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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[sapphira-ststep.livejournal.com]

Oh her skin... it's terrible, lost and gusting, and I kneel next to her. I don't know what to do, I can work leather and cloth but it's different when there's a heart beating beneath. And still I cannot very well do nothing, so I begin to piece together the edges of her as best I can.

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

Th'air's cold'n dry, m'flesh's raw where m'skin's torn. 'm tryin' t'move m'tail, but't ain't workin' like't should. Christ, I hurt. I hurt, fuck, fuck, I hurt. But I ain't got time t'lie 'ere'n dwell onnit.

Somebody's touchin' me, tuggin' th'ragged edges'a m'skin t'gether. S'a nice thought, but't ain't what I need right now. Manage t'roll 'way from'er, onto th'sand, and writhe hard, grindin' grit inta m'wounds. Writhe 'n wriggle 'til I feel m'skin split an'I manage t'haul m'self free. 'm drenched 'n blood, m'belly's heavy wit' th'golden egg, 'ere's shreds'a fish meat 'tween m'teeth an' m'legs're shattered b'low th'knee. But I got places t'go.

Roll over 'gain, m'skin tangled 'round m'crushed legs. See Kate an' th'woman wit'out a face. "Get me t'th'tower."

[kateohara.livejournal.com]

"Oh, Syl," I say, watching her slide out of her seal skin. Her legs are broken.

"Get me t'th'tower."

I don't ask how we're meant to do that, and I don't ask about the egg.

"I think we can make a stretcher out of things in the boat," I say, wading into the water to where we left it, and I find two long poles and some thick canvas. I wrap (http://www.simplesurvival.net/stretchers.htm) the cloth around the poles, and carefully, carefully, we roll Syl onto it. I know it must hurt her, but she doesn't complain. And we start a slow and painful walk from the shore through the woods.

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

Th'bones'n m'legs grind t'gether's 'ey roll me onto a stretcher, lashed t'gether outta trees 'n cloth. I grit m'teeth an'I don't cry out. I feel ev'ry bump's 'ey drag me through th'forest, annit feels like broken glass'n m'limbs, but I don't scream. I know'ey's doin'eir best, an'I can't says't'd do much better in'eir shoes. Th'egg 'n m'belly burns, like've swallowed a live coal. Allat matters's gettin' t'th'tower, I know'at deep'n m'blood, 'n m'broken bones. Allat matters's gettin'ere. Even th'shadow overhead don't seem t'count fer much.

[sapphira-ststep.livejournal.com]

The rain is drumming down drenching, and the water seeps into the wood, leaves my palms rubbing raw against it. My arms are aching, as they were when I was dragging Tess up the beach in her net, but we are getting closer to the tower. And I see the woman striding out with her sword, to face the enemy, and I can see how that will end. Cannot tell if it will be for her or her opponent, coming through the rain, but--

"Oh," I say quietly, and I set down my end of the stretcher--gently, but I set it down. My face, the lines of me, who I am... I see myself and I know her, I do, as I have not since I woke with my face stolen from me, and my heart stops in my throat.

"I'm sorry," I say to Kate. "I can't help you. I can't." I back away from my end of the stretcher, and circle around into our--her path towards the tower.

[kateohara.livejournal.com]

I'm exhausted. It feels like we've been walking through the woods forever, and I thought I couldn't get any wetter than I was from falling in the sea but I was wrong. But I don't complain, because Syl doesn't. And then the blank-faced girl sets down her end of the stretcher and says "I can't help you. I can't." I don't understand what she's talking about, and she hurries away. I kneel down next to Syl.

"I can't carry you myself," I say. "I'll go for help." I lift my skirt and pull out the knife I had strapped beneath it. "Here. If anyone tries to hurt you." She can't exactly run away.

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

Think've passed inta semi-consciousness, an'I jerk awake when th'stretcher jolts. I hear, "I'm sorry, I can't help you. I can't." an'en runnin' footsteps. Stretcher's feelin' mighty lopsided now. Th'faceless woman's gone.

Kate lays'er side down a lot more gently an' rushes over t'me. "I can't carry you myself. I'll go for help." She says, an'en hands me a knife'n takes off.

"WAIT!" I yell. We don't got bloody time for'er t'go runnin' 'round lookin' fer folk. I hear wingbeats on th'wind, an' th'rain's comin' down harder, an' th'tower door's standin' open. M'belly's burnin', an' we don't got time, dammit.

Use'er knife t'cut th'straps bindin' me t'th'stretcher, an'en th'blade gets clenched 'tween m'teeth. Helps, havin' somethin' t'bite down on, when I roll m'self off th'stretcher'n start t'crawl.