Dreams of Justice

The first time could be considered a coincidence. The second was a little harder to brush off, but she attributed it to lack of sleep. Finals week was always hard to get through, right? It made sense that her eyes lost focus and her imagination stepped in to fill the blanks. This was the excuse she used for the third and the fourth times. 

The fifth, which happened when she was fully-rested, idly drawing a phoenix bird on her sketchbook, was something she could not ignore. It made her anxious, leading her to fidget with the ring her mother had given her a few months ago, for her sixteenth birthday. 

This, of course, resulted in Tristan frowning in concern immediately the next time he saw her. He knew all of her tells, insufferable boy that he was. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, peering at her hand like it held the answers to his question. 

Nothing, she almost said. Except that he’d looked at her hand, he’d known to look at her hand. Could it be? “Have you been feeling . . . off?”

It would not be the first time. They’d known each other for thirteen years at this point, and in all that time, every time there was something wrong with her, he echoed it in one way or another. It was uncanny. 

It would also tell her if there was something physically wrong with her or if it was all inside her head. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “I guess I have been having a lot more dreams lately. Remember the movie we saw like two weeks ago?”

“The one about the knight?” 

“Yeah, that one.” 

There was nothing strange about that. He’d loved the movie; of course it would star in his dreams. It was just her. 

Just her. Without realizing, she clenched her fist, and it happened again. She saw the golden gauntlet on her hand, the kind a warrior would wear in an epic story, heavy and carefully crafted. She swore she could hear the heavy clanking it made when she moved. When she blinked, it was gone. Her hand was bare but for her ring. No other type of metal was on her skin. 

She sighed, standing even though she had at least ten more minutes until the bell rang. “I better head to class.” 

Tristan looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Can I have your apple?” He pouted like a child, green eyes wide and pleading. 

Just like that, he was back to his obnoxious, whining self. Despite herself, she smiled, throwing the apple over her shoulder. She knew without looking back that he had caught it. 

“Anastasia?” She glanced back at the call of her name. “Tell me if anything happens, okay?”

“Of course I will,” she said. She meant it, too. If something were happening, it would be affecting him, too. “Same as you, right?”

Over the next couple of weeks, things got worse. She kept seeing the gauntlet; sometimes pristine, freshly-polished, sometimes dyed crimson. Often, she’d stand and have to catch herself before falling. It was like she miscalculated her weight, almost expecting more than there actually was. One time, she swore she caught a glimpse of a sword on her desk.

A hand-and-a-half sword, she knew. How did she know that? She didn’t know anything about swords, did she? 

About two months after the whole ordeal started, her mother’s sister visited. Aunt Helena was busy, traveling all over the globe while researching something related to a fallen civilization whose story wasn’t yet known. Or so she always said when someone asked her. 

It was no surprise that she noticed something was bothering Anastasia the second she stepped into the house. 

“Are you okay, kid?” she asked, reaching out with one hand to check for a fever. “You look tired.”

Anastasia’s shoulders slumped. “I feel like I haven’t slept properly in ages. Or like I haven’t woken up at all.” 

Alarm flashed in her aunt’s dark eyes, and was quickly smothered and replaced with reassurance. “Are you having bad dreams?” 

“No, they’re just—they’re very vivid.”  

The clashing of blades, battlefields at dawn and at dusk, bodies sprawled on the ground, dented armor. But also sunlight filtering through a ridiculously large window, birds singing and flowers blooming as spring made its reappearance, a familiar smile directed at her, a hand reaching for hers—

“Oh? What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t really know.” It wasn’t even a lie. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Aunt Helena said soothingly. “I’m sure it’ll pass. You did tell me last time school has been hard. When summer comes and you rest, you’ll feel better.” 

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we’ll handle it.” The promise reassured her and made her uneasy in equal measure; she really did not want to have to handle this, but it was nice to know there was someone in her corner, someone who wouldn’t instantly panic and drag her to a doctor. 

“How?” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it can be fixed.” 

“Alright.” 

“I’ll be back in a few weeks, then.” 

“Where are you going?”

Her aunt’s gentle smile went a little flat around the edges, and no reply to her question came. “Take care, kid. Let me know if anything changes.” 

The odd visions got . . . well, not worse, exactly. They just seemed to get more vivid as time went by. She saw a majestic castle shining in the moonlight, glimpses of a woman walking in those halls, an unfamiliar banner swaying in the wind. 

Was the banner truly unfamiliar, though? The more she looked at it, the more she felt like she knew this sigil, these colors. 

She caught herself doodling it in the margins on her notes, and even saw Tristan do a double take when he caught a glimpse of it. He frowned, focused, as though trying to place it, before he shook it off. 

That night, she saw the woman clearly for the first time. 

She was tall, regal, dressed in finery and jewels, with a crown of gold on her brow and a sword on her hip. She looked exactly like Anastasia, or at least what she’d look like in around fifteen years. 

