Dreamshare 2; open to all
Warning for character death in the dream.
There’s golden light, raining down on you. No, not light… you realize, as your eye focuses on the falling color, that it’s leaves, fan-shaped leaves, endlessly, endlessly falling. They land on your hair, on your shoulders, your clothing. You should know what they’re called, the shape of the leaf is familiar, so very familiar, the sensation of trying to remember the name of the tree is that of something just on the tip of your mind… but you can’t recall it. You only find static when you search for it.
You stretch out a hand, catch one on your palm. Unlike the others this one is green, deep and vibrant, a familiar color… you hold it up to your eye, and suddenly there’s a mirror in front of you, showing Cloud’s face. The leaf is the exact same shade as Cloud’s eye.
“Thought so…” It’s a murmur of sound, barely loud enough to breach the silence.
And it is so very silent, all around you. You can’t bring yourself to look away from the mirror. You know that all you’ll see is… nothing, in every direction, as far as your eye can see. The mirror is the only thing here, the only thing there is, other than you. It fills your vision, and you can’t look away-strange, because you don’t really want to look at the mirror. You’ve never really liked looking in mirrors…
There’s a movement in the mirror. There shouldn’t be anything behind you, but you turn to see what it is.
You were wrong. There is something behind you, a whole landscape, in fact. Part of the Tree, one of the residential sections, where the branches are wide enough to walk along without worry. It’s nighttime, just shading into true dark from twilight.
The little human touches, here and there, people forcing their environment to change for them. You look at them as you walk along, hands in your pockets. A flowerpot, houses with walls that are carved and painted and hung with adornments, childish chalk drawings scrawling along the path, pieces of trash, a mural drawn and painted along a wall…
Your gaze rests on the mural, for some reason. There’s nothing particularly striking or beautiful about it, but it holds your eye. Was that triangular symbol always there? It’s been finger-painted on the wall in red, and doesn’t really seem to fit the pattern of the mural. You reach out, first two fingers extended, to touch it…
A small noise draws your attention away from the mural and the curious symbol. You turn, look behind you. There’s someone there, but it’s hard to see them clearly at this distance. You pick up the impression of white hair, dark clothing, the gleam of a weapon.
And then they’re right there in front of you and there’s pain. You look down, dumbly, too stunned to do anything else… the hilt of the sword is sticking out of your chest. Apostle’s hand is still grasping it, and he pulls it out as you look back up at his face. The wrench is enough to make you fall to your knees, gasping for breath.
“Couldn’t save yourself. Can’t save anyone.” He grins at you, draws the sword back. “Maybe you should just give up,” he thrusts the sword into you again, not that you can feel it this time, “and die.”
You fall onto your side, the sword still running through your chest. Your breathing has a distinct gurgle to it now, and your vision is starting to fade, but you can still see Apostle’s feet. He kicks your shoulder, flipping you onto your back. You can see the leaves of the Tree above you, they seem so distant, now… you notice they’re fan-shaped, like the ones that were falling before. How could you have never noticed that? It’s such an obvious thing…
“Now, then,” Apostle practically coos as he grasps the hilt of his sword again. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
This time the wrench of the blade cleaving through flesh and bone is quickly followed by darkness.
There’s golden light, raining down on you. No, not light… you realize, as your eye focuses on the falling color, that it’s leaves, fan-shaped leaves, endlessly, endlessly falling. They land on your hair, on your shoulders, your clothing. You should know what they’re called, the shape of the leaf is familiar, so very familiar, the sensation of trying to remember the name of the tree is that of something just on the tip of your mind… but you can’t recall it. You only find static when you search for it.
You stretch out a hand, catch one on your palm. Unlike the others this one is green, deep and vibrant, a familiar color… you hold it up to your eye, and suddenly there’s a mirror in front of you, showing Cloud’s face. The leaf is the exact same shade as Cloud’s eye.
“Thought so…” It’s a murmur of sound, barely loud enough to breach the silence.
And it is so very silent, all around you. You can’t bring yourself to look away from the mirror. You know that all you’ll see is… nothing, in every direction, as far as your eye can see. The mirror is the only thing here, the only thing there is, other than you. It fills your vision, and you can’t look away-strange, because you don’t really want to look at the mirror. You’ve never really liked looking in mirrors…
There’s a movement in the mirror. There shouldn’t be anything behind you, but you turn to see what it is.
You were wrong. There is something behind you, a whole landscape, in fact. Part of the Tree, one of the residential sections, where the branches are wide enough to walk along without worry. It’s nighttime, just shading into true dark from twilight.
The little human touches, here and there, people forcing their environment to change for them. You look at them as you walk along, hands in your pockets. A flowerpot, houses with walls that are carved and painted and hung with adornments, childish chalk drawings scrawling along the path, pieces of trash, a mural drawn and painted along a wall…
Your gaze rests on the mural, for some reason. There’s nothing particularly striking or beautiful about it, but it holds your eye. Was that triangular symbol always there? It’s been finger-painted on the wall in red, and doesn’t really seem to fit the pattern of the mural. You reach out, first two fingers extended, to touch it…
A small noise draws your attention away from the mural and the curious symbol. You turn, look behind you. There’s someone there, but it’s hard to see them clearly at this distance. You pick up the impression of white hair, dark clothing, the gleam of a weapon.
And then they’re right there in front of you and there’s pain. You look down, dumbly, too stunned to do anything else… the hilt of the sword is sticking out of your chest. Apostle’s hand is still grasping it, and he pulls it out as you look back up at his face. The wrench is enough to make you fall to your knees, gasping for breath.
“Couldn’t save yourself. Can’t save anyone.” He grins at you, draws the sword back. “Maybe you should just give up,” he thrusts the sword into you again, not that you can feel it this time, “and die.”
You fall onto your side, the sword still running through your chest. Your breathing has a distinct gurgle to it now, and your vision is starting to fade, but you can still see Apostle’s feet. He kicks your shoulder, flipping you onto your back. You can see the leaves of the Tree above you, they seem so distant, now… you notice they’re fan-shaped, like the ones that were falling before. How could you have never noticed that? It’s such an obvious thing…
“Now, then,” Apostle practically coos as he grasps the hilt of his sword again. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
This time the wrench of the blade cleaving through flesh and bone is quickly followed by darkness.