Caspar Vaux (sentinel) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-05-19 16:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, caspar vaux |
Who: Caspar Vaux (with mentions of Rictor Cassul and Siri D'Albis)
What: Caspar has nightmares during his coma
Where: Dreamland
When: Two weeks ago.
Rating: PG-13 for me being mean.
Status: Complete
The sleep, if it could be called that, wasn’t peaceful. Twisted shadows and broken shards of color chased one another across his mind, tearing down the blockades he had so carefully cultivated, leaving him vulnerable to the onslaught. Scabbed over memories that had been pushed back so far they only surfaced in a nightmare every other year were now calling to him all at once, clawing at his foundation, pulling him apart. He was standing on the grounds outside his childhood home, and it looked both the same and like nothing he remembered. The color had been pulled from the rich warm brick, leaving it a mottled grey that made him shudder even to look at. It was the dead of winter in Reinburg, and life had drained from the trees and the lawn, leaving behind a barren wasteland blanketed in sharp, dull ice. This wasn't the snow of childhood snowfights with his baby brother; this was the snow that seeped into your bones and left you heavy with sorrow, a damp ache no fire could thaw out. A group of men and women stood clumped together at the edge of the lawn, their bodies huddled together for warmth and compassion. Caspar tried to see around them, but they formed a human wall in between whatever it was they were looking at. The sense of urgency rose as Caspar could tell that something was wrong, very wrong with this picture. He began to run across the ice-tipped lawns towards the gathering, ignoring the sharp jabs on the bottom of his bare feet as he tried to tell himself that there was probably nothing to panic about. He was wrong. The group split down the middle to make room for him as he came close, and he could see what they had been gathered around. Two caskets, ornate yet somber, with the stately markings of the highborn. He recognized the insignia upon both at once — one was of the house he had been born into, and the other he was so familiar with that it might as well have been his own. Realization hit him with the force of the Babil's gravity spell that had landed him here. They were gone, really gone. His brother. Ric. His brother, Ric. The world was deafeningly silent as he looked at the two faces of the men he didn't know he couldn't bear to lose. It had been his duty to protect the one, and he had taken an oath the fight alongside the other. He had failed both of them. On cue, a single snippet of conversation cut through the silence. "At least the Korporal died protecting him. When his own brother was nowhere to be found." Caspar's vision narrowed dangerously, his airways constricting. "But that's not even the half of it," the gossiper continued, her voice familiar (was it his mother?) and uncaring of the effect it was having on him. "The D'Albis girl. You know, the half-mad one? I heard this finally did her in. Completely insane." He still couldn't see straight, but he was running again. The thin shirt and pants blocked none of the elements, but he kept running. The icy lawn turned to smooth paved stones and then bumpy cobbles, and he slip-slid his way forward, not stopping to pause in the blended imagery. His destination materialized in front of him without warning, and Caspar took the stairs leading up two at a time, certain for no good reason that she was in here. He pushed open the heavy front door and ran past the empty pews, the slap of his bare feet echoing in the vaulted chamber. There she was, a small dark figure huddled against the base of the alter. Her red cloak lay in tatters in her lap, her hands ripping apart the fabric with a crazed fervor that made bile rise in his throat. "Siri, I'm here. I'm here, Siri." He dropped to his knees and tried to take her in his arms, but she skittered away too fast, shaking her head and muttering, the garbled sound to low and faint to make out. "I'm sorry. I promised I would never leave. I'm sorry." The mage began rocking herself backwards and forwards, saying something about time and forest and truth and clocks. He reached forward to her again, but his hand dropped before she even jerked away. He was too late. He had failed her too. He rose to his feet in a wide panic, slipping across the floor and onto his knees in front of the altar. He looked up and saw the statue of Ajora — the myth so many in his life had pledged blind obeisance to, the one Caspar had turned his back on. This was his fault. "You were supposed to punish me, not them!", he shouted. "They believed. I was the one who should have died." That was when clarity hit him. This wasn't real. It couldn't be. He was dreaming. He had to be. This was a nightmare that was all. He just needed to wake up. He needed to wake up. Any minute now, he would wake up. He needed to wake up. Why wasn't he waking up? |