[Incomplete] Sheik's Dreamscape

[theeyeoftruth]

Who: Sheik, totally open
Where: Dreamscape
What: Event stuff! Feel free to add stuff to the dream or whatever, or just the waking and stuff, if you like.
Summary: An amalgamation of Sheik's memories.
Rating: TBA

The catacombs had always been cool, fresh even, but now the heat that wafted through them was the stifling, stagnant warmth of an evening in

Comments

[h_is_for_haiku]

Ken did not know how he came to be in the catacombs. Had he gone to sleep? He could not recall. But this did not feel like a dream to him. For one, he had far more control over events taking place, which were none at the moment. For another, it just seemed...foreign

[theeyeoftruth]

There was no pulse, no breath to be found, and Sheik's body was cold to the fingertips even through the layers of fabric. But his eyelashes fluttered as he opened his eyes, blinking in the darkness.

Because, quite abruptly, it was night, and the moon was bright and sickle sharp, the stars as hard as diamonds. And it was cold. Too cold, even for a desert at midnight. The sands shifted around them, Sheik watching the Turk through unfocused eyes, eyes that had not seen in centuries.

Something caught in his throat, but it was not a breath. There was still no breath, no pulse, no sign of life, but he'd sat up, shrugging off the shrouds that covered him. He looked out at the sands, blank and hollow - perhaps he had never even noticed Ken by his side.

He did not speak. But the wind did, and the sand did, and his breath did, until a cacauphony of whispers were assaulting them both, some a pained scream, others a hoarse whisper, others Sheik's usual silken tones.

...a minstrel, I hear things as I travel

[h_is_for_haiku]

Ken did not understand how Sheik could have no pulse or breath and be so cold, yet open his eyes and look around.

When day turned to night abruptly, and the temperature turned with it, Ken started to get an idea of what was going on. At least, he had a theory. And his sixth sense was telling him the sarcophagus was the focus of this landscape. Without thinking twice, Ken climbed in, as though it were a lone boat on the desert sea.

He helped Sheik to rise as the youth brushed off his shroud. When the voices spoke out of thin air, Ken glanced around, trying to find the source, wary but not frightened. "Who are they?" he asked, beginning to think he finally knew where they were.

[theeyeoftruth]

Perhaps the Turk had moved just in time, perhaps it was his movement that had triggered it, but a sandstorm was now howling around their ears, raging, a tumult that carried the voices on it and amplified them, brought more with it.

...Traitor!...

...you were very sick, lad, sick for a long time...

...what are you?...

He looked around, quietly wondering but unsurprised by the fact that it seemed the sandstorm was incapable of encroaching upon the boundaries of the sarcophagus, and at the shadows that flickered through the tempest. They were all figures of people, with eyes that could be seen flickering in the sand, orange and crimson and bright blue.

"Memories," he said at length, and his voice was all of those whispers drawn and bound into one, "They're memories." He shook his head, and with every passing moment he seemed to be becoming more self-aware.

"They follow you all the time, don't they?"