take this burden away from me and bury it before it buries me
She hadn't thought of him in so long, which is cruel of her. Elena had always been cruelest to those least deserving. He had only wanted to give her his heart, and Elena could not even bother to hold it. But her eyes on this evening long to see him, to trace down the familiar curves and grooves of his handsome, smiling face. Yet, longing would get her no where. Altair would not come for her in Novus. This she knew already. But here she is, thinking of him once more when her eyes grow heavy with sleep.
She was tired.
(So impossibly tired)
She travels from one night into another as she shuts her eyes.
Another quiet night. A night that should have been eerie, perhaps, and possibly would be to someone that did not know the secrets of these lands like she does. The palomino girl had traveled from the safe walls of Paraiso and out into the land of ice and snow. The lair of the Snow Prince, his frozen domain. He had threatened her and her family, and if she had to choose between the two, she would choose her family each and every time.
This was where Altair found her. Elena should have known he would have come to her in her dream. He had shown up at the right time before, and he would do it again. He had taken her by the hand and told her she didn't need to do this, that she was stronger. And together they had sat on a mountain top all night in each other’s arms, the first time in a long time Elena felt entirely safe with him wrapped around her. (The wrong man wrapped around her.)
They watched the sun rise over the mountains.
“Can I see you again?”
And Elena says what she should have all those years ago.
“Yes.”
And then they run, they run where the Snow Prince will never find her, away from the life that would only bring her pain and heartbreak. They have each other and it is enough. Lilli finds them, her crimson cousin visits and Elena is thankful. And it is here, with Altair, that Elena finds the peace within her life and inside herself to live the life she had always told Aerwir she never wanted. They snuggle close like lovers and embrace like newly weds. Elena knows this is love and how she adores it. In this life she has never known Underworld, Tunnel, Tenebrae, or Azrael. She has never known the sharpness of lust, the sting of rejection, the pang of jealousy, or the hurt of toxic love. They live the life that fate had always dangled so far out of her reach, Elena could never spot it flying above her against the bright sun of her destiny.
They love, they have children, they grow old together.
They die.
But it is not as sorrowful as you would think. They die surrounded by those children they love so much, holding each other. They have said, when you die after a life well lived, well loved, it is just like taking a nap after such a long, beautiful day.
And then she wakes up.
Alive, but Elena’s head is reeling and she is unsure if she is well. She has seen a life she never lived, a life she never would. She wants to openly weep, but nothing comes. The crashing of the waves outside of her home tells her just how far from Beyond she truly is. Above the push and pull of the ocean, Elena utters his name just once, it has been so long and she wonders if it still tastes as sweet on her tongue.
“Altair.”
so take away this apathy bury it before it buries me
Why do you build me up, buttercup,
Baby, just to let me down
Dune’s only experiences with love were stolen ones.
“That’s not true,” he would protest. “I love my city; its sound and color. I love the way the dry wind blows through the streets, touching everything. I love the heavy red sun at the end of the day, the joy of drinking deeply from the oasis, the stubborn life that takes root here against all odds. The laughter we carve from thin air and sandstone.”
And it was all true, but Dune had never loved another, not the way most of his dreamers did. Yet he lay witness time and time again to the soap operas they played out in their sleep, and in this way he came to know love in its many shapes and forms. And although it was very strange to live a life where some of your richest experiences were not yours at all, he did not feel like he deserved anything more.
Born and raised in destitution, the bay knew better than to ask for more than the slim gifts he’d been given. The gods were not, by nature, kind. So as Elena dreams her sweet dreams, Dune is there quietly watching from the eaves. And when her lover asks “can I see you again?” maybe it is Dune’s face and not Altair’s. And when their limbs tangle like newlyweds, maybe it is Dune’s long dark legs and not Altair’s. She won’t realize it until later, after she wakes up, when the dream logic will be easy to shake off. It was not Altair’s face, not always, but surely it was Altair I dreamed of. If there is any uncertainty, it will be easily shrugged off-- after all, the mind is such a wild place, especially unleashed in dreams.
