Dreams are illustrations... from the book your soul is writing about you.

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

(Wednesday evening, January 6th.)
(Just before midnight, some where that is not Excolo)

It is one of those awful, grey, foggy days that bleaches all the colour from the flowers, the lawns, the hedges.   I open the double doors to the large terrace and take the stone steps down to the garden, holding up my skirts lest I trip on the crinolines and break my fool neck.  Out I wander, away from the house towards the part of the garden where we always take tea on pleasant afternoons.  It is not one of those afternoons, but perhaps my Lord will be out here.  

The table is empty, and I look about, circling around the fountain and murmuring a small 'hello' to Robert as I pass the still new stone.  A morbid habit, but one that always tugs a queer smile to my lips.  We talk more now that we did when he was alive.  

"Bloody hell, where could he be?"  I wonder aloud, my voice unnaturally loud sounding to my ears in the damp, heavy air.  I hear a purely masculine chuckle from off to the right, and I turn, a whirl of skirts and ringlet curls.  I catch a flash of blue eyes and a wicked smile as he turns and walks into the daunting hedge maze he is fond of chasing me about.  It seems like such a dreary day to play hide and seek, but I smile and laugh, running over to give pursuit.

Inside the maze, the fog seems even thicker, making it hard to see more than ten feet in front of me.  It seems almost closed in, claustrophobic.  The spirit of our game leaves me almost instantly, and instead of running forward blindly like I normally would, I pick my way about cautiously, heart hammering in my bosom.  The thick air makes the outside noises muffled, and the rustle of my own skirts amplified. I do not like this game today, not in the least.  "My Lord..."  I call out to the never-ending fog.   "I am afraid I am not myself this afternoon.  could we go inside and take some tea?"  I ask, but there is not answer.  I keep walking, taking another turn, but still, I am alone.  "My Lord?  Dearest?"  I call again, and this time there is a laugh from up ahead.  I can barely make his form out, black suited outline in the grey, then he turns a corner.  I shake my head and pick up my skirts, running after him.  "Kent, wait!"  I call and turn the corner he just did, wondering fleetly while I am calling him by his landed title and not his name.  Again, the laugh, the hint of his outline, and another corner, then another, and another...

I feel as if I am chasing him forever, never quite able to keep up.  I am on the verge of tears, for this game is certainly not funny any longer, and I make another turn---

there is a child.  A boy?  A girl?  I can't be sure, the shape in the fog keeps changing.  Red haired, sable haired, tall and lanky, short and pixie like, dimples change to freckles... it keeps rippling in the mist in front of me, and I can only stand there and watch as this seemingly Fey child keeps transforming before my eyes.  The only thing that stays the same are the eyes... the child's piercing blue eyes.  "Kent?"  I whisper, utterly baffled.  Is he changing forms again?  I take a step forward and the child laughs and sprints away.  "Kent!"  I call out and take off behind the figure and round the corner, only to run straight into my Lord.

"KENT!" I gasp---

His name is still reverberating around my bedroom as I sit up straight in bed.  Oh, again...  I'm dreaming.  With a groan, I flop back onto the pillows and pull the blankets up over my head.  I'll have to suck it up and see if Lucien has any of that elixir that blocks dreams.  Oh well, at least it wasn't the graveyard dream again....

(Closed)

Dreams are illustrations... from the book your soul is writing about you.

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

(Wednesday evening, January 6th.)
(Just before midnight, some where that is not Excolo)

It is one of those awful, grey, foggy days that bleaches all the colour from the flowers, the lawns, the hedges.   I open the double doors to the large terrace and take the stone steps down to the garden, holding up my skirts lest I trip on the crinolines and break my fool neck.  Out I wander, away from the house towards the part of the garden where we always take tea on pleasant afternoons.  It is not one of those afternoons, but perhaps my Lord will be out here.  

The table is empty, and I look about, circling around the fountain and murmuring a small 'hello' to Robert as I pass the still new stone.  A morbid habit, but one that always tugs a queer smile to my lips.  We talk more now that we did when he was alive.  

"Bloody hell, where could he be?"  I wonder aloud, my voice unnaturally loud sounding to my ears in the damp, heavy air.  I hear a purely masculine chuckle from off to the right, and I turn, a whirl of skirts and ringlet curls.  I catch a flash of blue eyes and a wicked smile as he turns and walks into the daunting hedge maze he is fond of chasing me about.  It seems like such a dreary day to play hide and seek, but I smile and laugh, running over to give pursuit.

Inside the maze, the fog seems even thicker, making it hard to see more than ten feet in front of me.  It seems almost closed in, claustrophobic.  The spirit of our game leaves me almost instantly, and instead of running forward blindly like I normally would, I pick my way about cautiously, heart hammering in my bosom.  The thick air makes the outside noises muffled, and the rustle of my own skirts amplified. I do not like this game today, not in the least.  "My Lord..."  I call out to the never-ending fog.   "I am afraid I am not myself this afternoon.  could we go inside and take some tea?"  I ask, but there is not answer.  I keep walking, taking another turn, but still, I am alone.  "My Lord?  Dearest?"  I call again, and this time there is a laugh from up ahead.  I can barely make his form out, black suited outline in the grey, then he turns a corner.  I shake my head and pick up my skirts, running after him.  "Kent, wait!"  I call and turn the corner he just did, wondering fleetly while I am calling him by his landed title and not his name.  Again, the laugh, the hint of his outline, and another corner, then another, and another...

I feel as if I am chasing him forever, never quite able to keep up.  I am on the verge of tears, for this game is certainly not funny any longer, and I make another turn---

there is a child.  A boy?  A girl?  I can't be sure, the shape in the fog keeps changing.  Red haired, sable haired, tall and lanky, short and pixie like, dimples change to freckles... it keeps rippling in the mist in front of me, and I can only stand there and watch as this seemingly Fey child keeps transforming before my eyes.  The only thing that stays the same are the eyes... the child's piercing blue eyes.  "Kent?"  I whisper, utterly baffled.  Is he changing forms again?  I take a step forward and the child laughs and sprints away.  "Kent!"  I call out and take off behind the figure and round the corner, only to run straight into my Lord.

"KENT!" I gasp---

His name is still reverberating around my bedroom as I sit up straight in bed.  Oh, again...  I'm dreaming.  With a groan, I flop back onto the pillows and pull the blankets up over my head.  I'll have to suck it up and see if Lucien has any of that elixir that blocks dreams.  Oh well, at least it wasn't the graveyard dream again....

(Closed)