the dreamer has nightmares | closed

[pactmarshal]

🌳Who: Trahearne and others!
🌳What: A series of nightmares leaves Trahearne (and others) sleepless
🌳When: The second week of summer
🌳Where: In the dream world
🌳Warnings: Slaughter, prejudice, depression in general, maybe a lil nsfw, Heart of Thorns spoilers looks directly at cocoa

Comments

cw slaughter and discrimination...

[pactmarshal]

[ There's something else somewhere in Mishka's mind--or even his heart, perhaps--that the loss would go far beyond the self. That the moment he lets go of his consciousness, he would relinquish control of everything he has worked so hard to create in the name of the betterment of the world to this terrible, terrible entity. All that power would be used in the name of the destruction of the world.

Mishka letting go would surely spell the end of everything.

That isn't what the voice tells him, though. ]


Yͪͩoͯͥu͊̌̌ͤ̑ͬ ͛̍l͌̅o͛ͤ̀͋̚s͂͗ͧͭ̃͗̍̂̚ȅ̎̈̈ ͛ͥ̀̇ͧͯ̂̾̚n͋̎̽̋o͊̔̏͆̒̍̓t̏͋ͩ̀ḣͫͮ̐ͦͤͪ̔ͯi̒͂̉̊̄ͧn̎̈́̒ͦ̏ġͪ̈́̋.͐ͧͣͧ̉̐̂̽̔ ͮ̏̓͊̀́Ỳoͦͤ̇̐u̎̌̌͂ͣ͆ͪ ̄g̈ͬ̉̍ͣ̾̔a̐͆ͨ̆i̿ͥ͋ń͂̈́̃̀̿̓ ̓́̈ͧͧ̚e̓̏͊ͮ̏ͩ̇̆̽vͩ̔̍eͯͯ͗̚r̎̔ŷ̽͂͌̒͆͒ͭt̓ͦͦͬ̌̿͆h̔̌̒ͧͥ̆ìͩ͆ͬ͋̑̐̚nͥ̀ͩ̽͂g̋͊̐.̋̔
Ẉh͇̬͈͕a̞̠̤̟͍̖̳̠̞t̳̯̹͍͕̹̗ ̘͇̲y̫̼̙̻͔̰͔̬͚o̠͕͈͈͔͙͇u͍͖͉ ͓̼̗͖s͍͉͉̠̬̗͈e̞̯̩̤̝e̙̲͙̭̻̱̝͚̯ ͈̠i̫̙̻̗̤̗̙s̮̦̦̞ ̝̤͈a̪̩͖g̹o̱̺̗̲̦n̫̪͓̪̭͉̥y̬ ̯̞w̦̯͎r̭̺̟͈͉̹ọ̫̲͇̘̠ṵ͕̮ͅg͈̩̬̠̝̗h̗͖̬̠̠̬͉t͍̲̻͚̖̻̥ ̤̣͉̤̱̹̫̜̲b͍̱̮̠͎̯̟̞̯y̙͚ ̺̥̙̜͙͖ͅy̙o̗̟̖̪̯̦̦̝̙u̺̱̼̠̟̯r̹̣̗̞̪̮͇̹ ̰̻̦ͅo͓w̙̼ṉ̹̜ ̺̰̼s͚͔̪̫̱ͅt̝͔̣̜̩̞̖̪̠u̥̭̲̭̞̤̫b̭̯̦b̰͔͙͕o̲̬̠̭̦̖̘r̟̰͇̪ͅn̼͇̥͓͖̜̯n̗͙̣̫͕ͅe̖̻͍͎s̻͈s̮̬̠̠̗̮͉.͇̻͉͔̙̥͙͕


[ There comes the flash of another vision: A large humanoid woman lords over an enclosure full of plant-like people. She towers over one, pulled apart from the rest, a gun pointed at his head. There's a bang. He falls dead. ]