She recoiled, wishing she could turn away from this dream, leave the room and slam the door closed. Instead, she kept watching with horrified fascination as the queen spoke in a hushed voice to a man in armor. 

“It will be done, Your Majesty,” she said solemnly, which made her flinch because despite the formal words, she knew that voice. 

“Thank you, my most loyal knight,” her mirror image said fondly, her hand reaching up to caress his cheek. Then she let go of him and, with a bow, he walked out of the room. 

At last, Anastasia was able to see that the man’s face matched his familiar voice. It was Tristan’s face staring back at her. 

With a gasp, she woke up, heart racing and pajamas glued to her back with sweat. 

What made her most uneasy was how awful Tristan looked when they met up in the school library. It was like he hadn’t slept at all, with that pale skin and those deep bags under his eyes. 

“Did you have a dream?” she blurted. “Something involving castles and armor, maybe?”

He whirled around to face her, somehow paling even further. “How did you know?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve been having them, too.” 

“Anastasia, why didn’t you say anything? I thought I was going crazy!” 

“I was hoping they’d go away.”

“They’re clearly not going anywhere.”

“I know that now. At this point, I’m just waiting for Aunt Helena to come back. She said she could help me, so I—Tristan, I don’t know what I’ll do if she can’t.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing firmly. “Hey, none of that. No matter what happens, we’ll face it together, like we always do.” 

Despite herself, she smiled when he bumped their shoulders softly. It was perhaps the last time she smiled until Aunt Helena’s return.  

Like an epic, the happy, sunshine-filled moments ended abruptly, replaced by violent, disturbing things she only half-remembered in the morning. It just kept getting worse and worse, until—

Her palace burned, her beloved knight’s body broken on the courtyard, blood pooling around him. Her people wailed and begged to be saved, all while she watched in shackles, helpless. It was all her fault. She shouldn’t have listened. Foolish child, you’ve doomed them all. 

“Farewell, Your Majesty,” a woman crooned in her ear, and promptly buried a dagger in her heart. 

“NO!” Eyes snapping open, she shot to her feet before she was even properly awake. It took her a few moments to realize she was alone in her room, with her hand twitching as it ached to hold a sword she did not have. 

This was really getting out of hand. No, it had gotten out of hand weeks ago. She needed help. 

Naturally, the moment her aunt walked through the door, she tackled her in a relieved hug. 

“Oh, what’s this?” she exclaimed, pulling away to lock the door behind her. “Are the nightmares getting worse?”

“So much worse.”

“Is your mother home?”

“No, she has the night shift.”

“Then sit. Tell me, what are you dreaming of?” 

Anastasia told her everything, except for Tristan sharing these visions. The confusion that came with seeing herself—was it her?—live a life that felt like hers yet, at the same time, foreign. The fear of not knowing what was real. The grief that overtook her after that last dream. She left nothing out. 

Silence. Then, “Ah, Anastasia,” her aunt said regretfully, “I really wish you hadn’t remembered.” 

Someone might as well have injected ice straight into her veins with surgical precision. “Remember what, exactly?”

No response. 

“Remember what, Aunt Helena?” she repeated, hearing her voice start to shake. 

“Oh, don’t tell me you think the dreams are figments of your imagination. Even now, after you come here and tell me the story of your own death? Have you forgotten your own words, niece?”

Anastasia’s hands flew to her head as sharp, debilitating pain bloomed behind her eyes, forcing her to squeeze them shut. 

I will find you in the next life, she had vowed, and bring you to justice. You will bleed for what you have done. This, I swear. 

This was the secret her aunt had been hiding all these years. Every time her smile had looked off, every time she’d avoided questions about her work—she had been hiding memories of their past life, in which she had killed Anastasia with her own two hands. 

“I trusted you,” she whispered, unsure if she meant it as the shocked, heartbroken teenager she was, or as the proud queen she had once been. “I loved you.” 

Aunt Helena scoffed. “Her Majesty did not love anyone.” But this was a lie, she knew that she had loved Tristan, the person he had been in their past life. “You, though, I was fond of. Your ignorance made me want to keep you around. A ridiculous notion, isn’t it? But I suppose reincarnation does change people. You are not nearly as strong as you were before.” 

“Is there anyone else who knows? Anyone working with you?”

“No more than there is someone who knows about you. I assume your knight doesn’t remember what he was to you?” 

She doesn’t know. At least Tristan would be safe, if shattered after her loss. If nothing else, she was thankful for this. 

“He doesn’t.” 

“Good.” She stood, reached into her bag. Removed an all-too familiar dagger from it. “Your justice never did find me, in the end. Too bad.”

Anastasia did not bow her head. She did not cower or ask for mercy. She straightened, like the warrior queen she had been—was. “If not in this life, then in the next one, or the next,” she hissed. “Your treachery will be punished, however long it takes.” 

“We’ll see.” Her aunt smiled sweetly. “Farewell, Your Majesty.”