Shattering Dreamscape
Even drenched to the bone, Kelda insists on dining together that evening. She asks Euphemia how she spent her day, and Euphemia limits her excited recounting to the rooms she discovered—all except for one.
There is no mention of the self-igniting sconce.
No mention of the door with the strange locking mechanism.
Once Euphemia’s tongue has run dry of anything else to share, the conversation becomes minimal. Not uncomfortable. Just light, in a way Euphemia appreciates. There is no pressure to fill the silence, nor to maintain a perfect bow-shaped smile throughout the conversation.
In fact, Kelda gives off the impression that she might actually prefer the ebb and flow of silence. After spending the past year without her husband and the months since without her son, even the simplest conversation seems to drain her as much as it does Euphemia.
After the meal, when Kelda excuses herself and bids Euphemia a night’s well rest, part of Euphemia considers revisiting the locked door while the manor is asleep.
But as she stands from the table, every bone in her body groans.
She has no right to be so tired. All she did today was sleep until lunch and wander the grounds. It was nothing at all like the constant labor she’s used to. No cooking over an open flame. No kneading dough and baking bread. No wiping down table after table.
And yet, Euphemia finds herself turning in for the night as well.
Surely, she’ll find another opportunity to investigate the door later.
Grabbing a candelabrum from the long table, Euphemia uses the flame to find her way back to her bedchamber.
She makes quick work of dressing down and brushing the long length of her hair before nestling into bed.
But the moment she lies down, fear grips her.
She does not wish to dream tonight. All day, she’s managed to evade the nightmare and its keeper, but how can she evade them in sleep when she has no control over where her dreams take her?
But the week has been long. All Euphemia wants is one night of rest. One night that is actually peaceful for once.
But rest does not come easy this night.
It does not lull her like the gentle swaying of the breeze.
Tonight, it seizes her hungrily.
As Euphemia’s eyes finally fall shut, black jaws snap around her, wrenching her into oblivion. It’s the sort of unconsciousness that is painful. The kind of darkness that is frightening.
When Euphemia comes to on the other side of it, she finds herself falling into the same ethereal sunset landscape from last night. The same unnaturally violet skies. The same arctic chill that makes it difficult to breathe. The same fiery horse by the stream.
It’s strange, she thinks. In all her nineteen years, Euphemia has only ever had one repeating dream, and that was more of a memory that haunted her.
This dream, however, feels conjured from the depths of Hell, her own special Purgatory.
But if this is the same dream, in the same meadow with the same horse, then where is—
Anticipating what happens next, she spins around just as the monstrous man steps from the fog and snarls, “Back away, you wretched creature.”
This time, Euphemia is ready for the stark vision of him. The twin flame eyes that simmer within the equestrian skull. The man caught between beast and shadow.
She does not flinch when she beholds him.
She does, however, flinch from the sword he aims at her throat.
Cold metal presses into her flesh. Her belly quivers. Just a dream, she reminds herself. But when have those words ever comforted her? When have they ever chased the nightmares away?
“Please!” Euphemia shrieks, throwing her shaking hands in the air. “Don’t hurt me.”
For the briefest moment, she thinks his blazing gaze drops from her face to the ruined flesh stretched across one of her hands.
Heat crawls up Euphemia’s neck. Instinctively, she curls her fingers into her palms, the best she can do without startling him and ending up with a blade through the throat.
His gaze comes back up to meet hers, the flames of his eyes flickering, dimming slightly. “Hurt you? Why would I—” he says, and just as swiftly, the fire blazes again. He presses the sword harder. “What tricks are you playing at, cruel spirit?”
“No tricks. I promise!”
Euphemia stands very, very still. Afraid to breathe. Afraid to move.
But she can’t help but gaze upon him, her wide eyes snagging on the curved horns atop his head, the skull face that she is less and less certain is just a mask, and the animalistic, predatorial way he watches her.
Her frightful gaze drops to the sword. Up this close, she sees that most of it is rusted, the edges dull and chipping in places. It might not even be sharp enough to break the skin—though she does not want to test that theory.
He has her at his mercy.
One strike and he would be her ruin.
And yet…
He does not strike. If anything, he hesitates.
For days, she’s seen him in the dark crevices of her mind. In her waking world, as well. Every time she’s seen him, she’s feared what he might do once he finally got his hands on her, if he might throw her onto the back of his nightmare, and steal her away in the night.
