Tristan Sable || Dream (demos_oneiroi) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-01-09 22:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | dream |
Who: Tristan
What: Losing Alfie & Dreaming – Narrative
Where: Art Studio, Aubade 402, Dreaming world
When: Monday
Warnings: Angst and bad dreams. Mostly angst.
Monday morning dawned dark for Tristan, the echoes still in his mind of Alfie's security coming over the radio in the limo and saying that she'd been killed. They'd taken him to a warehouse near the edge of town, hiding themselves for the tense hours until the state of emergency passed. One of them bandaged Tristan's injured arm, and on Monday morning took him back to the art studio.
The lawyer found him Monday afternoon, passing over a large envelope of things that included the lease and keys for Aubade 402, and the official lease for his art studio. His expression was schooled into sympathy, but with an obvious undertone that hinted that he suspected an inappropriate reason for the transfer of ownership. An older woman leaving the property to a younger lover. Tristan only barely stopped himself from punching the lawyer in the face as he took the official material.
It took the rest of the day for him to summon the energy and courage to take himself to the Aubade. The rough appearance of the building didn't stop the doorman from stopping Tristan to question him when he entered. Tristan managed to force out stilted words about Penelope Worth and apartment 402 and ownership of the apartment. The doorman quickly nodded after a moment, expression a true, sad sympathy, and gestured toward the elevator that would lead upstairs.
The key slid into the lock with ease, and he pushed into the silent rooms. None of the house employees were there, either fled from the Reavers or dismissed with their employer's death. He wandered slowly through the rooms, touching things that jumped out at him as being particularly Alfie. It took him until he came across pieces of his own art before he finally broke.
The sketch he had done of Nadezhda von Meck ended up crumpled in his hand and torn into pieces, left scattered on the carpet. His legs finally gave out, and it took long moments, the sun setting through the windows and leaving the rooms dim, before he could gather himself back together and find a mostly personality-free bedroom. He curled into himself on the bed and slipped into sleep.
The greyness of between dreams welcomed him, and he reached out to the first passing dream he could find. It instantly shifted from the strange but happy atmosphere that it had been to a dark grey mass of rain. The dreamer could barely find their way through the falling water, and woke up not long after. Tristan slid quickly into the next dream, this one shifting almost immediately into a nightmare, Reavers running through unchecked and pulling him apart in front of the dreamer until the teenage girl woke again with a gasp. The third dream was there in the next breath, and filled with sorrow that caused the dreamer, a middle-aged banker, to wake with tears on his face.
The dreams continued, each slipping into place, and each turning instantly to either sorrow or horror that eventually caused the dreamer to wake crying or shivering with fright.
And Tristan slept, ignoring the waking world, his sorrow filling the dreams of Seattle.