She does not feel happiness anymore. The fire within her soul is no longer burning bright, barely even smoldering coals. She just doesn’t feel alive like she once had. After spending so much time away from her home, her welcoming here had not been pleasant, only filled with anger and questions. She felt alienated and so very much alone. Even her son was nowhere to be found. The young colt was growing each and every day, branching out and away from her. He was growing into a fine young man and Katniss could no longer coddle him. He didn’t need her and it seemed as though Denocte didn’t need her either.
Katniss could feel herself falling into a deep depression, as if the lights were slowly fading all around her, leaving her in complete darkness. Even candy apples and hot tea could not make the draft mare smile. Even her own son could not seem to ignite the fire that once flickered within her. The was perhaps the most depressed she had ever felt, coming in a close second was when her other half left this world.
The day had been filled with seashell hunting and volleyball and laughter and games. Katniss tried to participate, but she fell more into the sidelines, watching rather than participating. But as the sun began to set, Katniss settled in the sand to watch the bonfire. It was supposed to be soothing, but it was the picture of nightmares. It reminded her of the pyre Metaphor’s body burned on, the way the flames seemed to reach for heaven. It made her shudder. But she tried to ignore it, to listen to some of the stories being told. It did not take long for the sound of the crackling fire and the steady lap of the lake against the sand to put the mare into a steady sleep.
Sleep was restless, but as the dreamland seemed to call her, Katniss gave into its steady pull. Even the loud music of the party could not wake her. Perhaps it was for the best.
At first the dream was nothing but a blurry landscape, slowly forming into a place she knew so well. Amare Creek began to come into view. The closer her steps took her, the more formed the vision seemed to make. And then up ahead, there was a figure wanting for her. Her name was called out on the wings of the wind, beckoning her to come forward. But she hesitated. She knew the figure that stood before her and she fought the feelings that had so long been pushed away. He was standing there, watching her, calling her to come to him. Metaphor. Her sweet and perfect Metaphor. Why was this dream being so cruel to her? For years she fought to repress his memories, unable to handle the pain that came with them. And yet, the sandman seemed to taunt her, showing her a figure that could not be real. “You are not alive…you can’t be.” She tossed her head, shaking it almost violently from side to side. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be. He had to be a figment of her dream, something that surely she could will away. And yet, he beckoned her closer, his voice growing louder and louder with each breath he took. She resisted, trying so hard not to lose herself in the moment. Unfortunately, she was losing this battle. Her heart yearned for her lover and it overrode her mind’s ability to turn away. So closer she stepped towards this figment of her dream. Closer she stepped, unsure of where her dream might be leading her.
Beside the firelight, Azrael glows. He stands like a silent beacon among the partygoers, watching as the world continued spinning, not taking part, simply existing. There is noise all around him. There are dancers twirling with brightly colored scarves which matched the hue of flame. Drinks flowed freely here, and he nurses one pensively, letting the buzz of it wash him with a warmth that didn’t quite reach his soul. For there is a restlessness in the man, a piece of him torn away, still raw from the hurt. Jealousy is not a hue the shed-star wears well.
He wants to lose himself in the energy of the night, but the stars call to his restless soul instead. So, the stallion turns to leave, but finds himself drawn to the shadows. Just beyond the din of the night, he finds Katniss, asleep and dreaming. Her eyes are squeezed tight, her lips pursed as if struggling, and a low moan of pain escapes her. “Shhh…” he comforts her sleeping form, casting his light over her, trying to shield her from the darkness, even as his magic reached to follow, finding her torn somewhere between reality and a dream.
Closing his eyes, the dreamwalker finds himself beside her now, standing by the creekbed in a place meant for only lovers. When he opens them once more, he sees a world of quiet beauty. The sun hangs low in the sky, dusk overtaking day as fireflies dance along the water’s edges. There is a quiet hush of river against rock, curtains of willow strung out like a veil, which he peels back to step through, into this world her mind has built.
“Katniss?” His voice hangs like a question, trying to break through her trance – for though he does not know the mare, he knows the look upon her face. He knows the love etched in every line as she looks at her fallen lover, the confusion and the pain as she mourns for what might have been.
Metaphor beckons her closer, chocolate eyes warm with affection as watches her, watching him. “Katniss…” her name sounds again, but this time it is the chestnut’s rich tones, honey-sweet and longing. “It is beautiful here… almost as beautiful as you.” Those words, the words he spoke that night, ring truer than ever as he reaches for his lover. But she hesitates before stepping closer, one step – then two. “You are not alive… you can’t be.” Her assurances draw confusion to Metaphor's brow as he reaches for her, lips finding the crest of her neck, warm and real.
“He is alive, in this world… it is a world of your choosing, a place for only the two of you. A place of peace and healing…” Azrael’s words encourage her, even as he steps back through the greenery to give the two their privacy, feeling like he intruded on a private moment. But the shed-star is never far, ready to stand beside her, should this world become a darker and more dangerous place.
She does not realize that she is not alone in her dream. She does not see the way Azrael parts the willow to step further into the realm her mind as created. Her mind is so focused on the vision of her lover standing in front of her. Her heart yearns for Metaphor while her mind keeps telling her that this is not real, that she can simply wake herself. And yet, she does nothing but step closer to Metaphor until they finally touch.
Katniss let’s her eyes flutter closed as she feels the velvet of his lips on her nape, nipping at her skin in a loving fashion. She can feel the pressure, as if she is truly standing there with him. She gives into her desires, allowing herself to enjoy the feel of him touching her, a touch that she wished she could feel forever. His words are soft and soothing, easing her mind and making her heart skip a beat or maybe two.
But something distracts her. There is another voice in this dreamland, a voice she doesn’t recognize. She looks around her and she does not immediately see him. Instead, she sees the cloak of greenery fall back into place, shielding him from her view though she knows he is here. She listens to his words, shaking her head. “But he has died...” She looks around her to see that her mind has taken her back to moments before he is taken from her forever. This was the exact night her son was conceived.
She turns her attention back to Metaphor, a part of her thinking that perhaps this stranger as removed him from this memory. And yet, he still stands there, his body close enough to her that she can feel his breath on her skin. Eyes flutter closed as she enjoys the sensations, relishing them.
But then, even in the stillness of this moment, she breaks the silence. “We have a son, Metaphor…” She can feel the sting of tears as they begin to trickle down the slope of her cheek. “You never got the chance to know…” He never got the chance to know he was going to be a father because some cruel soul caused an explosion to take his life. “He’s your spitting image. He has a heart that rivals your own. And his magic heals! He wants to be a medic.” Each day her son grows more and more like his father. Each day she sees more of Metaphor as she looks into the eyes of her son. “I don’t know how to teach him to heal…” The warrior has always inflicted the injuries, not healed them. She doesn’t know the herbs to teach him about or what books to show him. He needs his father and he doesn’t understand how important that is to a growing child.
But perhaps what scares her the most is how much she needs Metaphor too. Her heart is fragile now, barely holding on. She needs to move on, but there is a part of her that doesn’t want to. She wants to stay right here in this moment but on the other hand, she wants to harden her heart so she doesn’t have to remember. These memories are painful. “No! I can’t do this!” She tries to wake herself from this dream, to run away from the feelings that her heart longs to feel. But there is something that keeps her from running, that keeps her legs firmly planted. Was the strange voice part of the reason she cannot leave? Who speaks to her? So many questions she wants to ask but she doesn’t know where to start.