When Dune wakes that morning, it is hard to tear himself from the dream. It was such a bittersweet one, the kind where all the joy was colored by an underlying sadness of things unrealized. The use of his magic makes him feeling hollow and gritty, like a sandstorm has run through his mind and wiped clean the inside of his skull. He groans loudly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. I wasn’t supposed to dream last night, he thinks to himself with annoyance. He needed the sleep-- it would be a long day ahead, first the travel to Denocte and then working the night markets. On the windowsill an empty glass. Milk of the poppy, to sooth the jagged edges of the dreaming; shame it didn’t work, he would have to up the dosage.
-
Naturally, Elena is on the bay’s mind on the long walk to Denocte; at least, as much as she can be, with most of his senses trained on the sky and the sand, wary for teryrs and illusions. And then, once past the long expanse of desert, farther than he’s ever traveled before, his attention is tangled up in all the newness. Veneror he’s seen before but always at a distance. The Arma he’s never set sight on, and as he draws closer and closer to the menacing backbone of a mountain, he is torn between anxiety and excitement-- the two being far more similar than most care to admit.
Still… for all the newness and the danger and the heavy wares loaded on his back, Dune finds space to think of her from time to time, if not as a whole at least in bits and pieces. The creamy silk of her mane, caught in a seaside breeze. Her laughter, free as rain, at something absolutely stupid. The crinkle in her eyes as she looks at their children-- and yes, he’s well aware they’re not his children. But the dream is just as confusing to itself as it is to the dreamer, and it leaves a slurred smile on his lips.
We had it all, didn't we? Infinity in an hour.
Eventually he’s in Denocte, carving his way down streets he’s seen a hundred times-- but only ever through the eyes of others. He’s catching the eyes of strangers, matching them to dreams he’s walked through, and he’s jangling his sack of coin, beneath his mountain of flowers, and--
And somewhere out there is a golden girl. Her name is Elena. She has the sweetest laugh he’s ever heard, and when he sees her he will pluck a peony from the basket of flowers at his side, and he will give it to her-- only because he is certain it will make her smile.
@Elena I hope this works??! Lord knows this post is long enough SO I didn't go into detail but there's more about why he's here and what he's doing (selling flowers and drugs) in this thread <3
take this burden away from me and bury it before it buries me
She remembers Orani, the star talker, looking at her one day, curiously. “Your mother talked to stars, Aletta, talks to the stars, and your best friends speaks them as well. But you, Elena, you do not,” she had pointed out to the golden filly. “Why is that so? Do you not trust them?” Elena had simply smiled and turned to her freckled friend. “The stars are not my confidants, they are my compass.”
And it is the stars that she lets guide her tonight, as she dances through the Night Market as if she were moving on paths of spring tulips and summer lilies. Her mind was easy tonight. Maybe this is why, when she had learned of the costume party, she had decided to gather what materials she can, borrowing a beautiful cloak from one of her neighbors. It was red, with a beautiful sheen to it, enough to keep her warm on the chilled autumn evening. Little Red Riding Hood.
Huh.
Fitting.
The cloak is put over her shoulders, the hood drawn up over her head, and the it tied comfortably around her neck. It sits nicely over her body, and from behind, no one would ever guess it to be Elena. Which, in Dencote, the palomino considers a blessing. As she roams their streets, she is always surprised by the light that illuminates Night Court, hardly one for its name it would seem. She joins the crowd of people and slips herself inside all of them, letting blue eyes look around to each. There are skeletons, their bodies painted bone white, there is a pair foals, twins with their faces painted intricately to look like butterflies and she thinks of Lilli and her own twins, and how, if she could, she would paint Nash and Yan just as the same. Though Yan would probably placate his mother, Nash would be hard to find with such markings. There is someone dressed a zombie, dragging a back foot and Elena must shed a sliver of laughter for his effort.
Pale locks flow from behind her against the crimson of her cloak. The sea breeze tastes different here, too hidden, mixed with the pine of the mountains rather than the wildflowers and cliffs of Terrastella. She smiles, and she smiles, because there is joy all around her and excitement and the empath embraces, grateful to be lost in what all the others feel.
