Dream a Little Dream
Once Percival leaves, Asvald takes Cybele’s cloak and offers to make the girls more tea. It takes some effort to settle into the parlor and distance themselves from Percival, but eventually they nestle back onto the pillowy settee and stare at the fire.
Cybele is first to break the silence. “So, are we still sitting here pretending as though everything is fine in your new life?”
For the first time since Cybele’s arrival, Euphemia laughs.
It is a small thing. Barely more than a breath.
No, she wants to say. Feels herself leaning into the word like a vine desperate to find a lattice for support.
Cybele has seen the threat Percival brings. There is no point in denying it.
But Cybele does not yet know about Dagfinn.
And since his cursed condition is not only Euphemia’s secret to share, she cannot afford the truth.
“Yes,” she says firmly, hoping Cybele will understand.
The conversation drifts from there, slowly at first. They cover topics like the weather and travel. Slowly, they fall into a familiar rhythm, the sort of idle conversation two sisters are always able to slip into, no matter how much time has passed.
There’s a weightlessness to it.
Something that calms and soothes Euphemia’s nerves.
She finds herself sinking deeper into the pillows and wrapping blankets around herself.
Euphemia is so enraptured by the familiar company, she almost doesn’t notice her eyelids growing heavy.
She’s on the brink of sleep when the conversation veers abruptly.
“There’s been talk of the nightmare,” Cybele says.
Euphemia almost can’t rouse herself.
Sleep presses upon her so heavily.
Eyes refusing to open.
The chamomile dragging her down.
She manages a groggy, “What nightmare?”
Cybele sounds as though she’s leaning closer, her voice nowhere near as tired. “The one back home. The townsfolk saw it’s hoofprints for only a day or two. Then it was gone.”
“That’s—that’s wonderful news.” Relief pulses through Euphemia.
She starts to sink into her exhaustion. The waking world blends, the crackling fire reminding her of burning eyes. A brimstone voice.
She’ll see him again soon.
Only a moment away.
“They say the nightmare has been spotted in Thorfell,” Cybele says, but her voice is all wrong. Warbled. Distant. Unreal.
“That’s awful,” Euphemia thinks she says. But she is no longer aware of whether her mouth is moving. If her body is in the manor or in the dream. If she is real or a ghost.
The last thing she’s aware of on the side of waking is Cybele stroking her head. She pulls the blanket up over her shoulders and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well, sister. I will keep you safe. I will uncover the truth.”
Then the manor is gone.
An abyss envelops her.
Swallows everything.
Until all Euphemia can see is black.
Everywhere.
Then texture breathes into the world. Shades of grey appear. Tall spires of trees in the near distance. A quaint meadow. Wildflowers. The sky above her is midnight blue and full of stars. The grass beneath her feet is crisp. The scent of late autumn is cold in the air.
And there’s a familiar but nearly forgotten thrill dancing against her heart as she waits for a boy.
Everything is shades of grey. Not a smudge of violet anywhere.
And dread pools in her stomach.
This is not the dream she meant to slip into. Quite frankly, after so many nights avoiding it, Euphemia foolishly believed she might have rid herself of this place forever. She thought maybe it was Thorfell. That it had some way of protecting her from this.
She should’ve known better.
There is no hiding from this place.
No hiding from the nightmare.
As if on cue, sulfur burns her nose.
Violet flames flicker from the tree line.
The nightmare emerges, devastating in its beauty.
Even now, knowing everything she does, Euphemia still cannot stop herself from advancing. One hand outstretches. Drawn to the creature of flames and death by some incomprehensible pull.
Just once, she would like to stop this sequence of events.
But as her hand reaches for the nightmare’s velvety soft nose, she wonders what purpose that would solve. The damage has already been done. Her father’s life, claimed. Nothing can change that, no matter how much she wishes otherwise.
Although Euphemia does not want to look and would rather squeeze her eyes shut and cram her fingers in her ears until this dreadful moment passes, she cannot move.