T͖͍̝̰̯̫̦̻̐ͦ͗̂̍h̝̙ͦ̃ͤ̊ͫ̊̑ͫe̯͕̼ͨ̾y̩̟̥̬͓̍̆̓ͪ̈́ͫ̿̐͂ ̹̯̜͗̄h͕͇̲̺̫͖̚o̳͍͙͎̘̲̣͓͈͂̾͊ḽ̜̠ͧ̍̍ͣͧ̍͗͂d̪͆ ̘͕̣̉̍͑ͪ͒̏n̮̫͔̩ͥ̈͆̆̆͐ͯ̄o͈̙͕̺̍ͭ̂̎̂͆ͭ̐ ̹͍̼̺̰̘̽͂ͦ̑t̖͕̼̖̖ͫͨr͍̰͚̉̒̆͂̍u̘̩̲͉̬̼̩̭͑͛ͧ̄ͧs̠̩̝̗ͩ͒ͦt͈̆̅ͫ̔͊̂ͫ ͔͓̞͙̰̻̯̽̂̏f͓̖̍ͯo̯̳̖̤̞̽̎͂r̟̦̭͈̣̱̂̂̆ͭ̈́̀̌̚ ͍̩̺͔̉͒ͣ͌ͫ͆y͔͒̐͐ŏ͙̯̥̦ͪ͑͑ͨ̿ù̟̹̬ͫ͋ͬ̔̓ͅr̲͉͖̩̭̪̱̈̎͗̿̚ ̼͔̝͈̹̓̆͂ͨp̜̮̙̬͍̼͔̎ͫͪ̈́͐̍̒e̟̟̟͓̽ͩo̳͈̪̝̳̳ͭ̽̊̌̇ͅp̬̫̦̼̻̎͆͐l̟̰̜̅ͅe͎̙̥͉̫͎̙̯͛͒.̞̰̲͓̲ͭ̉ͦ͋ͬ̂̅̈ ̲̰̍̑ͧ̓ͥͮ̉̅A͍̰̙͇̭̦̱͊ͫͥ̊ͬ̑̓̆n̞̹̬͍͇̻̺̼̉ͫ̿ͦḍ̙͖̬̳͙̙̋͐͒ͤͪ͐̉͐ ̘͓͙͓̌̓̾̈̌͐͋̓ͭy͖̻̟͓̳͛͂̏o͙̯̥͙̺̙̦̥̰̾̎̔ͯͤͨͦ̀ȗ̖͈̹̥̰͙ͩ͌ ̼̠͈̱̠͉̝͚̪͊w̳͕̪̺̩̄̆ͦ̆̉̍͌o̳̭̠͓̻̯͕̲͋ͨ̔̆̀̐̎͛u͓͚̜̙͑l̘̗̝̩͇̻̩̘̓ͪͩ̇̈́̂̑d̻̤͇̣͕͇̞͎͚ͭ̃͛͂̋͛̉ ͈̺͈̮̳̯̣͍̑́ͯl̼͖̹̞̹̟͓̼ͥ̽̽ͫ̒ȇ̹͇̭͖͗ͥ͌̓̋t̰̅ͩͭ ͍͎̙͖͚̥ͨͪͤͧͣ̈́ṱ̦͖̭͓̻̔͆h̤͔͙͗ͥͥ̽̊̾i̟̯̹͖̭͚͖̜̐̆ͣ̒ͧ̑̔ͅs̖̙̹̺̦ͬ͗̐̋ ̪̙͙̙̙͈̪͌̿̆̿̄c̜̫͚͙̽̑ͫ͗ͅo͖̒ͭ͒́́͌ͤ̉n̯̟̝̗͈͋ͭ̅͂̓̈́t̙̻̒́́̓́̑ͣi̝̮̺̗̾͐ͬn̗͍̭̦̝͉̼̳ͩ̀ͯ̆̋͆ụ̲̺̮̖̞̜̜͕̉̋͐̍̅ͧͪͧe̦̻̤̖̺̪͔͗̓̍̾ͪͅ?̰͔̙͚͚̼̮̎

[yourlenore]

( He grimaces, recoiling at the shrill strum of the bang.

Mishka has not had voices in his head - not like this. Sickness is wordless decay, and slight. Night by night would the festering worsen - he would, without choice, sup upon the poison given to him, and his body would grow worse. In step, his thoughts would darken; in step, his thoughts would change.