She isn't thinking about dreams she has had, or ghosts that rest behind her mirrored eyes. She isn't thinking of pain and sorrow and what could have been’s and what will never be’s. No, she isn't thinking about dreams. Not until she sees his face before her. Her smile dances and it turns into starlight. “Oh my,” she says in a small, silver voice. “Don’t you know how to sweep a lady off her feet?” She jests before taking the flower, her heart brushing against her chest in a flutter of excitement. But then blue eyes study him, carefully, landing on the corner of a cheek bone, a strange place to see, but it makes her want to ask him that time old question - do I know you, have we met? “I—” she stumbles on words that should come easily to her, because his eyes look into her own and she isn't sure what she should say next. “Thank you, for the flower,” she says and lowers her red hood, letting it sit around her shoulders. The flower is placed in her creamy mane, and she turns to the side so that he is able to see. “What do you think?” She smiles, though she cannot help the way that blue eye tilts out to the corner, wondering, if this flower was not the first thing he has given her.
so take away this apathy bury it before it buries me
I AM UNABLE TO PICTURE ANYTHING SO WHOLE
IT DOESN'T CRUSH WHAT'S MISSING
All his life, anonymity had been a boon. Silence had been a strength. Until, one day, it wasn’t. Until something changed in him-- a curtain pulled back, letting in the sun. That warm, crisp, life-giving light. “Oh, I-- I understand now.” He understood the stories of sun cults, devotees to the purifying fire.
This understanding only made him greedy. To be desired, and not forgotten-- was that too much for an orphan like him to ask?
Perhaps.
But he cannot help himself-- Elena is bright, brighter than the sun, and he is helpless to her gravity. She might not remember him now, but that doesn’t mean she won’t the next time they meet. He’ll make sure of it. It’s-- it’s not quite about romance, not that she isn’t beautiful. It’s about… pride. It’s about power. He’s learning there are ways to be wealthy that do not involve money.
The golden girl is radiant, words sweet and easy (it isn’t fair, he thinks), honey on the tongue. “What do you think?” Her eyes are sky blue beneath those dark lashes. Dune does not hesitate before answering.
“Beautiful,” he says honestly as she flaunts the flower in her flaxen mane. She wouldn’t know the value of that single word, the weight of it. She couldn’t know how rare it was. It wouldn’t sound special-- his voice is not rusty, despite its misuse, nor is it deep and soothing as honey. It has a certain brightness, a ring to it of youth that refused to be trampled by hard years, but it is nothing special. Nothing memorable-- he knew he would have to try harder for that.
Dune smiles thoughtfully, then extends another flower in the space between them. It twirls slowly in the bright city lights of the night court.
“Elena.” Her name is spoken like a promise. Like they’re old acquaintances. He keeps talking before she can ask "how--" “Flower for a secret? Or--” it was too forward to be asking for a secret, wasn’t it? To her he would seem a complete and total stranger. “A truth?”
take this burden away from me and bury it before it buries me
A promise had been made before she knew there existed anything in the world beyond pinkie swears. Between her father and her stoic cousin that Elena had always been able to make smile, no matter the height of the wall he would try to build. He had promised her father he would protect her, no matter what. They formed some sort of strange, but sacred bond. He felt more like brother than he did cousin. A dark shield of obsidian and silver. Her shield. There when she cried, there when she laughed. She had him wrapped around her finger, he would have given her the world, and just like with Altair, just like the rest of her family, she repaid him by leaving.
She dreamed of him not long ago.
But it had been a long time since the last.
What would have happened had Dune seen that dream? Would he have still offered her a flower for her beauty? Or thought of her as no more than a child who needed protection?
Elena is a dreamer of the most dangerous kind. While she dreams of her family, of her past, of happy times and even sad, worse still she dreams of things that could have been. The dream Dune witnessed was not the first time she has succumbed to such dangerous thoughts of might've beens and different choices, different stories written in other universes. It is dangerous to think like that, because those dreams will lead her no where, to nothing, to no one. They have all been opportunities past, a parallel line with the life she has now, unable to cross.
