Waking to a Nightmare

Marit:

The night was bright. Light flickered throughout the village. Unsteady. Dangerous. Terrible.

Fire.

Marit ran.

Her feet fell haphazardly along an old hunting trail. The one which her papa had shown her. The wind whipped at her face. Smoke burned in her lungs.

The trail wound around an old elm tree, the one with the face-shaped knot. Past the brook where she’d thought she’d found gold once. Past the hill she’d rolled down countless times. These places were a blur. She couldn’t see them past her tears. Her memories were a blur. She couldn’t see them past her fear.

Marit reached the sea.

Marit woke, coughing up water. Her lungs and throat felt as if they were on fire. Her arms were still bound behind her back. A strong stinging sensation came from her calf and arms.

I’m alive?

She lay in what seemed to be a cavern, stalactites dripping water to the uneven ground, where moss grew. The ground was slimy, slick from the water and vegetation. A cool breeze blew. The air smelled of mildew.

A rough voice spoke, “Finally awake I see.”

Marit looked up from the slimy stone ground, startled.

Standing over her was a man. He was of average height, and wore clothes that weren’t quite clean, yet seemed to be in good repair. His long salt and lemon hair was pulled back from his face in a ponytail, and his hazel eyes were harsh.

He spoke again, “It would have been a pity if you’d died.”

Marit sat up gingerly, taking notice of the pain emanating from her side, arms, and leg, “W-who are you?”

She cursed herself for the stutter in her voice.

“I am the man who you will make rich,” he answered.

“How so?”

The man scoffed, “Don’t play the fool, I wouldn’t doubt that even the lowliest farmhand from Southern Abstrusus has heard of your treasure.”

The idiot has convinced himself of my lie.

Had this day been any other, Marit would have laughed in his face.

And so, summoning her confidence, she did laugh, “What makes you think I’d help you find my treasure?”

“You have no other choice. You are at my mercy,” he tapped his fingers on the knife sheathed at his waist.

Marit shrugged, “I’ve never been one for mercy.”

Wren would disagree.

The man’s eyebrows shot up, a calculated expression settling on his weathered features, “If that’s so, perhaps you’re better off dead.”

He glanced behind her, nodding, and before Marit could look, a knife was at her throat. She glanced down at the blade, then at the man.

She could feel the fear on her face. In her body. It filled her mind many times over, overflowing. Cascading from her head into her lungs, and hands, and eyes.

Marit hated it. She clenched her hands, trying to stop them from shaking.

The man spoke, “Lead me to your treasure, and perhaps you’ll live.”

Perhaps.

He paused, then asked, “Do you accept my offer?”

“Yes.”

The knife was taken from her throat. Her breathing eased.

“Cut her bonds,” the man told whoever was behind her.

Something cold slid between her skin and the cord that bound her hands. The cord went tense, for a moment, then broke. Her hands were free.

He addressed Marit, “Stand.”

She did as told, though it pained her. Marit stood slowly. Carefully. If her right calf did not hurt so badly, she may have directed her weight to that side to minimize the pain present throughout her left side. And if her left side did not hurt so, she might rest her weight on that side, to favor her wounded right calf. Instead, she centered her weight evenly.

Marit breathed deeply. Deliberately. She would endure.

The man looked her up and down.

“You’re bleeding,” he noted drily.

“Am I?”

A smooth voice spoke behind her, “You are.”

The voice seemed to come from a woman. Marit didn’t look back.

“It is no matter,” the man addressed the woman behind Marit, “Perrin has the supplies to heal her.”

“Perrin!” the man called.

A man–or perhaps he wasn’t truly a man, but a boy–came around a corner in the cavern. He was tall, and carried himself in a way that seemed to demand respect. His curly hair was the color of the aspen leaves in fall. A sword was sheathed at his right side. A dagger on his left.

Perrin:

Perrin crouched in front of the stalagmite, running a gloved hand over the tiny green mushrooms. He’d seen many like these growing throughout the lake caves. They reminded him of his first time meeting Syrin. He closed his eyes.

Odilan called his name, startling him. He hurried to answer him, stepping around a corner in the cavern.

Perrin studied the woman–perhaps she was only a girl–who stood in the cavern. She had a strong nose. In fact, she had a strong everything. Her features were set in determination. She was a seaside cliff enduring the crashing of waves. A tree weathering a storm. A stone wall, standing the test of time.

The only hint of vulnerability in her, was the tears in her dark brown eyes.

And the blood on her arms and leg.

Perrin hated mermaids.

He stepped forward, towards the woman, but hesitated, remembering.

He addressed Odilan, “Do you wish me to heal her?”

Perrin wasn’t sure what he would do if Odilan said no.

“Do it,” Odilan replied.

Perrin closed the distance between himself and the woman, nodding at Epimeleia, who stood behind her. Epime took a couple steps away. It was Perrin’s turn to make himself useful.

He took the woman’s hand, noticing raw marks around her wrist. Probably from the cord rubbing against her skin.

Perrin squeezed her hand gently, speaking in a soft voice, “Hello, I’ve got supplies to clean your wounds. I need you to listen to what I say, so that you aren’t surprised. This is going to hurt.”

She nodded, “Doesn’t everything?”

There was truth to that. Perrin had learned it years ago.

He unslung the pack from his shoulder, “You should sit down.”

*****

The woman walked slowly. Of course, that could be expected. Her teeth were perpetually gritted, every step seemingly causing her pain. He could hear it in in the rhythm of her breath. The way she was so tense she seemed to be holding it, and then would remember to breathe. The control she placed in it. The occasional and yet far too common gasps of pain.

