Dreams that do come true can be as unsettling as those that don't.

[goddessnanshe.livejournal.com]

Wednesday, sometime, somewhere in Dream

Once upon time there was a beautiful princess. Her hair was the colour of jet and her skin was the colour of nutmeg, and each of her teeth were like pearls. Flowers grew where she walked, so that the fields around the tower that was her home was carpeted in blooms as white as snow. The princess was very happy, all save for one thing: her fear that one day the thorn of one of the flowers would prick her. Her servants combed the field for thorns every day, trimming the stems so that it would be safe for her to walk. But still the princess was afraid, and she neglected to notice that each month the forest encroached closer on her home, until one day, standing in her field of flowers, she looked up to see the trees looming around her, undergrowth thick with thorns. Frightened, she fled inside, and as she ran she began her first bleeding, and the blood that trickled down her thigh fell to the earth and stained the roses around the tower a deep and brilliant red.

Inside the tower the princess was afraid that she was dying, for her father had always insisted that royal blood was the most precious of all things and must never be spilled. Weeping, she showed the blood to her old nurse, who laughed and kissed her cheek and told her this was the secret gift of women, and now she was blessed. So the princess wiped her eyes, and was no longer afraid of bleeding. But the thorns of the forest came for her all the same.

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[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

The words are true fine enough, but words don't carry properly, names are a beginning but words alone--needs must follow the pattern of forest to carry their weight here, sing in their bones. 've no gift for words.

Well, then. Say something thin, pardon or mind me or something of the like, and step forward. Aiming to move past him, I'll bloody laugh if I actually do manage to pass by, close my eyes against the brightness of the sword nearing, and--

(. . .)

Dazzle in my ears and a humming in my sight, and sweet smoke rising in the rain. As if I've been pushed hard and sudden, all breath gone and light following with it, and warmth as well. The air so cold with the sword's heat gone, the ground close and stretching out in a carpet of roses and blood. Thorns crowding out sight into the darkness.

(take the low road)

Handmaiden to Persephone. Cerberus.

Feathers. Ought be bleeding but there's only stones and feath--

[simon-klavec.livejournal.com]

I can see it as she steps forward, to pass by, and the sword stretches out, hot steel sliding into her chest smoothly. My memory provides the grating of the edge on bone and then

There is a door. There is a bell.

There is nothing that can keep me from my duty. None that bar my way.

We are in dream, and it was not my hammer, my scythe, that cut her down. But it is death still, in its way.

"Pass out of dream and into death, and thence to life," I whisper as she falls.

[silence-excolo.livejournal.com]

The roses fight me at first, but I hold tight, my hands gleaming & wet with rain & blood. Oh, how they shine! Little by little the slow their writhing until finally they lay still & all those that would enter the tower are clear. The Fair One has approached the fae child & I can see they are safe. So I let go & look again at my hands.

I have more to do here.

I approach the angel at the gate & hear his bell. The sword in his hand & the feathers at his feet; neither are his. I kneel to gather the feathers, weaving them together, my hair for thread. I'm better at this than I thought. They become a cloak, soft & brown & tipped in black. I offer it to the angel.

"Perhaps you would know what this is for," & hold my right hand out, palm up. "But it must be exchanged. You cannot have both."

[simon-klavec.livejournal.com]

One comes, quiet and smelling of hot sands and bird-headed gods. She weaves her hair and the feathers that fell from Glass, showing the skills of those early weavers in her deft movements.

"Perhaps you would know what this is for," she says. Holds out the cloak. "But it must be exchanged. You cannot have both."

I smile at her. Sadness and amusement, warring in me. "This isn't mine," I tell her, letting the sword fall. It shatters when it lands, smoking ruin on stone. I breathe out and the roses crumble where they lie quiescent. "We'll wake soon," I add. "They found her, they freed her, and a sacrifice will wake us all." I look to the forest. Can feel my brow knit.

"Not my place," I say. "Can't go looking for him, can't punish him. What sort of world would it be, if I could? If I could swing low on the wing, a sword in hand, and kill the unworthy, save the innocent?" Shake my head.

"You should go to town, when this is over. Talk to people. Find he who did this. Cast him out, let him turn to dust with his brothers." Almost envy the thought. Lost and done, the end of everything but the love of my kin. "I'll take it," I say, touching hand to the cloak. "Can give it to the one as has proper title to it."

[silence-excolo.livejournal.com]

The angel drops the sword with a sad smile. "This isn't mine," he says as it shatters on the ground, it's flames extinguished. I am glad to hear it, that he knows what is his & I smile for him. "We'll wake soon. They found her, they freed her, and a sacrifice will wake us all," & I don't know who she is, but feel he is right. I prepare to hand him the cloak in exchange, but he looks to the woods. I see, suddenly, what makes him worry.

These woods should not be here. They are... not false, but intruding upon lands not their own, choking it. "Not my place," he says, the roses dying around us, decaying back into the earth. "What sort of world would it be, if I could? If I could swing low on the wing, a sword in hand, and kill the unworthy, save the innocent?" He shakes his head & I raise my silver hand & gently touch his cheek. I know. "Never what we want. Only what must be." What needs to be done; our duty. But I know, I know suddenly, like remembering a far-off dream, the sorrow, the struggle of this man- no, this angel- no. I should not be here. I pull my hand away, embarrassed.

Wake, I hear from somewhere. You must wake. I look back to the woods. The skies rumble & darken & I do not see the source of the voice. None of us should be here, not like this. I see a town in the distance, wavering like a mirage. There is a River there, & I feel...

"You should go to town, when this is over." Town? Town. "There- there is a library there," I say, & it sounds odd. "Talk to people. Find he who did this. Cast him out, let him turn to dust with his brothers." Weigh his heart. This make sense to me. "if it is meant for me, then I shall."

He takes the cloak; he knows who it is for.

And she comes from the tower, into the field, now free of the roses. She comes, a warrior maiden, her skin dark & eyes fierce. And there is a drago- no. Not a dragon, but- what is this? (http://community.livejournal.com/estdeus_innobis/405996.html?thread=10345964#t10345964)