked, she’d never lose to something as stupid as a slug.
Rye pushed off the ground with a single leap that sent her flying. [Dream-haze projection] turned her into puffs of smoke and vapor as she swirled around the land-borne sea creatures, taking shortcuts in between holes in the rocky coast and sometimes floating right over it.
‘Where is it, where is it… there!’
She dropped down with all the grace of a rock, nearly catching the slug. It wormed its way into the sandy ground and Rye wormed in after. She found a trap door, one Yolon’s little thing squirmed right on through. As she followed, the walls turned solid and smooth, painted in whites, beiges, and off-grays.
The slug hurried, but it didn’t seem to be able to change anything about the dream, only itself. This was not the slug’s dream after all, though it also wasn’t hers. As fate would have it, Rye knew just who this dream belonged to. There was only one other person she had been physically connected to before she was forced to dream.
She would put every bit of herself towards helping Elia. Together they could win this.