r (reposeremembers) wrote in repose, @ 2020-04-17 11:21:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | holly nicodemo-webster, ~plot: memories |
[Memory]
What: Memory
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing
Warning, this memory contains: Creepy imagery.
You are bathed in mist, a cool subtle brush over the skin. Never had you seen the moon, so large or so bright, hang in the center of a sapphire sky basking it is a sheen of silver, glistening over coils of fog. The haze rises off the lake water like a spell, enveloping you in a blanket.
It's eerily silent, the scene is cast in blues and moonlight. The faint sound of music catches your ears and you turn trying to find the source, but there's not a soul in sight. Voices grow, a sweet melody reverberating through the air, it's an unearthly beauty. It's louder now, and your heart begins to ache for something indescribable. You want to move, to chase the melody blindly into the fog. Instead you steel your feet to the ground so forcefully that it nearly hurts.
Laughter and music rise in decibels. Squinting you see shapes in the distance; it's a procession of shadow and light, orbs of golden color flickering in and out of sight. You shiver, feeling a quell of nervous anticipation. Torn between remaining where you are and running straight into the beckoning night. The lights approach closer, daring you to join.
The outlines began to take shape; men, women, and creatures. Tall, slender, large stout, short and some even minuscule. The closer they come, the more vividly you see them. Some in the procession are painfully beautiful, laughing mocking lips and glittering skin, stars crown their heads. Others seem to be made from the earth itself, gemstones in clusters of color about their eyes, their feet fusing into the lush grass with every step.
There is a boy, appearing to be no older than twelve and he rides the shoulder of a great man whose stone arms reach down to the ground. The boy is covered in foliage, youthful of face, hair that reminds you of the turn of autumn when leaves melt into colors of fire. Yet you notice he is far too slender, far too long in joint and stature. His delicate fingers hold a polished wooden wind pipe to his lips and he plays with inhuman skill and the sweetest notes churn from his instrument. That's when he looked up, and you see his eyes. His eyes that are like a goat’s, they're unblinking yellow, the horizontal pupils widened to take the in the sight of you. He grins, continues his tune. You shudder and turn your face away to watch the rest of the march. Rolly polly men teeter along behind, ladies shimmering by a sweep of colors, their bodies barely covered by wisps of moonlight gossamer. Some of the men, if you could call them that, were so beautiful that it made your heart ache and yearn to be in their arms. You wish for all of them, to hear their voices of twilight and to breathe the scent of magic that follows them. Others dance in endless circles, singing a haunting song you know you do not know, but it's familiar somewhere, deep within.
Your gaze is suddenly stolen by a flash of light, the creatures tall and fair part to reveal a woman of unearthly beauty in the center. Her hair flows in rivers of gold down her back that curve around her hips in lush curls, curls kissed by small white flowers and tender green leaves. Her skin is flawless, almost luminescent in the night. Her eyes the deepest emerald, the rich color of summer that invokes an ache in you to return to those warm days. The robes she wears fall gracefully, bundling over long, proud legs. Buds and wild flowers spring up from beneath her bare feet with each step she takes. Her impossibly red lips stretch out into a smile when she finally stands before you.
“Greetings, child.” Her voice sweeter than any refrain that touched the air this night. “At last we meet.”
Your mouth opens, but you find no words. They are locked in your throat. You feel a bit foolish, standing in front of this gorgeous woman and you're gobsmacked. The woman laughs, sweeter than silver, she's amused at your inability to form words.
“Where am I?” You finally remember how to speak.
“The land between,” She tells you. “A place betwixt dreaming and awake.”
“So this isn’t real?”
“Oh, it is real,” she assures.
“But you just said it was a--”
“Dreams are just one of the many connections between worlds and yours,” her hands fold gracefully before her. “Not many can find it so easily after they have grown. For hearts grow bitter and skeptical. Yet you are seeking, and thus you have found us. You have called us to you.”
“I called you?” A flicker of silver hums by your shoulder, you stiffen knowing full well that there are creatures looking at you, examining you, and despite it being a dream you are still wary, still all too aware of their ensnaring pull.
“Yes, you seek answers, just as we seek that which calls to us.”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, my dear,” she says it with the patience of a parent who was explaining simplicity to a child. “We are everywhere, in the dreaming and the waking world. We are drawn to what is ours, so it is only natural that we know.”
“About him. Us."
Her smile widens, the green of her eyes flash swiftly, light over a gem and then gone.
“But I don't know, I don't know where--”
“You will in time,” she tells you knowingly. “And once it is returned so, all will be well again. It will be returned. You will."
"You have?" Your heart stops. "You do! You must! Please, give--"
"No," her voice is a boom, the green of her eyes fade into black, insulted. "It was not us," she hisses. "It never was. Never us. It was those who take. Those who steal. Greedy. Taking what does not belong to them, but we did not punish." The frenzy around her grows, the dancing and the music speeding up, screeching in your ears and you feel them drawing closer.
"It must be returned," her voice laced in venom. Her once beautiful face twists, distorting, dried out into mummified flesh and at the same time it seems to be dripping from her jaw as slow as candle wax down, down, down to the ground where it plops and sizzles, killing the buds. They shrivel and shriek. "It must be set right!" The music that had drawn you in so tenderly terrifies you now, squealing high pitches unbearably striking into your soul.
Everything is stretching even the sky itself, they're laughing and sobbing, bodies distorting pulling further than taffy. The boy with the goat eyes is staring right at you and you're pulled, pulled, swallowed by the dying moon and---
You wake up. Standing in the kitchen. Alone, except for a moon flower growing up from the cracks of the floorboard and it's spattered in red.