“Gramms. What do dreams mean?” A young child, holding a bolster in his arms, asked his Grandmother in the living room.
The Grandmother looked up from her stitching project — a pair of jeans in her hand, with the seams at the crotch ripped apart from strenuous activity. She lowered her glasses to look at the young boy.
“C’mere Russo, bad dreams again?”
The boy got closer and sat beside his grandmother on the couch. She set aside the jeans and pulled the boy onto her lap.
‘Russo’ looked at the Grandmother’s curly white hair, then to her kind but weary eyes, and nodded.
“Wanna tell me what it's about?” Her voice penetrated the grainy sounds of tube television intermixed with static, their attentions focused on each other.
“Monsters… They were fighting with people.” The child turned excited, his hands waving in the air, “There were balls of fire, big booms everywhere! Swords clanging!" Then his hands dropped, “But the monsters won… They killed everybody…”
The boy buried his face in her neck. The smell of garlic and ginger. Her fingers runned through his hair in slow and steady passes — one, two, three… until the rhythm of his breathing matched hers.
“Well, Russo. Our ancestors once said that dreams usually mean the opposite. Would you have liked it if the people won instead?”
‘Russo’ sat back up, and looked into his grandmother’s eyes, “Do you think dreams are real?”
“They could be, if you want them to be.” Her voice warmed his body, or it could be the lights shining down onto the couch through the windows.
“Some say dreams are a window to a past, some say it is a door to the future.”
“A wise man once said… or he could be a fool.”
A small smile on her face, it’s meaning lost to time.
“‘If I dreamt of becoming a butterfly, when I wake up, am I myself? Or is the butterfly dreaming about becoming me?’”
Silence. Only the static of the television filled the air.
The child waited, but he realized there was no ‘and then’. The young child who was barely even 5 years old looked confused at his grandmother.
“I don’t understand, Gramms.”
Gramms smiled, “You’ll understand one day, Morus. When the answers come to you…”
As Morus tossed and turned in his bed, arms wrapped around his backpack to provide him the barest sense of comfort, another figure dreamt of fire.
A child approached the bloody remains of a roe in a clearing. The man who had just been there a moment ago was gone, towards the direction of the stream with his knife. His campfire is still burning, a slab of meat sizzling on a rock functioning as a pan.
The child looked left and right, ensuring the man was definitely gone, and nobody else was around.
He was so… so hungry…
He ate tree bark… chewy… soft… but bitter…
He ate berries… sweet ones… bitter ones… but the pain that comes after… unbearable…
He tried leaves, weird looking plants and mushrooms… some were fine… some made him go crazy and he’d wake up on a tree, or deep inside a cave…
There was fresh meat in front of him, how long had it been since he ate meat? He couldn’t remember…
The child dashed towards the roe, the man had only carved out a slab of meat from the back of the dead animal. If he managed to snatch this, he would feel full for quite some time. As he grabbed onto the roe, he felt something grab onto his neck.
A man lifted the child, who looked about 11 or 12 years old by the scruff of his neck, as if holding a cat. The feral child looked back. The man tilted his head slightly as he evaluated the feral thing.
The feral child looked at the man’s face, healthy and fair, with beads of water on his face. Those eyes were eyes that he would remember forever.
Slit eyes that were as dark as the night sky, with a glow in them that drew one’s attention into them. And he could see it. His own reflection in the man’s eyes.
Ragged… In both clothes and physique. Long hair that resembled unkempt vines or coiled and knotted snakes. Clothes, or remnants of them clinging to his mud and dirt-stained body.
Different compared to the man in front of him. Clean clothes if stained by dirt in a few places, long hair tied into a ponytail, and a very composed and refined look.
The man spoke. “You must be hungry.”
The feral child had almost forgotten language. His scarlet eyes met the eyes of the man in front of him, and he hissed, “Yes…”
“Good, then I’ll teach you to cook. You have a name?”
“Jin…” said the once-feral child, as he woke up with a fire that burned brighter than ever in his eyes.
When there is light, there is bound to be darkness.
Ata knelt before the stairs to the throne.
His King sat above him.
His brother.
He looked up, the man on the throne was donned in full metal armor that was form fitted to him like second skin. The obsidian finish glinted with a hint of purple, as the pair of black slit eyes pierced into him, through the visor, they warned Ata to mind his next words carefully.
“Milord! You must not trust the words of that woman who claims to be one of the Spekvokis!”
The Lord rested his chin on his gauntlet, the other presences in the room flickered, as their gazes landed on Ata, spectres that reminded him of a life long lost.
The gaze on Ata remained, the Lord’s voice boomed throughout the throne room, “What do you suggest, my dear Advisor.”
Ata’s heart thumped against his ribs, out of fear and desperation, knowing any misspoken word might cost him his family’s life, “Milord, please! Send us out to battle! Let us die in your name! Let us die a worthy death!”
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Ata dropped to all fours, he kowtow’ed once…
Ata’s rival of the court spoke up, “Your majesty they must all die! Lest the prophecy comes true!”
Silence.
Twice…
“We concur!”
Ata’s right-hand man voiced, his colleagues and subordinates distancing themselves from him.
Thrice…
“WE CONCUR!”
The throneroom boomed with the courtiers’ demand, and it quaked as the Court dropped to their knees as one.
“Enough.”
