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For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world. -Oscar Wilde 𓆩♱𓆪
Submerged beneath an ocean of blackness is a place of solitude—an unknown depth of nothingness that has eluded me of the warmth of the earth, its light, and its colours. The delicate memories of life threaten to fade from my consciousness and the will to cling to them begins to wane. They slip through my fingers, unimpeded.
The abyssal waters have wholly enveloped me, rocking me to the soothing rhythm of serenity.
The void that I abide in harbours a fierce hunger, a palpable yearning to feed on my essence, depleting the remnants of my diminishing energy. There is no refusal against its will as I allow myself to sink into this realm of nothing, relinquishing all that I am, offering myself to this desolate, suffocating blackness.
Through the pulse of my dying heart, I feel it—the fragility, the fractured mess of what I have become. My languid form, my feeble breaths.
My memories have become subdued. They have lost their vibrancy, their life. They are bereft of any value.
A deep sound rushes like cool water around me—the resonance of a baritone. It surrounds me, ascending rapidly into a sonorous intensity. "Esme, Esme," it utters with persistence.
Atticus.
As that familiar voice beckons me, a veil lifts off me, one that burdened me with weightiness. The colour resurges to my muted memories, imbuing them with purpose and clarity. It's my brother's countenance I see first, his sunken eyes that long for rebirth, for a gift that will grant him a new life. I hear the distant cries of my mother, alongside my father urging me to awaken, their gentle cadence never have I forgotten.
An unforeseen, fervent vitality erupts in my spirit, brimming with desperation, a profound longing, and eagerness. It is an energy that I did not know could possibly be born.
The world is at the tips of my fingers, waiting patiently.
A stroke of light penetrates through the dark, tenuous at first sight, then grows into a lustrous beam—a warmth that flourishes. It enchants the darkness with an otherworldly lucidity, gleaming in its grandeur. The light aids my skin with warmth, pumping my body with renewal and awakening, infusing me with the breath of life.
My vision is a pale cloud of haze, faltering through my feeble attempts to retrieve my right back into this world. I try recalling the things that were once deeply cherished—the petrichor after the storm, the metallic rust that stings my nostrils, puffs of milky white smoke emitting from workshops, the comforting smell of aged timber and parchment from the library—the familiarity of home.
A burst of vibrancy shatters and sweeps away the dark altogether. Flickers of hues—navy, ruby, green, and violent gleam in the center of my sight before my vision blurs into focus. A vague scent of musk, parchment, and cedar wood suffuses the air.
Through my sluggish, weighted blinks I perceive the familiar face that hoverers over my body, igniting a blaze of fire in my core—a strong sense of longing, incredulity. Nothing else exists; it is all I can feel, the sweetness of it envelops me.
I gaze into the tenderness of his eyes, the contours and intricacies of his features, the curl of his smile, the alabaster fairness of his skin—an angelic embodiment of beauty. How I have missed him.
Despite the uncontrollable shakiness of my arm, I reach to brush my fingers against the cool sterling of his mask that veils nearly half his face.
My mouth stings with blood, my voice burns with dryness, as I muster a croaked whisper, "You are here." My dear Atticus.
His breathing is a symphony of urgency. Starlight glimmers in his slender eyes—a silver purity overflowing with elation.
There is an abrupt shift in his demeanour—a solemnness, a fading luminescence. He shakes his head with relentlessness. "I believed that I would never see you again, Esme. I watched as your skin paled to grey. I felt your soul part from this earth."
A whirl of gloom evades me in that second. A destructive wave of calamity and realization crashes against the forefront of my mind. The metallic tang of blood intensifies on my tongue at the life of the memory, the vibrancy of the scene—the nightmarish recollection of hitting the cobblestone street, the deafening wails, my body writhing involuntarily from the onset of an invisible torment—the subsequent events of failing to consume my elixir.
"I carried you through the streets before the first light, to your home. It truly was harrowing to see you that way—so cold, frigid, pallid." He spoke with poignant anguish, an atypical tone that lasted for only a fleeting moment. "I prayed vigorously and my relief was immeasurable as I remembered of the elixir in your workshop, and successfully uncovered it." He gestures to the glowing vial in his palm.
It was Atticus who remained with me the first instance of not consuming my elixir at the proper hour, all those years ago. Forever I will be grateful that it was he who discovered me in that desperate moment. I urge myself to say something, my mouth poised to speak, but despair and shock render my speech.
The scene rushes back to me once more, and it is as though I am living it anew. I think of the blood dripping through my parted lips, the violent trembling of my body, and of how my soul left the earth. A sickness coils in the pit of my stomach, a bitter pang that aches and throbs. A sensation that cruelly infiltrates every fiber of my body without an ounce of remorse.
In a moment of sorrow, I curl into a compact form, clutching my legs with a tight embrace. In this short time, how did such events unravel? I barely hear Atticus's comfort for his voice has faded against my thoughts. A nightmarish sequence rolls through my still disoriented state. I think of Leander. The figure that followed him. My empty vial. My mind reels, the room pressing in. The slanted ceiling and narrow walls seem to confine my every breath. What of Leander? What fate has befallen him? "Tell me where he is, Atticus. Where is my brother?"
The suddenness of his melancholic gaze is like the decrescendo of a sweet song, the vibrancy of its melody fading at once, leaving behind poignant silence and all things beautiful. Through his silence lies the truth that I feared to uncover. "The danger he lies in is unfathomable, it is utterly sickening."
A wave of numbness washes over me, disabling my tears and movement. My feelings are muted, washed in grey. The world feels surreal, fuzzy, and bleak, as though I am living through a dream.
"You have been unconscious for days Esme, and your brother has been forcibly taken." Atticus presses onward, "There is much to inform you of, yet in brief, you must know that I have found some answers. I have been trapped within the world of dreams for months, and there I foresaw saw that this would happen to your brother." His jaw tightens, and his eyes widen as a silent ripple of fear travels across his features.
It is exceedingly rare to witness Atticus afraid. His eyes penetrate deeply into mine, and I absorb the palpable energy that emanates off of him, I cannot move. Not once does his gaze shift, as though he is silently warning me of the terrors that await.
"Moreover, I have a lead on the identity of his pursuer." He hesitates momentarily."I have further discovered that their sinister agendas not only surround Leander, but you as well. They are hunting you, Esme, fervently."