If he would have asked her if she remembered him, she might have said yes, she might've said yes and wondered why those words didn't feel like a lie. But he doesn't ask her, and so she thinks the words no, and the difference between speaking and thinking is a mile wide with a truth and lie between them.
Those blue eyes hinge on his words, his answer is pleasant from his mouth and Elena will not admit that this is what she wanted him to hear. She doesn't like to think herself vain, but the golden girl falls victim to such petty things time and time. It sits there, the difference between mortals and gods. “Thank you,” she says, blinking those long, dark lashes and that so carefully frame those blue eyes that glisten like frost on the early morning grass. “I’ll have to show it off to everyone, I know,” she teases softly. The flower will wilt, she knows this, but she isn't thinking it right now. It is a pessimist that sees a flower one moment and sees it browned and withered the next. Does that mean then the optimist just sees a flower? You could say that, you’d be wrong, but you could say it. It is the realist that just sees a flower it is the optimist that sees a flower and thinks only of the beauty of the it blooming.
He extends another flower and Elena very nearly takes it. It is right there, but his words bring her to a halt. Golden ears tip forward in her flaxen mane, she brings that red cloak to wrap tighter around her shoulders. She shouldn’t, really, shouldn't tell him anything. A truth, a secret, even a lie. None of it should be told to a stranger for the price of a flower. Something about him though, it is entirely too familiar. Maybe, distantly, she remembers the way he had watched her smile and smiled in return. Maybe she can recall the way he looked when he took his final breath beside her. And maybe, oh just maybe, she can still feel the phantom touch of him wrapping around her, holding her, like they were so newly in love.
She brings her head head close to his, almost touching brow to brow, the way she had once touched another, the way she had so many times greeted her cousin. She plucks the flower from him and holds it close, eyes agonizing over its colors. “I’ll offer you both,” she says, her voice like red lipstick and dark eye shadow, her smile is like high heels and noisy bars. “I think I might be in love.”
so take away this apathy bury it before it buries me
I AM UNABLE TO PICTURE ANYTHING SO WHOLE
IT DOESN'T CRUSH WHAT'S MISSING
As a child, Dune often indulged in escapist fantasies. Love always inevitably played some part in each of them: in one favorite fantasy his parents never left him on purpose, it was a mistake-- they loved him and after an entire year of endless searching they would find him and take him away to be a happy family. Often money played a part, too: a beautiful princess would fall in love with him, and show him a life without poverty. They would be wed in spring beneath Solterra’s only peach tree, pale pink blooms drifting down like Dream rain.
It did not take him very long to learn how to draw the line between reality and fantasy, and to understand the danger of the later. Love would not put food on the table. Love would not protect him from slavers or bullies or gangs. Only Dune, through hard work and determination, could elevate his station. Love was a luxury not meant for him.
(but oh, it is nice to dream!)
She steps closer and he finds himself getting nervous. The waking world is full of the uncomfortable details that get lost in dreams. Sweat gathers on his back beneath the weight of his wares, smoke burns at the corners of his eyes. He's tired from his long travels, and vaguely hungry, and his heart hurts-- it physically hurts-- somehow even before she says: "I think I might be in love.”
For a split second his face is blank. He has to remind himself of the line between reality and fantasy. Dream and waking. His dreamers are not his. My dreamers are not mine. And then the expressionless look quickly melts into a smile.
Dune is happy for her. To his surprise, it doesn’t even hurt that much. “And what does that feel like?” He resists the urge to reach out with his telekinesis and brush a lock of forelock behind her ear, straighten her coat. My dreamers are not mine, he repeats like a mantra, and he thinks of Warset and Sereia, Cyrra and Luvena. He finds the line and builds a wall on top of it, as a reminder. As a defense.
And he desperately tries to enjoy this moment while he has it.