It was not loud, it need not be.
It was like frost that had gripped his spine.
“I have made up my mind.”
Obsidian eyes looked down at Ata, and they were filled with disappointment.
“This is my decree.”
A prophecy… And a sentence… Both ingrained into Ata’s heart… Which shall haunt him for the remainder of his life.
A mystic dressed in a black hooded robe, no, a robe that was weaved with the night sky itself made her way into the throneroom. Moving down the carpet towards the Lord.
The Lord looked at her with interest in his eyes.
She did not kneel.
The Court held its breath.
“We have foreseen your death, Your Majesty.”
“You will be cut down by the child you love the most, leaving nothing but your dust and legacy behind.”
The Lord rose from his throne. His voice was not loud, but it filled every corner of the hall.
"Upon my name—"
Ata heard the first syllable.
Then nothing.
Not silence. Worse. His ears still rang with the court's breathing, his own heartbeat, the distant crackle of braziers. But the word itself—the name—slid off his consciousness like water over stone.
He knew, distantly, that it had been spoken. He knew he should remember it. He had known it once, hadn't he? Had spoken it himself, in council, in prayer, in the quiet hours when it was just the two of them and the maps and the wine?
But now. Here. As verdict.
His mind simply... refused.
"—decree that Commander Asa and the Officers of her battalion, along with Advisor Ata, be executed."
Even when enveloped by Darkness, Light will pierce through.
Monica opened her eyes.
What greeted her was not the room she grew up in.
Nor was it the room she had been sleeping in.
Instead, she stood in a vast land that expanded as far as the eye could see.
The sky was blue, but so thick with clouds it appeared white, dotted with strokes of blue.
Flowers and grass and trees grew harmoniously in this space—some she could recognize, but most she could not name.
A building appeared in front of her.
No—it had always been there.
She was only now noticing it.
A pavilion, standing in the center of this garden.
As Monica approached, she heard the melodic voice of a woman speaking.
“Hello, Monica. Come closer.”
The owner of the voice sat beneath the white pavilion, wrapped in vines.
A round glass table and two glass stools.
The girl stepped closer and took the seat across from the Goddess.
“Who are you?” the girl said.
“I’m glad you came.” The Goddess ignored the question.
The girl was dazed by what she was seeing. Words failed to capture the image before her. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you, child.”
The girl composed herself.
“Is this a dream?”
The Goddess replied, “If you treat it like one.”
“Why am I here?”
“Because you desired it, dear.”
“What does that mean?”
“You will know soon. Very soon.”
“Who are you?” the girl asked again.
“You already know, child.”
“What does that even mean?”
The Goddess sipped from a teacup that materialized from nowhere—or had it always been there?
“This is my world. What do you think?” The Goddess spread her arms, motioning not just to the pavilion, but to everything in sight.
“Radiant and full of life.”
“There is your answer, child.”
“That answers nothing.”
The Goddess looked up at the sky. The edges of a cloud turned black.
“Your time is up, child. Know my name.”
She snapped her fingers.
Monica felt a flash of light, then warmth on her face from a beam of sunlight filtering through the gaps of the ceiling. The name of the being she had just met lingered on her tongue, but she couldn’t quite taste it yet.
The girl felt something heavy on her stomach. She panicked as she flustered to get up. Scanning the room for danger. It did not take long for her to recognize the oddity in her room.
“Vigil?”
The dog’s snout was the only thing keeping her belly warm, her blanket curled into one on the floor.
Vigil’s beady eyes looked up into Monica’s, his mouth opened and smiled.
“Have you been watching over me?”
Vigil barked quietly, and nodded.
Monica got off the bed, her bare feet touching the cool wooden floor, and hugged her furry Guardian. She must have been too tired yesterday, passing out so quickly on the bed, this only happens during periods of intense competition, and the events of yesterday far surpassed any competition she had been in.
She wondered if she should put her shoes on, or walk barefooted. As such, a young maiden decided to wander the halls of the Longhouse with her bare feet, as she sought out a toothbrush in this fantasy world, a white snowball following behind her.
She entered the Dining Hall, but no one was there, she could hear faint sounds from the kitchen so she knew Jin was likely working already. ‘Was I too late?’, the girl thought.
She decided to wake Morus up, and tell him about her dreams.
As she rounded the corner, “Good morning, Nichole.”
Asa appeared out of nowhere.
“Huh!? Good morning. I totally knew you were there.”
Asa raised an eyebrow, “I see… Are you looking for something?”
“Yes! Uhm… do you have anything to clean your teeth with?”
The ranger nodded, “We’ve been taught that maintaining oral hygiene is important… Maybe you could visit the herbalist with your brother? I’m sure she has some in store.”
“Really?” Monica clapped her hands, then looked down at her feet, “Also… shoes?”
Asa chuckled, “I’ve told Bay. He’ll bring sandals for the two of you in a bit. Are you going to your brother’s room?”
“Yes! Also, is Jin preparing breakfast? Or do you guys only eat twice a day here?”
“We have two meals a day, with lunch also being our breakfast. Then we have supper in the evening.”
“Ooh I see!”
Vigil’s tail also wagged in accordance with Monica’s cheerful tone.
“I’ll be heading off first! See you later, Asa!”
With that the young maiden and her large snowball dashed down the halls and entered Morus’ room.
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