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Twenty

She knew this dream. She had seen it every night since she was fifteen. A sea of shadows stretched out into a yawning void, black shapes moving together. Not water. Not shadow. But living things, heaving and rolling--flesh against flesh--in an act far removed from that of love. There were gaping maws filed with teeth in that ocean of bodies. There were hooked talons, horns rising from brows, sinewy wings edged with spidery fingers. There were plates of armor, shirts of mail, and helms rattling as clawed feet beat out the cadence of chaos.

There was steel in that ocean of flesh, swords and hammers and blades of every make, wicked iron, and heavy clubs that all whispered for slaughter with tormented voices of their own. Those weapons drummed the din of war upon shields, a thirsty cry for battle unlike any the mortal earth had seen before. This was her dream every night for long years, trapped there in a world of dark, where the sky bent low over the muddy ground and dragged heavy plumes of choking smoke through the writhing mass of unearthly things.

They never touched her, only lingered in a tight circle around her, shrieking with rage far beyond the control of words. They wanted her. To rend her apart and paint their sickly skin with the crimson in her veins. She knew this with absolute certainty. She could hear their desires in her mind, a cacophony of urges that made her stomach turn sour and cold. But they never tried her, never dared touch her. And she could not fathom why.

She was small and weak, soft and helpless. Unarmored, wearing no more than her nightgown, she was no threat to them. She was easy prey. But their rage and their hungers, so loud in her mind, were laced with the weight of fear. The only real words she could pluck from their screams were "Poison!" and "a Poisoned One!". She couldn't imagine what shriveled, savage devils such as those in her dreams could fear from poison. But they dared not touch her, all the same.

She knew it would pass. The wailing, the roar of starving monsters that begged for morsels to take the edge from their hunger. It always passed just as it should, the merciful end of the wretched devils heralded by the arrival of the light.

She heard it before she saw it. She knew the sound, a crystalline tone that climbed in volume until it became thunder. Like surf pounding rocky cliffs, light and storm broke the darkness, and dawn destroyed the endless void.

The weaker things crawled in the shadow of the larger monsters, wallowing on their bellies in the muck and mire, withering away like maggots under the sun. The greater beasts reared and plunged at the sky, lifting dizzying, defiant howls. But even those mighty creatures met their doom, not from the pure, watery light pouring from overhead, but from the one who always came from the other side of the light.

From the blazing horizon, a silhouette emerged, stepping over the craggy hilltop, striding down to the field below. It was a man, tall and broad shouldered, who brought with him a screaming sword of his own. He was mighty, thunder heralding his approach, light and shadow obeying his every whim to garb him in mystery.

He wore fitted leather armor, oiled and studded, and spurs at his heals. Arrows had found the chinks of his armor, protruding from his flesh and weeping crimson. But he was mighty, and would not be broken. With each stroke, the blade in his hand cleft the life from every thing in his path. Flesh melted into shadow and pooled in the ruts of the muddied battlefield. They fell away from his touch, cringed at his gaze, and withered to dust as they fell beneath his feet.

Jet hair rode the cold wind over his back, a mane the color of night that whipped about his shoulders. Shadow hid all else of his visage, allowing her to see only his eyes. They were the color of molten gold, the fire of life burning bright within them. He cut a path through the devil-flesh and strode by her, just as he had for so many years. All that time, he had fought his way to her, only to brush by her, as if he didn't see her. But this time, as he passed her by, the back of his gloved hand brushed hers, and he froze. He stood there at her side, eyes burning straight ahead and brow set in brooding thought.

She turned her face up to look at him, hoping for the first time to glimpse him. She saw only the silhouette of his lean jaw as he stood poised and ready for war. Slowly he turned his head, tucking his chin to his shoulder, and settled his golden eyes on her own stare. She felt his fingers slide gently between her own, as if he tested her touch to see if she was real. She watched his eyes soften, the fire of war easing in his gaze until they sat cool and welcoming as honey.

"În sfârșit, ochii mei te pot vedea." he said softly. "Finally, my eyes can see you."

Fallon woke and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom for moment. Her pulse climbed and she swallowed a lump forming in her throat. For years her dream had never changed. Night after night it was the same, down to the most minute detail. But now, the man had spoken. His voice still buzzed in her mind, and she felt strangely tethered to the world of dreams, though she was awake.

"Trezește-mă, te rog." she heard him say, as though he lay beside her, whispering in her ear. "Wake me, please."