"Waking Nightmares"

Wynd Leagends; Leagends Village, Javi

Late night, Day Four

 

 

    He walked a narrow path that stretched on for miles, he who had never been here before yet knew which way the road would lead. He wore armor; different from what he had seen or worn before; armor of a multitude of colors that hid nothing and everything at the same time; armor that melded into his body as if it was made for him and only for him. Red flames leapt with fury atop the torches that adorned the small passage, every step he took lighting the one just directly in front of him; burning for him his way. As he passed, they slowly flickered out as if extinguished by a heavy gust of wind.

 

    But there was no wind.

 

    Save for what the flames revealed, the path ahead lay dark and silent, unchanging even as he continued to move forward. Yet fear of the unknown was gone from his very being; all that remained was a seemingly cold detachment from his surroundings, all his strength and focus concentrated on what lay before. He never looked back; never thought of looking back. He was one with speed; one with power. It all seemed familiar somehow; this place, this armor, this man. Yet he knew not why.

 

    What possessed him then, of the quick, harsh laugh that suddenly bubbled from within him; a cruel laugh devoid of emotion? This was not who he is, never will be; laughter was something to be cherished, not mocked. But why did it feel so right?

 

    And so good?

 

    Just as suddenly, the path ended, and he found himself standing within a huge dome-like room, of heavy oak wood and steel frames. The only source of light provided for was the burning fireplace in front of him, glowing brightly. Almost of their own accord, his hands traced the contours of the fireplace, fingers moving about the intricate pattern. Familiar. Troubling.

 

    His eyes rose, towards the mirror set in ornate gold atop the fireholder. Though dusty with age, it was clear enough to aptly detail his features upon the cold lighted surface. And it was his features, as much as he wished to deny it. But there were minute differences, differences that for him had counted the most. There was a cold glint to his grey eyes, a small trace of a smirk around the corners of his mouth. His hair was carefully combed and trussed, his head was tilted, mocking; like a peacock admiring his reflection. Inwardly, he shivered, or tried to; he felt as if he couldn't feel anything anymore. Not anymore.

 

    Movement at the corner of his eye. He whirled immediately, long silver sword sliding out of its sheath. Sword? He glanced down at the blade he now held, glinting in the warm firelight, hilt bedecked with jewels and gold. It had been his most prized possession, polished until it gleamed. For what better way for him to mock his opponents as they see their own blood staining its edges as they fall from his deathblows?

 

    Wait. He had no sword. Certainly not one as beautiful as this. He had no enemies. His head whirled. Certainly he had no enemies.

 

    He tore his gaze, focused on what had attracted him in the first place.

 

    It was Lleyre. As he watched, more figures appared from behind her. Elder Jaroquin. Lakren and Myldrel Witheren. Even Hari Kainsam. It was almost like they were in the village, laughing and talking together, some with baskets in their arms, others going about their business. They were all here, but for what reason? They didn't belong here, not in a hated place like this. The air convulsed around him,  very nearly making him choke. They didn't belong.

 

    He took one step forward, then another, reaching  hand out to touch Lleyre's flowing braid. Instead, shock registered as his hand passed through her. Ghosts? Real, living, breathing people, yet mere ghosts of a shadow in this place. Or was it him? She didn't see him, none of them did. Why couldn't they see him?

 

    Then a voice spoke inside him, his voice; jeering.

 

    "Because you don't belong. You will never belong."

 

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    With a low cry, Wynd sprang up from his bed, panting heavily. A dream. The same dream he'd been having ever since he came back. A nightmare.

 

    Did this recurring dream have some connection to his past? Wynd had never known his past; pulled out of the forest bleeding and heavily wounded, he had lost all of what he had once was, now living only for what he is. It was only a dream after all, wasn't it? Those cold, menacing blue-gray eyes seemed to be boring a hole at the back of his head. No! That wasn't him.

 

    You will never belong.

 

    Shivering in earnest now, Wynd slowly lay back down. Just a dream.

 

    But the sun was already beginning its slow ascent in the east before sleep finally came.