It was not the voice of a foreign body he'd contend with, but his own. What had infected him, became him.

In some way it is easier to argue with a voice that's not his own. In some way it's easier to argue that he doesn't want this when he feels so acutely the weight of everything he might lose (in that strange way where things in dreams make sense, where these achievements feel as if they're his own).

In some way, too, it's easier to find the seduction in simply letting go, when there's someone else willing to take the reigns. )

... I have never known, ( he exhales, breath shuddering, and voice straining; ) a god who knows mercy.

( And then there is that.

How tempting it is to let go, but he has known the endless dark, and he has known its crushing weight. No god would grant him an ending better than this. And if that may be the best fate that awaits him, the one favored by this god - then what awaits the rest?

He has never hated other people, though he should. But in lieu of an absence of antipathy, right now, his chest swells with an affection for a people - a world - not his own, but which feels as if it is. )

... Torture me as you please. Suffer as they may, if this is the toll to keep it all from growing worse... then I suppose it's only fair that I pay.

[pactmarshal]

[ There's a shudder, an uncomfortable roil of unwanted amusement that shoots through Mishka's body. The entity is laughing. There is no laughter that he can hear, of course, but it is at this point he will realize that he is physically connected, slowly being consumed by this being. The pain is very real. ]

R̠̮̣͎̟ͦͩ̏ͭͩ͌͒ẹ̹̪͆͒͑̒ͥ̓̚̚s̹̟̳͖̠̒͊͂͗̄̂̇i̟ͩ͆͒̿s̮͔͍̭͚͚͐͛̏t̥̽̏ͦ ̮͒͊̑̒̿̌̇a̖͙̯͌ͮ̄̊̆l̪͙͇͉͍̮̙̆̒ͨ̓͗̂̇l̯̭̦̘̞̓̒̎͒̈͂ͅ ̯̱̼̝̦͖̃̅̄y̠̫̦̫̠ͣͤ͆̋ò̘̮̾ͦu̲̘̹̖̖͎͍̝ͦͥ ͙̮͙͇̫̜͈̣ͪ̌ͅl̘̝͎̺͍̍̍̄͗ͅi̥̬̣̰̥̲̤͎͋̽k̳̮͑̉e̬͙̳̣͈̼̻̲̋̓̏.̟͈̲̹̼͛̌̾̃ͅͅ

[ There comes another flash--this time, it clearly focuses on one person. It's Syrlya, whether Mishka has met him at this point or not. He scrambles alone through the dense jungle, deformed creatures made of vine and bark stalking his every movement. The fear and desperation is evident on his face. And for a brief moment, Mishka will feel a pang of that very same fear in his own chest. ]

B͆̎ͪ̃ͤ̚̚ù͛̚t̉̑̅̐͑̇͛̆̇ ͣt̅̓͗̉̐h͐͂̏ȇ̎ ̏̆͐mͧ̀͑̀͒̿ͥ̀̚oͫͪ̿r̆ͨͧe͌ͣ ͧͤ͆ͩy͐̀ͣ͌̉o̓ͯ͗̈́u̅ͨ ͑͐dͯͬ̌o͆ͨ͑,̇ ̓̉͑̿t͛h͛̑̈ẽͬ̽ͭ̀́ ̒̊̍ͣ̚l̊͂͒ͧ̿őͧ̈́͊̃͊̉̂nͤ͌̋ͬ͑g̚eͩ̂ͬͭͦͪr̊̈́͗ͩ̾ͯ ͮͮ͌hͦ̿̄̊̀̓ͬ̚eͣ͂ ̈́͐s̃̉͒͋uͥf̎͊fͩe͊͌ͣ̽̿ͨ͊r̿̊̀̽̏̿s͂̓̿̎̍.ͣͬͤ͒́ͤ̀̚
A̦͇͔͔r̠͔͚̣̘̞e̜͉ ̙͍̻̟̘̦̖ͅy͎̺̰ͅo͕̠̣͍̗̼͕̝̳u̦͔͇͓̼ ̜̼̬̘̤̩͎͕͓w̪͉ͅi̞̣̼̲̤̰̞͉̥l͇͙̺͎ͅl̩̠͓̟͕̫͓̱i̙͕n̤͔͉g̪̙̱̲͚̠ ̜̲͉ṱ͔̫̱͓o̞̻͔̥ͅ ̻͉̤̩̟̻h͈̯u͉̦̗̰̪̥̠͈͓r̺̫̝̤͚͉̦t̠̯̰ ͓̳h̪̣͖͓̹̠͖̠ị͓̺̝͓̼͕m͇͈ ̫̠̤̹͍l̜̰̩͈͓͉ị̯̻͖k̙̹̞͉̳̦e͚̬̪̟̦̮͈ͅ ̙̟͈̬ͅt͍̱̖͓͕̞̝̦ͅh̥͙̬̤̥̲͓i͖̯͓̮͓̪͔s̖͙͉̖?͖̯

