WHO Fairytales, Merlin WHEN Thursday night, 22nd April, after this WHERE in her dreams WHAT Fairytales goes searching WARNINGS none
Once she is home, she uncovers the vial from her pocket and goes to the sofa to sit down and look at it. She didn’t dare take it out a moment sooner, just in case- well, in case. No matter. She had what she went to see Merlin for, even if she didn’t have his help.
Shadow perches on the arm of the chair and washes one paw for a moment. Fairytales looks at her as she unstoppers the vial. The smell of lavender is strong, and she almost feels dozy just from breathing it. The cat mews at her, watching.
“All will be well,” she whispers to her pet. “I know where I am. I am here. I have you. I will be able to come back, even without Merlin’s help. Keep watch, won’t you? I go to find my lost love.” And as the cat watches, she drinks the vial and settles onto the cushions, her eyes falling shut almost as soon as her head touches the pillow.
It is not the same as when she went to find Marian. Then, the golden thread had been clear and strong and pulled her along straight as an arrow. This time, the cloudy void around her is dark and treacherous, and she searches for a thread, a direction towards the Sheriff for a long time before finding something that is black, and almost crumbles as she touches it. She begins to follow, delicately, moving through the clouds that feel like lightning crackles beneath the surface. Several times, she loses her way, struggling back to the path, following and following, until she tugs it and it comes away in her hands, leaving her untethered and lost. She cannot go forward; she cannot go back, and she stares ahead into an inky nothingness, on the precipice of the emptiness of death.
The Sheriff is dead, then. His mind is vacant, his soul fled, and this is but a placeholder until he should return. Breathlessness overcomes her as the abyss tugs at her, pulling at her edges, and there is nothing to grip onto, nothing to prevent it. She cries out but her voice is whipped away, and she is naked and as vulnerable as a newborn in the face of the great unknown.
Any other time, she might greet death with curiosity, or with peace, or as a friend. When she had danced on the cliff’s edge and slipped onto the rocks below, she had known it was coming and embraced it. When she roared at the heavens as a great beast and felt the blade slice her heart, it had been right, and she had accepted that as the proper outcome. But this- not like this- not when her John is still missing and she still has work to be done, and she is the only one who sees- not when she has true love-
“The sun is rising,” says a voice behind her, and she turns to see a thin powder-blue line extending towards her, and she grips it hard, grips it for her very life as it tugs her back, and the black nothing recedes behind her
Merlin is frowning over her as she opens her eyes, and it takes her a very great moment until she knows exactly where she is. She lies still on the sofa, as the early dawn colours the sky, and her body feels cold and heavy.
“Did you think I would not notice?” Merlin says with a huff, sitting back in his place on the edge of the sofa next to her. “I awoke in the night with such a thought that I ought to check my cabinet, and what do I find but a blank space where a vial used to be. Do not steal from me again, Mim. I do not take kindly to it.”
She sits up slowly, and shivers. Shadow is curled at her side, watching her intently.
“He is dead,” she breaths, and Merlin stiffens in concern.
“Not-”
“The Sheriff. He is dead. He can tell me nothing.”
Merlin relaxes, and sighs, and rolls down his sleeves. His coat is flung onto the armchair near them, a betrayal of his worry for her. She looks at it, and back at him.
“Mim. No more of this. Stop dreamwalking. You are only confusing yourself and it’s not healthy. No more.” He lets go of her, holding her eyes until she turns away, arms folded. “You need to stay inside her own head.”
“I need to find my John,” she snaps, but it is too soon for strong emotion, and she feels wrung out and dehydrated. She puts a hand to her head and winces, her mouth dry as cotton.
Merlin tuts. “You need to take more care.”
“I’m not a child,” Fairytales says crossly.
“But you are believed in by children, and children make the least sense. I’ve met your sister. Here, have some water, and take your time getting up.” He passes her a glass of water, then goes into the kitchen to make tea and breakfast. He will leave later in the morning, once he is sure she is feeling recovered, and extracts a sincere promise never to do this sort of thing again.
But she isn’t about to give up. If Merlin will not help her, someone else will. She threw away this lead, but there will be another. There must be.