War Dreams, Chapter 5
While
Gregeori watched over the lass, she was not resting. What he saw as a sleeping
form was only a shell. Her mind had slipped back into the orb the second her
mind relaxed into slumber. The orb pulled at her, demanding her attentions.
They were attached, or perhaps, she was too weak to protect herself as the
Raven King was. So inwards she slipped, her mind being pressed into the chaotic
tunnel of feelings and odd swirling colors until she wanted to beg and stop the
ride. Her head pounded and her stomach was queasy from the eternal
spinning.
She
landed on her back, staring up into a grey haze. Her body was in a strange
form, there were no soft gossamer wings pulling at the muscles in her back. She
felt big, and bulky. She raised her hands to look at them, and the fingers were
clean – the nails buffed. There was no dirt embedded in them, no breaks from
the gardening. These were courtesan hands, all soft and polished. She struggled
to sit up, confusion on her face as she peered down at what she wore. She had
human clothing on, a white dress, similar to that which the women of the towns
wore on their mating day. Her feet were clad with soft silk slippers, already
starting to turn grey from the dampness of the ground. She stared at herself in
confusion, and then reached up to determine what made her hair so heavy.
Flowers adorned her hair in a circlet, a mixing of lilacs and lilies that
scented the air around her as she pressed into the circlet. She pulled her
knees to herself and wrapped her arms around her knees. She studied the area,
trying to figure out what or where she was.
The
area around her was grey. Like most of the colors were washed out by the cold
humidity. Fog gathered around the ground and at her ankles, the chilly moisture
causing goose bumps. The air was not quite a mist, and definitely not a rain,
but the moisture felt like a damp sponge, clinging to her face and making small
rivulets of water as it collected. Soon her hair clung to her face and dress as
the water soaked into the tresses.
The
trees in the distance were bent and warped things, as if they were rotting
while still alive. The softness beneath her feet and bottom was not grass, but
moss, washed out, and heavily fed on the rotting plants and moisture. No birds
chirped their greetings, no squirrels, or other creatures went about their
duties. The place was silent. Deadly silent. She rubbed at her arms. This was
not what she expected at all.
She
bent over, struggling to stand up. The dress was bulky and she was not use to
the material tangling about her knees and ankles. She tripped a couple times,
falling to her hands and knees before she successfully stood up. She gathered
the dirty and wet skirt into her hands, lifting it up enough so that she could
easily walk without stumbling over the fabric. Picking a direction, she started
walking; somewhere there was a man that needed her. At least she thought,
optimism always her beacon in the worst of times.
From
behind her, the man appeared. He grabbed at her, choking her with his arm. His
sudden grab lifting her off the ground, her feet flailing out in a panic.
Siarah reached back, clawing in a panic at what held her. Her fingers made
contact and raked three deep welts into the face of that which grabbed her. Her
breath was in short bursts of stolen air. Harder she fought the assailant,
twisting to the left and right, pulling at the arm and kicking with all her
power. One slipper fell to the ground in her fight, her toes splayed out in her
panic.
The
man's breath is hot on her ear, and he rasped into it "Who are you. Where
are we?" Siarah, continued to gasp for her very life, did not answer. Her
fingers plied at the tight hold around her neck, the nails cutting into the
bare skin of the man. His body was pressed against hers, every muscle felt in a
hot heat against her wet clothing. Her foot kicked out and back again, making
contact with his kneecap. He growled in pain and threw her to the ground before
him.
Siarah
tried to crawl away, dragging in deep breaths of the wet air. Her hands
scrambled uselessly forward, the dress impeded her knees and movement. The man
reached down and grabbed Siarah. Flowers scattered as the crown falls from her
hair, the man's heel grinding into the petals as he moved in rhythm with the
struggling.
She
scratched again at his face as her body is lifted and flipped. Siarah could
feel on nail tear off her finger, the blood mingling into the blood from the
man’s face. She twisted her body to roll away as he moved to straddle her. His
hand went to her throat again, pressing in tightly as he brought his bleeding
face to her. Again he growled out to her “Who ARE you? What is this place?”
Siarah, finally seeing the man’s face managed to gasp out “Siarah. I am Siarah.
Here to help..”
The
scent of the flowers was the last thing that Siarah remembered, her eyes
starting to bulge, her fingers slowing their struggle, and her feet lose their
kick. The man’s hand released her, too late to get any more answers, too late
to know where he was. The two stayed like this, the living dead staring down at
the dead. Pale pink drops of blood dropped onto Siarah’s face, the moisture
mixing with the wounds upon his skin. Now that the struggle was over, the fog
crept back, seeping into the area like ooze. Soon Siarah’s dead body was
covered, no longer visible to the man.
Standing
up in a fluid movement, the man stared forward. His fingers gripped tightly in
fists, the body at his feet forgotten. The fog crept higher, reaching the man's
knees. The place faded to black, as if the last hope of sunlight was taken with
the girl when she died. The final smell of the flowers lost to the uncaring
man.