[ Seeing him like this hurts. They aren't Mishka's feelings--that he will be cognizant of. But there's something else in the back of his mind that tells him it's only temporary. That the fears and horrors of the jungle will pass so long as he holds on. That keeping this man alive is the most important thing in the world right now. He is the beacon of hope for this entire world. That much is certain.

Giving in would surely cause him the most suffering. And he--whoever it is that Mishka shares this body with--would never want that. ]

[yourlenore]

( This vision, despite it all, is perhaps the most startling, because the tension here is sentimental. Mishka in his years has seen great brutality and chilling cruelty; he has seen Ostoyans suffer, and turned to see the indifferent face of the universe look away.

Tragedy, when widespread, becomes common - exhausting, almost. But the pain of one in particular, the pain of the one face you hold close, is harder to bear. He knows Syrlya, and he knows his feelings for this acquaintance are not so particular; but he recognizes how deep this pain runs for this person he's masquerading as, and he finds this pain understandable - familiar.

The rumbling agony of the voice strains, still, against his skull, and its laugh scrapes sharp against his pride. But it is a dull hum compared to this feeling - it is not such an effective tempter as this singular vision.

Adelis might not be as lofty as this Syrlya. His purpose may not be so great. Even so, Mishka would lay the earth in the fire on his behalf. And so, his heart hesitates, the stutter nearly palpable.

Here is where his feelings differ from this person's - this person who cares so greatly for Syrlya. Smiling may hurt, also, but his lips still curve up with a bitter effort. This person manages temperance in the face of Syrlya's suffering, but would Mishka have this same faith in Adelis? )

... No.

( He answers, finally, the voice and himself in turn. How betrayed Adelis had been, when he gave in. How sorrowful, how angry; and that was the last Mishka would ever see of him.

Until this Goddess had stayed his punishment, and given him chance to reflect, he supposes, on his impatient error. )

... But this is not my choice to make. ( Literally, and figuratively - Syrlya is not his, he is this body's; and Syrlya's fate, too, is his own. Perhaps Adelis would have preferred this answer, too. ) And so... you must forgive me, for hoping to have faith.

( Because he has not, since those days in the church. But perhaps he should have. Is this what this person chose, he wonders? To wait, and have faith? )

[pactmarshal]

[ There comes a groan--a roar, perhaps, as the dream goes dark again. It shudders through all of his limbs, through the earth and across the jungle and ripping through the leylines reaching to distant lands. Tyria shudders under the entity's displeasure. The dreamer has what it wants, but the dreamer still refuses to give it up. How many days has it been? How many days will it be? Time is endless in this constant back-and-forth, in this neverending negotiation of power. There's an exhaustion in Mishka's body, but it hardly matters. Especially in the face of Syrlya's struggle.

Hold on, comes a thought. It is not Mishka's thought, it is that of the stranger. Perhaps they have finally realized that they are connected in this dream, and are attempting to communicate. The weeks spent in this prison are a small price to pay in the face of the prospect of peace, and freedom from this cycle.

Sensations begin to fade. The presence of the entity abates, pain through limbs dulling.

He is our only hope.

The dream is coming to an end. And for a brief moment, the consciousnesses of both Mishka and the dreamer remain connected.

He is my only hope.


Trahearne, in his bed, awakes with a start. ]