Perrin was glad when they finally exited the caves and made camp. Less glad when Odilan decided to tie the woman to a tree.

*****

Perrin took the first watch. He always did. That was just the way of things.

He sat before the woman, cross legged, “Hello.”

She stared at him, hesitant.

Perrin could see fear in her eyes. That made sense. She had been through so much.

He spoke again, “My name is Perrin, and you are?”

He hadn’t learned her name yet. At least, not her real one. She’d only been referred to as the Phoenixslayer. Or the map. Or a few choice words in Epime’s odd language.

She turned her gaze to the ground, “Marit. Why?”

He plucked a blade of grass from the ground, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb, “I didn’t know it.”

“You don’t know me either.”

“You’re right. But I want to.”

Marit met his gaze, “Why?”

Perrin wasn’t sure. He never had been. At least, not in regards to his curiosity involving others.

He broke the blade of grass in half, “I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Perrin picked another blade of grass, tearing a tiny strip off, “Is there a story behind your name?”

“Phoenixslayer?” Marit asked, seemingly tense.

Perrin shook his head, tearing off another ship of grass, “Marit.”

She relaxed, “Oh. My pa–father chose it.”

Her voice was accented slightly, so that the words sounded like music as they left her mouth.

He tied the stripped blade into a knot, “Why Marit?”

She bit her lip, “I’m not sure. I never got the chance to ask.”

Peerin tied another knot, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, “What about your name? Does it have a story?”

Perrin plucked another blade of grass, ripping a small piece off, “No.”

Not really anyway. Of course, he could mention his middle names, but that would lead to questions. Questions he didn’t want to answer.

Marit:

Marit watched Perrin. The boy sat before her, absentmindedly fiddling with the grass. Why had he asked for her name? Why did he seem to really care?

What does he have to gain?

He spoke, “You’re scared. Why?”

“I have every reason to be scared.”

He nodded, “But is there a specific reason?”

Death. She didn’t fear pain, only death. An ending. Her story cut short. Wasn’t that what she’d been running from, all this time?

Marit bit her lip, looking away, “I don’t want to die. Not yet anyway.”

“I don’t think you will die. Not yet anyway.”

“But you can’t promise me that.”

No could promise a life. Not really. People were too fragile.

“You’re right.”

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. They were grey, mostly. Parts of them were brown. More so in his right eye.

Perrin turned his focus to the grass, “I hope you don’t die.”

Hope ignited in her heart, and desperately, she tried to snuff it out. She failed.

“If you hope I don’t die, then help me. Please.”

He looked as if he might, for a moment. Then, meeting her gaze, he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”

Marit held his gaze for a long moment, then, she looked away. The hope extinguished for her.

And so, they sat in silence. After a short time, Marit fell asleep. As she slept she dreamed.

The Third Dream:

The air smelled of salt and smoke. It burned in Marit’s lungs. She’d never been good at running.

The sea stretched out before her. Beautiful. Treacherous. Terrible. Her only hope of safety.

Marit scanned the rocky beach, breathing heavily. Her heart pounded in her chest. A glimpse of red caught her eye. A small rowboat.

She ran towards it, and as she ran, she noticed. A girl–younger than her–was pushing the boat towards the water, obviously exerting the fulness of her strength. The boat hardly moved, scraping across the rocks.

Marit joined the girl, pushing the boat to sea. It moved faster. But not as fast as it should have. Not as fast as they needed it to. The cracked red paint peeled beneath her fingers. The side of the rowboat read “The Sparrow”.

They reached the water, but the boat still scraped along the sea floor. Marit pushed forward, the sea soaking her trousers, up to her calves, then her knees, then her thighs. The water lifted the boat.

Marit helped lift the girl into The Sparrow, then followed. She positioned herself, grabbing an oar. And she rowed away from her island. Into the sea. Into the unknown. Into the darkness of the sky and water, with nothing but the stars to guide her.

“Who are you?” the girl asked Marit, tears falling from her blue eyes to her cheeks and down her face.

“Marit,” she answered, “And you?”

“K-Kirke.”

Perrin:

Perrin watched Marit. She slept, and for a moment, a peaceful look came over her face. In the silence, he remembered.

He remembered chess matches. Glasses. Swordfights. A crown. Words. Camping. Clovers. A man with tattoos. Running. Tears. Bad news. A bridge. Blood. Darkness. Pain. Life. A friend. Candles. Purple flame. An arrow.

It was all his fault, in a way.

Of course, that didn’t change anything. He didn’t change anything. That disgusted him. His cowardice. The way he was so willing to watch Marit die. How he had run when Dreu had b–

Perrin’s train of thought was interrupted.

Marit was mumbling under her breath, “K-Kirke…no….”

There was fear in her voice.

“W-watch...red…”

Who was Kirke?

Her brown eyes snapped open, and she gasped. For a moment Marit held her breath. For a moment, she held Perrin’s gaze. Then, she released it. Her breathing was unsteady, her chest heaving.

He took a breath, watching her still, “Nightmare?”

She said nothing, her breath coming quicker. And quicker. Panic settling on her features.

“Heyheyhey, look at me,” Perrin took hold of her shoulders, careful to avoid her cuts.

Marit looked at him.

He spoke gently, “Just breathe.”

After a long moment, her breathing steadied.

Perrin let go, “What were you dreaming of?”

Marit didn’t speak.

Perrin searched her expression, but found no answer.

Minutes later, Epime took over watch. Perrin slept. He didn’t dream.