InsaneJournal

Who: Lotte and Bran
What: A dream encounter.
Where: The land of dreams nightmares.
When: Late tonight.
Warnings: TBD.

Mirrors. So many mirrors everywhere, showing reflections within reflections within reflections.

Bran wasn't as alarmed as he should have been, turning in a lazy circle as he caught glimpses of blurred images within the glassy depths. It seemed familiar, as though he had seen this before countless times and knew what to expect. It was reminiscent of the sort of attractions the travelling circus had boasted, but surely he couldn't be there. He'd set their camp on fire the night he left and watched the flames consume everything, a suitable payment for the way they'd treated him.

Part of him realized this was just a dream, even if it was so unlike anything he'd ever experienced before, but somehow it didn't seem to matter whether he was awake or asleep. He blinked and the mirrors shifted, then again and again until they seemed to be moving of their own accord. He saw himself, a mask covering his entire face, among other things - orange and red flames, the faces of his grandmother and his mother contorted in what was either a laugh or a scream - but then there were things he didn't recognize. A huddled figure on the floor, reaching out with skeleton-thin arms as a woman threw something at it, half-fleeing in fear. A shadowy figure strangling another, a thick rope pulled tight against the poor man's neck. Glimpses of magnificent half-finished buildings and warm climates, somewhere dark and damp like the basement cellar he grew up in - then the mirrors went blank and stopped, nothing more than panes of indifferent reflecting glass.

There were a few beats of silence before a voice began to sing somewhere above his head, the sound starting off faint and growing louder each passing moment, like a radio signal gaining strength. Bran couldn't quite make out the words, but the tone of the voice was very clear - as pure as crystal, a shimmering thing that belonged in a velvet throat. But where was it coming from? Even though there was no visible exit he took a step forward, then another and another; but instead of smacking into the mirrors, Bran simply passed through them.

It didn't strike him as strange that he suddenly found himself outside, the sky above slowly but surely turning an angry shade of grey. The landscape was practically barren save for a few charred trees, bearing bodies hung from nooses that swayed almost delicately in the breeze. Broken shards of multi-faceted crystal littered the dusty ground, mixed with torn pieces of fabric and still-burning wood. It was a wasteland, a distant memory of destruction and and loss, but the only thing left standing - completely untouched - was a piano.

The voice had vanished, and for some reason the thought that if he played it might return seemed very logical. Bran didn't know why, but he very much wanted to hear it again. He ran his hands over the keys before taking a seat on the bench, beginning to play without the slightest hesitation concerning his surroundings. He even hummed along with the tune, waiting for the voice - his voice - to come again.