ℵ first dream ℵ
She's little--so little, with the baby-smallness of her own body curled up in a skinny-limbed ball--and hiding somewhere dark and cramped, half squashed sideways by a heap of something soft and clean-smelling. Bedding, she thinks, and the thought comes with a vivid image of sheets flapping in the breeze, hung from a red balcony railing. She snuggles her shoulder up against it and breathes in the familiar scent.
Outside, adult voices are talking, making bitter pronunciations of bitter words. Defeat. Collateral damage. Surrender. It's the talk of broken men and women, and she may be small but she hates as much of it as she can understand. If she makes a hole in the thick paper of the door, she thinks, she'll be able to put her eye up to it to see what the grownups are doing. She clenches her fist around the small hard handle of a--knife?--and reaches out, but the heap of laundry shifts and tumbles sideways, and her arm goes right through the paper up to the elbow with a noisy rrrip!
There is a clamor of noise, and the door is jerked open so hard that her arm is nearly caught against the frame. Someone tall glowers down at her, from behind a wild thatch of eyebrows and beard, and--
--as she flinches back, colors shift and the world makes a half-turn, and the whiskered man is still there, prying something out of her clutching fingers as she wails in frustration. His hands are large and rough; hers are small but already callused inside the slim fingers.
"We must honor the treaty," he scolds her, in a deep rumbling voice like old stone. Treaty, schmeaty, something inside her shrieks, this is wrong--wrong--wrong!
"What honor?" she cries, tears on her cheeks and snot building up in her nose and threatening to start a humiliating drip down her lip. "We don't have any honor left, it's all down the stupid drain--!"
He hooks a strong finger into her fist, and the things she is holding pop out of her grasp suddenly and rattle away across the floor. Bright spots of color, flashing in the light. Someone in somber green with a mask across her face steps up and calmly gathers them into a bag. She howls and launches herself at the man, flailing with all four limbs like an angry cat, kicking and struggling and--
--whiskers become sharp needles and she is wrestling her way through a thick pine forest, slapping aside branches that snap back and box her ears. The bright scent of sap stings her nose.
Temper, temper, she thinks in a singsong at herself. Gotta be quiet, gotta be a shadow in the forest. She's stalking someone, someones. She can see their shapes ahead through the forest, in glimpses of blue cloth and bright gold, long dark hair, the glint of a gunarm and the flash of light off the blade of a sword.
There are spots of bright, glassy color in that sword, and they make her fingers itch to touch them, to pry them out and pocket them. Any minute now. She crouches, readying herself, and springs--
--with her foot firmly shoved into the stirrup, for purchase, and her hands grasping the pommel. She lands firmly and gathers up the reins, nudging the soft feathery sides of the bird with her booted heels. It makes a soft squawking noise and obligingly trots along, with her swaying comfortably in the saddle. Now this is the way to travel, she thinks smugly.
These woods aren't as thick as the last ones, scattered along rolling hills. The landscape looks familiar, well-loved.
Home, she thinks, and pats the bird's neck. "We're almost there," she tells it, and as the words leave her mouth, they crest a hill and she sees it. A tangle of tiled roofs and bright colors, off in the distance. Bustling. Living. Precious beyond belief.
"Hey," she murmurs, and pulls the bird up short, just looking out across the vista. Something powerful is welling up in her throat, and she gulps hard and feels a tear trickle down her cheek. "Huh? Why am I...?"
Swiping the wetness away with the back of her hand, she reaches down and pats one of her pockets. It clinks reassuringly. She's not coming home empty-handed, oh, no. She's coming back a proud hero, a champion, with plenty of...
...but before she can put a name to what's stuffing her pockets, everything slips out of focus one last time, and fades away.
Outside, adult voices are talking, making bitter pronunciations of bitter words. Defeat. Collateral damage. Surrender. It's the talk of broken men and women, and she may be small but she hates as much of it as she can understand. If she makes a hole in the thick paper of the door, she thinks, she'll be able to put her eye up to it to see what the grownups are doing. She clenches her fist around the small hard handle of a--knife?--and reaches out, but the heap of laundry shifts and tumbles sideways, and her arm goes right through the paper up to the elbow with a noisy rrrip!
There is a clamor of noise, and the door is jerked open so hard that her arm is nearly caught against the frame. Someone tall glowers down at her, from behind a wild thatch of eyebrows and beard, and--
--as she flinches back, colors shift and the world makes a half-turn, and the whiskered man is still there, prying something out of her clutching fingers as she wails in frustration. His hands are large and rough; hers are small but already callused inside the slim fingers.
"We must honor the treaty," he scolds her, in a deep rumbling voice like old stone. Treaty, schmeaty, something inside her shrieks, this is wrong--wrong--wrong!
"What honor?" she cries, tears on her cheeks and snot building up in her nose and threatening to start a humiliating drip down her lip. "We don't have any honor left, it's all down the stupid drain--!"
He hooks a strong finger into her fist, and the things she is holding pop out of her grasp suddenly and rattle away across the floor. Bright spots of color, flashing in the light. Someone in somber green with a mask across her face steps up and calmly gathers them into a bag. She howls and launches herself at the man, flailing with all four limbs like an angry cat, kicking and struggling and--
--whiskers become sharp needles and she is wrestling her way through a thick pine forest, slapping aside branches that snap back and box her ears. The bright scent of sap stings her nose.
Temper, temper, she thinks in a singsong at herself. Gotta be quiet, gotta be a shadow in the forest. She's stalking someone, someones. She can see their shapes ahead through the forest, in glimpses of blue cloth and bright gold, long dark hair, the glint of a gunarm and the flash of light off the blade of a sword.
There are spots of bright, glassy color in that sword, and they make her fingers itch to touch them, to pry them out and pocket them. Any minute now. She crouches, readying herself, and springs--
--with her foot firmly shoved into the stirrup, for purchase, and her hands grasping the pommel. She lands firmly and gathers up the reins, nudging the soft feathery sides of the bird with her booted heels. It makes a soft squawking noise and obligingly trots along, with her swaying comfortably in the saddle. Now this is the way to travel, she thinks smugly.
These woods aren't as thick as the last ones, scattered along rolling hills. The landscape looks familiar, well-loved.
Home, she thinks, and pats the bird's neck. "We're almost there," she tells it, and as the words leave her mouth, they crest a hill and she sees it. A tangle of tiled roofs and bright colors, off in the distance. Bustling. Living. Precious beyond belief.
"Hey," she murmurs, and pulls the bird up short, just looking out across the vista. Something powerful is welling up in her throat, and she gulps hard and feels a tear trickle down her cheek. "Huh? Why am I...?"
Swiping the wetness away with the back of her hand, she reaches down and pats one of her pockets. It clinks reassuringly. She's not coming home empty-handed, oh, no. She's coming back a proud hero, a champion, with plenty of...
...but before she can put a name to what's stuffing her pockets, everything slips out of focus one last time, and fades away.