He could do it. Of that, she has no doubt.
Yet his blade trembles in his hand. His eyes, fiery as they might be, flit between hers, as if he is the one afraid—a laughable thought, she knows. Yet she cannot shake it the longer they stare at each other.
But she is not yet ready to view him as anything but a threat.
Through bared teeth, she demands, “W-where am I? What is this place?”
And through his skull, she swears she sees his firelit eyes furrow.
“This place?” The words stagger out of him like they’ve been buried for centuries, covered under dust and dirt.
As if he hasn’t thought about it in a lifetime, or more.
The skull mask turns—at least, she hopes it is just a mask—his gaze sweeping across the surrounding area and his voice becomes distant. “I believe it is Helheim.”
“Helheim?” Euphemia tests the strange word on her lips, but it tastes rancid.
She’s never heard of such a place before. Not in all of England.
Before she can scrutinize it more deeply, the beast of a man squares with her again, his voice as unyielding as brimstone as he asks, “What are you?”
“I’m sorry?” It’s such a ridiculous question that Euphemia can’t help but laugh. She answers simply, “I’m a woman?”
His eyes must squeeze shut, for the twin flames vanish inside his skull. “I mean what creature are you?” He removes the blade from her throat and prods her chest and stomach. “You do not look like a spirit.”
“Stop that!”
She tries waving the blade away, but he only uses it to catch her arm while it’s lifted. The rust chafes against her wrist.
He leans close, and sniffs. “You do not smell like the draugr either.”
With her teeth gritted, Euphemia jerks her arm away. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“What are you then?” he asks again, the confusion more prevalent in his voice now.
She rubs her wrist, soothing the ache. “I am not a what. I am a who.”
He steps back but only far enough to scrutinize her more intensely.
Euphemia joins him in both his scrutiny and confusion. Is this not the same man who’s been stalking her then? He acts as though he’s never laid eyes upon her before, though she supposes he could simply be pretending. But what purpose would that serve?
He huffs, smoke billowing from his skull. “Then who are you?”
Under normal circumstances, Euphemia might think twice before revealing her name to a creature made of bone and ash. But since this is only a dream, she’s not the least bit conflicted as she replies, “I am Euphemia.” She juts her nose in the air. “And what might your name be?”
The sword falters between them.
“My…name?”
Again, his words come out slow and halting, as if he’s forgotten how to form them.
He lowers his blade completely, and Euphemia can’t help but bask in the small victory. With an air of righteousness, she says again, “Yes, your name. I wish to know it.”
But he just shakes his head, slowly, his shoulders slumping forward. “If I have a name, I no longer know it.”
Something ominous lingers in the way he says it, sending a shudder up her spine.
But Euphemia shrugs it off, pretending not to notice how somber he sounds. “You expect me to believe that you do not know your name, but you know this place?”
He nods, gaze drifting across the land. “I have been here a long time.”
Euphemia watches him more intently, searching for anything dubious.
It almost makes her laugh. How much more dubious could a man with a skull for a face be?
But nothing about him—nothing else, that is—suggests he means her harm.
His stance is not aggressive. The fire in his skull has dimmed into something closer to simmering coals.
Even the grip on his sword has loosened.
It might be foolish, but she decides to accept the lowering of his sword as a sign of surrender.
“Very well,” she says. “And what of the nightmare over there?”
If he has eyebrows behind that skull, they furrow now. “The nightmare?”
She points emphatically to the creature still drinking at the stream. “That.”
His voice warms with amusement. “You mean the helhest?”
“The what now?”
Now it’s him who pauses to look at her with disbelief and uncertainty.
As if she’s the one distrusting. As if she’s the one who could maul him in his sleep.
With what? Her dainty, hops-infused fingers?
The man stands a good head taller than her, at least. His shoulders are broad enough that he likely has to turn his body just to fit through a door.
Not to mention, he is the one with a weapon. Not her.
Perhaps arriving at the same conclusion, he takes a wide step around her and gestures to the horse with a wave of his sword. “The helhest is a steed of Helheim. Her job is to guide the dead. I have not seen her often. Only when—”
Before he can finish that thought, a light glows from below the amethyst river.
Euphemia’s eyes widen with fear.