Although reality presents him with many unpleasant details, there are some perks. Elena's eyes are brighter and deeper here, in the waking world. Maybe it's the light of the bonfires, or the contrast of her deep red cape. Or maybe it's because she's in love now in a way she's never been before. His dark eyes drink it all in eagerly, and he wishes he could catch all these minute details and never forget them. “Why do you think you love them?” He asks, not at all intending to sow doubt or indecision. He is curious what makes one person loveable and the other-- the other like Dune.
take this burden away from me and bury it before it buries me
“Elena,” her father had comforted her as she snuggled against him, afraid in the dark. “You have nothing to fear from the shadows. It is they that should fear you.” And Elena had stared up at him with awe. “They do not survive in the light, and you, are the brightest light I have known.” He had looked over his shoulder then, to a pale woman with flowers woven in her hair by a golden daughter. “Just like your mother.” He was right. Elena did not have anything to fear from the shadows, and she had no reason to be afraid. Her father spent so much time telling her not to fear the shadows though, that he had forgotten to tell her not to fall in love with one.
A white sock on a golden leg steps forward and that red cloak rustles slightly at her movement. So much goes on behind those blue eyes, those too blue eyes. She whispers her secret, perhaps her truth into his ear. Her voice is pretty, all fog and silver bells. And maybe her father should have told her not whisper things into strange boy’s ears for pretty flowers to put in her hair.
There is a moment that hangs between them, that neither move, she just keeps looking at him through those blue eyes of hers. She closes them, then she opens her eyes again, still luminous, always luminous – there is too much light trapped inside her, too much bright and it must bleed from somewhere – and they settle quietly against his dark face.
What does it feel like?
Her memories bubble at unexpected times. Like now. She is only 6 months old again. ‘I love him, mama.’ She said flinging her body around in tight turns, her feet skipping. ‘It’s called puppy love,’ her mother chides her. ‘No, it is real love and he loves.’ A soldier’s son. A soldier’s son that let her weave daises in his hair and tuck a rose behind his ear. He brought her pretty stones he found, and pointed out butterflies that she was too distracted to notice. They played tag, hide and go seek, they ate sweets and told each other their deepest, most sacred secrets.
And then, at the end of summer, his father was stationed elsewhere, and he had to go. Elena understood, and then she didn’t. Her mother comforted her, held her, but Elena didn't cry.
“It feels like—you know everything and nothing, all at the same time,” she admits. And it was true. She could tell you the exact curve of his cheek, could tell you the notes that sing in his voice, but she could never explain the feeling that erupts into her bones when he touches her, could never tell how something inside her both grows and dies, when he looks at her.
She rolls a delicate shoulder. Blue eyes blink away a growing concentration on Dune’ dark face. Elena laughs. “I cant give away all my secrets,” she says. “Remember why you love someone, and at the heart of it all, it wont be much difference between you and I.” She smiles much too sweetly at him, honey and sugar. “Do I get a flower now?”
And then suddenly she feels it in the back of her mind, it comes the same way it always does, like a memory she always has known, but is just recalling it either for the first or hundredth time, she can never tell. She gasps and pulls her head away slightly. “You,” she whispers, her voice small. No matter how gentle she tries to be, she cannot keep a small sense of accusation from her voice. She wouldn't be so nervous in this moment if she had never known Orani, if she had never known what that girl was. If she had not met someone just like him before. “You’re a dream walker.”
so take away this apathy bury it before it buries me
I AM UNABLE TO PICTURE ANYTHING SO WHOLE
IT DOESN'T CRUSH WHAT'S MISSING
Boys like Dune- desert-born orphans, sand in their teeth- boys like him always loved the light, even if they didn’t always realize it. Nothing else stuck around- mothers and fathers, food and shelter and friendship, everything in this life comes and goes. Only the sun is constant. Cruel at times, beautiful in a devastating way, but constant. Consistency was the closest thing Dune would get to love, and so each day he basked in the heat of the sunlight and he believed: this is as good as it’s gonna get, and that’s alright.
But the light in her eyes is a different kind of light, and like a moth he is captivated. And he wonders what else he might be missing, what else might be assumed to be as far away as the stars but was really right there in front of him, if only he had the eyes to see. He listens deeply as she speaks of love, and to his satisfaction it sounds as annoying as what he’s heard. To know everything and nothing, to be at once full and empty- to Dune it seems like the farthest thing from peace. What was the point?
