Shattering Dreamscape #4
Then, with a sudden burst of bravado, he trudges forward, brandishing his chest like a shield.
The nightmare whinnies and bucks onto its hind legs, before finally galloping away.
Ash steps to the water’s edge. But he does not look down.
His gaze remains fixed on Euphemia, staring at her as if he’s afraid she might disappear.
Now that the nightmare is gone, there’s no reason to keep her distance.
Besides, if her presence can help ease his worry, then she must aid him. All devout women would.
Euphemia joins him and together they wade into the frigid water. It only comes up to her ankles, but still she feels the bite of it, as if shards of glass are digging into her flesh.
Somewhere in the distance, a raven screeches.
Ash twitches.
Once.
Then, with a deep inhale, he finally succumbs and lowers his gaze to the river.
Euphemia looks too, though when she does, the only reflection she can see is her own. Not the bank surrounding the water, nor the maroon sky. And in her reflection, she watches in horror as her entire body is engulfed in flames.
Flesh melting.
Scorching.
Turning to ash and then bone.
And through it all, her reflection smiles.
Gasping and screaming, Euphemia clambers out of the river for a second time. Righteousness be damned. If he forgets her again, she’ll simply have to remind him.
From the bank, Euphemia wrings out her skirts and catches her breath.
For the first time, she realizes just how silent the world has fallen.
The river stops babbling.
Snowflakes freeze midair.
Slowly, Ash guides both hands up to the jagged jawline of his skull. Fingers trace along the sharp edges, climbing up toward the serrated snout. The hollowed eye sockets. The sharp tips of horns at the top of his head.
And in this moment, Euphemia understands that he was never meant to behold himself. Not like this.
A tremor builds in his hands. It rumbles up his arms and into his chest until his breaths become ragged.
And soon the entire dreamscape is rumbling with him. A low growl the grinds from deep within the earth. Something immense and shifting.
The dreamlike meadow is cracked wide open.
An earthquake splits the ground in two places—then seven—then twelve. Fissures spiderweb across the earth’s surface like broken eggshells.
And like the backswing of a pendulum, Euphemia is bucked off the ground; black clods of dirt fall upward around her, pummeling the sky while she herself falls.
Down.
Heavy and hard.
She should’ve hit the ground by now, but nothingness is below her. It yawns wide, prepared to swallow her whole.
She opens her mouth to scream—
“Ash!”
For the second night in a row, Euphemia bolts upright in bed.
Hands clammy.
Lungs gasping.
It takes her only a moment to recognize her surroundings this time, and only a few shaky inhales more to catch her breath.
“Just a dream,” she utters to herself, a quiet whisper in the night.
Or perhaps not…
For the second night in a row, Euphemia throws her bedsheets aside and finds her feet covered in mud.
Glancing down at herself, Euphemia scours the rest of her body for other signs that the dream has bled into her reality.
Her gaze climbs first to the hemmed seam of her nightgown, damp and tinged wine-red.
Then up to her hips, where the fabric has taken on a speckled look, as if lightly rained on—like snowfall melting.
Her eyes catch on the curve of her waist.
Two ashen handprints are seared into the pale white fabric.
Euphemia drags her hands down to touch them.
When she pulls them away, ashen streaks mark her fingertips.
Something is wrong with her.
This is more than a dream.
More than a curse.
It is something impure.
She is utterly lost. Madness encroaches upon her sanity like a devil on the hunt.
A knock raps at her door.
Euphemia’s heart leaps into her throat.
“Lady Euphemia?” Asvald calls from the other side of the door.
She throws the covers back over herself as the door starts to creak open, and cries out a hasty, “Do not enter.”
The door stops. Asvald is quiet for a long moment, likely trying to fathom what she could possibly be doing that would require such privacy in the dead of night. “Are you well? I heard screaming.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she silently curses herself. “Yes, I’m fine. It was only a dream.”
She shudders at her own words.
Another stretch of silence follows.
“Do you need assistance?” His voice is quieter now, no longer pressed against the door with urgency.
“No,” she says kindly. “Just…gathering myself. Thank you, though.”
Euphemia presses the coolness of her hands to her cheeks, forgetting about the ashes. She draws them back, mutters quietly to herself at the smears of grey she now knows are there.
“If you insist,” he replies. “Get some rest, Lady Euphemia.”
Euphemia listens to the soft thuds of his boots as he heads down the hall.
But she does not find any more rest that night. Instead, Euphemia spends it staring at the ashen streaks on her hands and occasionally breathing in the lingering scent of cedar and smoke.