Can’t bring herself to look away as her father races across the meadow.
Can’t bring herself to ignore the sharpness of his wails as he cries out her name.
Can’t bring herself to do anything but watch as he leaps before her and the nightmare’s violet flames engulf him in a fiery death.
For the first time, Euphemia watches the whole thing.
She does not run.
Does not even scream.
When her father is no more than a pile of ashes, when Euphemia’s face is as slick as a riverbed, only then does she collapse.
Falling to her knees, Euphemia inches as close as she can to him.
Pain bellows out of her, hollowing out a deep pit inside her.
But she lets it. She pours all of her hurt—all of the grief and guilt—into the meadow for her father to see.
“I am sorry, Father,” she says to him, and though she is not sure he can hear her, it does something to her. Repairs a small sliver of the gaping wound inside. “So, so sorry.”
Only once the tears slow does Euphemia remember the nightmare.
She glances up.
The creature’s flames are gentle, like the dimness of mourning candles.
And behind the nightmare, she sees him for the first time tonight. The figure obscured in shadows and flame. But as he steps forward, she recognizes that skull face. Those bright blue eyes.
“Euphemia?” Ash says, his voice scorching her to cinders.
Euphemia staggers back on hands and knees. “I knew it. I knew it was you. All this time, I thought—”
Light pierces through the night sky, beaming down like a spear thrown from the heavens.
The ray of radiance illuminates her father’s ashes.
Euphemia looks up, horrorstricken as shadows descend through the light. Large wings spread wide. Feathers flutter. Plumes drift down like snowflakes, settling in a perfect halo around her father—
Whom she realizes has returned.
Kneeling on hands and knees in the grass, an opaque silhouette of her father pushes himself upright.
Euphemia’s lip quivers.
She can’t believe it.
Her father is alright.
She reaches out to him.
Her hand falls through him like mist.
But he feels her touch.
Glances down at the place where her hand had been.
His eyes dart around him. Desperate. Searching. He looks so scared and alone.
Euphemia reaches for him again, only more disgruntled as her hand yet again cannot find purchase. Cannot touch the father she has craved to embrace.
It is robbery.
It is cruel.
“Father, I’m here!”
She sees him flinch at her words, but not in pain. A smile spreads across his lips. “Euphemia.”
And then she’s smiling too. Crying. Blinking furiously. Her hands press around the shape of his face even though she cannot feel him. But it does not matter. Just seeing him is enough.
He is here.
He is remade.
He is…
Content. At peace. Not writhing in pain the way his voice sounded in Nástrond.
The winged creatures land, jostling Euphemia from her rapture.
As she beholds the three of them, the light less blinding, she realizes they’re not creatures at all. They’re women. Angels, she thinks. Only harsher. These women are strong. They’re fortified in gilded steel and adorned in battle axes and shields like fierce warriors.
And her father sees them too.
He bows his head in reverence and they return the gesture. All three of them.
It heals something in Euphemia to see him offered such respect after his death was treated so poorly.
One of the winged women places a hand on Euphemia’s shoulder. It’s not until she gently ushers her aside that worry begins to creep in.
Two of the angels grab her father under the arms, gently. Lovingly.
A look of panic flashes behind his eyes, as he searches the area one last time.
Still, it seems he cannot see her. But he calls out to her anyway, somehow sensing her nearness all the same. “This was not your fault, Euphemia. You must forgive yourself. And remember, I love y—”
His words are cut off as the two women whisk him into the sky.
Dread cracks her in two.
“No! Wait!” Euphemia charges forward.
But the third woman who remained on the ground whips her shield out. Before Euphemia can collide into it, before she becomes all claws and sharp teeth ready to mangle this twisted angel limb from limb for trying to stand between her and her father, familiar arms wrap around her waist.
Ash hoists her away.
“Let me go!” Euphemia thrashes, but his grasp is as firm as ever.
