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Zack's Nightmares
Inspired by the Nightmare Plot, here are the nightmares that Zack experienced while under the magical sleep. His dreams were not open to dream-hopping for cast-related plot reasons; I present them here as a writing exercise and a reference for myself.
Nightmare #1: Modeoheim
Cold. It's the first thing I'm aware of when I wake up, even if I'm not sure it could be called waking. It's more like awareness fading in, like that time in training I took a hard shot to the head, and everything went all fuzzy before sharpening again. That's the closest I can compare it to, experience-wise.
And yeah, it's cold.
I realize why a moment later, when recognition sets in; recognition, and the voice behind me, and the figure in front of me. Was he– were they there even a moment ago? I'm not sure, but I don't know how they couldn't be. And it speaks to distraction, something he'd chastise me for were this a training, but I am once more marveled by the hard lines in his face, the severe expression that somehow doesn't look wrong, though I had known only kindness from him. What's happening? I don't understand it anymore now than I did then, because this has already happened, right? Right? I'm pretty sure it has, and that's why I'm letting distraction capture my mind, the words of the scientist fading to background babble. It's dangerous, I know – he's dangerous, and I've underestimated him more than once. But he still doesn't matter to me; nothing matters save for the man, the one I need to talk some sense into.
But – and déjà vu is strong – it's unfolding in a way I already know, recognition no longer as hazy as it was a moment before. Still, I am horrified as monsters rush past me, as they fuse and meld and become one with the man – horrified, because my body won't move no matter how hard I will it to, no matter how much I try to turn my blade, or to knock aside the creatures. They do not deviate in their course, and I cannot look as flesh melds with flesh, as bone grafts to bone. It's as sickening a scene as it was the first time, and once again I'm surprised I don't wretch as the thing lumbers towards me. But of course I don't; he taught me better than that. Still, I can't help but flinch – again – as the tail sails past, its barbed tip carving the scar in my cheek. It hurts, and it is once again with great reluctance that I raise my sword in defense.
My blade feels heavier with each passing moment. I know this scene by now; I see it regularly behind closed eyes in the dead of night. I know it, and still I resist it – it feels as if I am fighting with myself, trying to turn my blows aside. It's all to no avail. I cannot even stopper my ears to the pained sounds of steel carving flesh, blood flowing freely between us as I cut, and cut, and cut. I don't know if I'm trying to undo the fusion of man and beasts, or if I'm simply following my body's reaction to a threat, the ebb and flow of battle, second nature to a SOLDIER. I don't want to be, but I'm a participant in this fight no matter how much I fight it myself.
His eyes don't open. His arms don't unfold. He's as detached as I am involved, and I want to scream.
I do scream, finally, the sound clawing its way out of my throat; I scream when he falls in a pool of blood, when the scales and the claws and the feathers and the fur all drops away, when there's just a man, carved up by my blade and laboring to breathe. And I fall a moment later, knees to the stone next to him, hands frantically pressed to the worst of his wounds. He doesn't have to die, he doesn't! And I curse myself, for not being able to stop the blood by material or physical force or pure strength of will. And I want to curse him too but I can't, because his hands are pressing his sword into my hands and it's getting hard to see because fuck being a man, I can't not cry. It feels like my heart's being ripped out of my chest with every breath he tries to catch, every word he labors to speak. I don't want it, I don't want this, I don't want him to leave me. And I'm too weak to stop it, too weak to save him – and too selfish too, perhaps, because it's peace on his face when the rise and fall of his chest finally stills.
The snow, I notice sometime later – sometime after he's passed into the Lifestream – is cold. It's cold where it clings to my clothes, where it dusts my arms and cheeks and holds stubbornly to my eyelashes. I want to just close my eyes, to give myself to that bone-numbing chill, the physical echoed deep inside my chest where the pain is still the greatest. I want, for one very terribly powerful moment, to just close my eyes and let it claim me too. And why shouldn't I?
Why shouldn't I?
Why… shouldn't…
Nightmare #1: Modeoheim
Cold. It's the first thing I'm aware of when I wake up, even if I'm not sure it could be called waking. It's more like awareness fading in, like that time in training I took a hard shot to the head, and everything went all fuzzy before sharpening again. That's the closest I can compare it to, experience-wise.
And yeah, it's cold.
I realize why a moment later, when recognition sets in; recognition, and the voice behind me, and the figure in front of me. Was he– were they there even a moment ago? I'm not sure, but I don't know how they couldn't be. And it speaks to distraction, something he'd chastise me for were this a training, but I am once more marveled by the hard lines in his face, the severe expression that somehow doesn't look wrong, though I had known only kindness from him. What's happening? I don't understand it anymore now than I did then, because this has already happened, right? Right? I'm pretty sure it has, and that's why I'm letting distraction capture my mind, the words of the scientist fading to background babble. It's dangerous, I know – he's dangerous, and I've underestimated him more than once. But he still doesn't matter to me; nothing matters save for the man, the one I need to talk some sense into.
But – and déjà vu is strong – it's unfolding in a way I already know, recognition no longer as hazy as it was a moment before. Still, I am horrified as monsters rush past me, as they fuse and meld and become one with the man – horrified, because my body won't move no matter how hard I will it to, no matter how much I try to turn my blade, or to knock aside the creatures. They do not deviate in their course, and I cannot look as flesh melds with flesh, as bone grafts to bone. It's as sickening a scene as it was the first time, and once again I'm surprised I don't wretch as the thing lumbers towards me. But of course I don't; he taught me better than that. Still, I can't help but flinch – again – as the tail sails past, its barbed tip carving the scar in my cheek. It hurts, and it is once again with great reluctance that I raise my sword in defense.
My blade feels heavier with each passing moment. I know this scene by now; I see it regularly behind closed eyes in the dead of night. I know it, and still I resist it – it feels as if I am fighting with myself, trying to turn my blows aside. It's all to no avail. I cannot even stopper my ears to the pained sounds of steel carving flesh, blood flowing freely between us as I cut, and cut, and cut. I don't know if I'm trying to undo the fusion of man and beasts, or if I'm simply following my body's reaction to a threat, the ebb and flow of battle, second nature to a SOLDIER. I don't want to be, but I'm a participant in this fight no matter how much I fight it myself.
His eyes don't open. His arms don't unfold. He's as detached as I am involved, and I want to scream.
I do scream, finally, the sound clawing its way out of my throat; I scream when he falls in a pool of blood, when the scales and the claws and the feathers and the fur all drops away, when there's just a man, carved up by my blade and laboring to breathe. And I fall a moment later, knees to the stone next to him, hands frantically pressed to the worst of his wounds. He doesn't have to die, he doesn't! And I curse myself, for not being able to stop the blood by material or physical force or pure strength of will. And I want to curse him too but I can't, because his hands are pressing his sword into my hands and it's getting hard to see because fuck being a man, I can't not cry. It feels like my heart's being ripped out of my chest with every breath he tries to catch, every word he labors to speak. I don't want it, I don't want this, I don't want him to leave me. And I'm too weak to stop it, too weak to save him – and too selfish too, perhaps, because it's peace on his face when the rise and fall of his chest finally stills.
The snow, I notice sometime later – sometime after he's passed into the Lifestream – is cold. It's cold where it clings to my clothes, where it dusts my arms and cheeks and holds stubbornly to my eyelashes. I want to just close my eyes, to give myself to that bone-numbing chill, the physical echoed deep inside my chest where the pain is still the greatest. I want, for one very terribly powerful moment, to just close my eyes and let it claim me too. And why shouldn't I?
Why shouldn't I?
Why… shouldn't…