“I don’t have anything like that to remember.” The admission is offered simply. He did not pity himself, and did not expect anyone else to. Life was one roll of the dice after another, and he happened to be spectacularly unlucky. So it goes. He had a roof over his head each night (or at least three-quarters of one), and a few cats to take care of, and always some random job or another. Life could be far worse. And, oh, he had the dreaming. That was certainly not nothing.
“Do I get a flower now?” She asks with a beguiling smile, and in that moment it is hard to keep his knees from melting. He regards her with his head tilted and eyes earnest. Almost akin to a puppy. “I would give you all the flowers in the world, if I could,” he says with a broad grin. In a way it was easier for him to know she was in love. To know there was nothing to be won or lost here, that even the most ridiculous of statements would simply be rebuffed, like waves on the rugged seaside cliffs.
Then a change comes over her face. He sees the realization pass over, like a cloud, and the way her lips gather in a beautiful little expression as she gasps. “You’re a dream walker, aren’t you?”
He’s never been named before, and his first reaction is silence as he considers the question. Dream walker, she calls him, and it feels like-- like a puzzle piece fitting perfectly into place. He’s heard of shamanic dreamers- a neighbor of his is from a Solterran tribe believes the world was dreamed into existence- and rumors of dream manipulators. Then there were stories of boys who could bring objects out of dreams, which made Dune deeply and unabashedly jealous. But none of these things were him. None of them described exactly what he could do: walk in and out and through dreams. It sounds like a stupidly simple thing, but all this time, he’s stumbled around not knowing quite exactly what he is. And then Elena gives him a name, and he smiles like butterfly wings unfolding to greet the sun.
“Yes.” It doesn’t matter that her voice rings with an accusation. He is named, and he accepts it graciously. “Well, more of a dream... stumbler. It’s a secret.”
Dune remembers that he is working when a stern-looking woman catches his gaze and holds it. Meaningfully. There is a scar on her cheek, fresh and red. She angles her head ever-so-slightly and he sighs heavily. “Ah, I best get back to work. I’ll see you again, Elena,” he says with a certainty he has no right to speak with. Dreams were not his for the choosing, he could not simply appear among them at his choosing like some plain-hewn god.
Before he leaves he pauses, deliberating whether or not to say what comes next. “You should tell him you love him. If you haven’t yet.” He turns and ambles towards the shadows, with one long last look of farewell.
It doesn’t occur to him until later that he never gave Elena his name. It was probably better that way.
take this burden away from me and bury it before it buries me
Girls like Elena- sunshine born orphans, flowers in their hair—they love the light too, even when they have known darkness, maybe that is why Elena stands under the sun so often. But she doesn't love the light because it is always there, or maybe she does, because it is always there like her parents would be if they could, like how every single member of her family would if she asked. She looked at the sun and she thought, life can only burn brighter.
A sweep of dark lashes, once, a single smooth and meaningless blink. The delicate smile widens on her face. “Well then.” Her voice is soft and sweet, almost comparable to the song of a siren. “You still have the first time to look forward to,” she says like she is wise, when the first time she had given her love to a man she had been too young to truly know what love was, and he too old to remember the innocence of puppy love. They had been doomed from the start.
“Ill take them,” she says in response with girlish, soprano laughter. Laughter before the silence that takes over them as she tells him what she knows he is. Dreamwalker. Not the first she has met, and she thinks he will not be the last, not the way Elena’s dreams try to step into reality. She is all too fond a subject for them. He smiles, and Elena smiles back, like autumn sun on golden leaves. “It will be my secret then too,” she promises him, promises and promises. This one she knows she can keep, would keep, forever. He is far too beautiful a secret for her to share. When he makes to depart, Elena gently reaches out and tugs his dark mane. “I am sure,” she responds, the only permission she will give to let him into her dreams once more. Even if she keeps all her greatest secrets buried there, she trusts Dune with them, with all of them.
She says nothing when he turns around, just smiles a pleasant goodbye. It is not until she pulls the hood of her cloak over head head and turns around to continue walking that she whispers: “I know.”
so take away this apathy bury it before it buries me
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