“They’re taking him to Valhalla,” he grunts in her ear, clearly straining from trying to contain a rabid animal. “It’s better there. It’s where he belongs.”
“No!” Euphemia shakes her head, sadness like a battering ram against her ribs. “He belongs with me! He belongs with my family! Give him back!”
She screams up into the Heavens.
She keeps screaming until the three shadows disappear into the light.
Only then does she become limp in Ash’s arms.
The final angel walks over to her father’s pile of ashes. She thrusts her shield at it, and the ashes blow away in the wind. All traces of her father…vanished.
Then the angel joins the others in the sky, and the light finally blinks away.
Ash gently releases her, slowly lowering her to the ground as he does.
Euphemia slumps over, cradling her head, sobbing into the damp earth.
They took him.
Every part of him.
Gone.
Somewhere in her heart, she knows that isn’t true. Knows there’s a part of him inside her still. But it will not be today that she acknowledges it.
Today, all she feels is an aching pit of despair. A chasm that’s erupted in her chest. A heart that feels more like it’s festering than bleeding.
Because somehow she knows the finality of what just occurred.
Understands it inherently, deep in her bones.
This was the last time she will see her father…
This was her goodbye.
And Euphemia has never regretted anything more.
Euphemia shouldn’t have stayed. The moment the nightmare appeared, she should’ve run as fast and far as she could. Then her father would still be here. At least she could’ve still seen him once more.
As her sorrow shifts from sobbing to hyperventilation, a hand strokes her back.
Euphemia whirls on him—on the beast of a man whom she had trusted.
“Stay away from me!” She holds out her arm, keeping him at bay even though he does not advance. “Why have you been following me?”
When he answers, the words come slowly. “I…thought we were helping each other.”
Euphemia’s jaw snaps open with a humorless, wretched laugh.
How dare he look so confused.
How dare he feign such ignorance.
“I’m not talking about tonight,” she says through gritted teeth.
“I do not know what you—”
“Stop lying to me!” Her voice echoes across the dark landscape.
“I’ve seen you before. Behind my home. In my garden.
Lurking just beyond town. Beyond sleep. You—” her voice breaks, the truth too difficult to muster.
Until she sees her father’s face again as he uttered his final goodbye.
“You were here the night that he died. You brought the nightmare.”
He takes a cautious step forward. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s not to understand? My father would be alive if you hadn’t been here.” The truth unravels her, the grief splintering more deeply. “All this time I blamed myself. I left my home. My family. I tried to outrun my sins, but all this time, it was you. You’re the reason my father’s dead.”
A sound of disbelief catches in his throat.
He shakes his head as if he can shake all of this away. “I do not remember any of this, but I swear to you, I would never—”
Euphemia scoffs, and she can’t tell if it’s because she cannot bear to be lied to anymore or cannot bear to believe him.
With the venom of all the snakes in Nástrond, Euphemia sneers, “Well, I hope you enjoyed remembering what you could while it lasted because I am done helping you.”
Euphemia stomps away before he can reply.
She keeps walking.
For hours.
Long enough that the ground shifts from grass to dirt to stone and back to grass again.
She does not know where she’s walking, only that she must put as much distance between her and that meadow as possible.
When a subtle tremor ripples beneath her feet, she knows her time in the dream is ending.
Euphemia sits at the base of a tree. She closes her eyes.
Within a few breaths, the parlor bursts into view around her. The dim light of dawn drifts in through the windows and it takes her a moment to remember.
When she does, Euphemia slams her fist against the armrest and curses Ash’s name. She curses the angels too. Curses God for everything he’s done to her. How he refuses to save her, despite her desperation. Despite everything she has sacrificed and atoned for.
Euphemia sits up on the settee, and realizes the empty space beside her.
The previous night comes rushing back.
Not the dream. Not reliving her father’s death. But a certain sister who seemed far too suspicious for her liking.
Cybele had been here.
She’d known something was off.
She’d even mentioned the nightmare.
And now she is not in the parlor where she should be.