The Night We Met - Chapter 1: Whispered Prayer
|| Premise: What if Dawnbreaker's wish for one day and one night with the woman who lives only in his dreams... came true? ||
| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 |
Stars wheeled overhead and a brisk wind sent dried leaves skittering down the alley, skipping and leaping over cracked asphalt. Black boots descended, footsteps echoing off the stone walls as the dark-haired man in the long black coat moved swiftly through the cold evening air. His pace was steady, but his steps wavered slightly with weariness. The cold wind pressed against his back, lifting the collar of his jacket and urging him home.
If it could be called home. Could a place with few furnishings and no laughter be called a home? He wasnât entirely sure, but it was his, nonetheless. He unlocked the door and slipped inside, closing the door swiftly behind him, shutting out more than the night air. Screams echoed in his mind, sounds of rage and pain and fear. A shake of his head banished them, but never for long. He glanced over at the old TV set, moving across the room and turning it on, a habit he couldnât break. Something about the sound of other voices made the small apartment seem less dreary. Human voices. That part was important.
The man ran a hand through his hair, sighing as he did so, pushing it up and off his forehead. It was getting long again â heâd need to trim it soon. But not today. It was late, and all he wanted was to clean off the blood and sweat and fall asleep. Sleep made everything more bearable. It was where he could see her, after all.
A few long strides took him from the living area to the bathroom, taking off his coat and tossing it on the couch in the process. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he flicked the light on, blinking as the flickering fluorescent bulb revealed his face. Dark green eyes, the center of their irises a burnished gold, watched him from the mirror. They took in his appearance, including the slash through the fabric of his shirt, which left part of his chest exposed. The skin beneath was scored slightly, but not deep enough to be problematic. Damn. Heâd have to mend the shirt somehow. He didnât have the funds for new clothing, and even if he did, heâd rather spend it on an old movie, or perhaps more chocolates.
The mirror also revealed the blood staining his hands, the dark reddish smears stark against his pale skin in the wan light. Right. Heâd come in here to shower. He peeled off the torn and disheveled clothes, dropping them on the floor. It wasnât like he had to keep the place tidy for anyone else â it was just him in that apartment. Just him and the ghost of the woman in his dreams. But she wasnât here. Heâd pick the clothes up later when it was time to wash and mend them. The sound of running water filled the apartment, and he stepped into the shower.
Cold descended over him, the icy water tracing across his shoulders and down the musculature of his back, dripping onto the floor of the tub. He stood still, just letting the water cascade through his hair and down his body, rinsing the blood and sweat away. A shiver ran through him as the chill of the water seeped into his skin, causing him to inhale sharply. Too bad the shower only had cold water. Every time he turned it on, a small part of him hoped it would be warm. And every time, he was met with disappointment.
The manâs mind wandered as he busied himself with removing the more stubborn bloodstains, scrubbing at his skin until it was red and raw beneath the cold deluge. His most recent escapade had been more difficult than normal â the target was a skilled martial artist, ranked highly in the fighting arenas that dotted the desolate city he lived in. The target had come to him about a week ago, which surprised him. Apparently, the fighters in the city knew more about him than heâd realized. That fact could be dangerous, but right now he was too tired to worry about it. Why wouldnât the blood come off?!
The man stared down at his shaking hands, realizing just how sensitive the skin on them had become. How long had he been washing them? A minute? Ten minutes? Whatever it was, it was never long enough. He could still see the blood dripping from black ice down onto his right hand, its dark red hue painting his skin in gory tones. The target had been quick, agile, and intelligent, even after turning into a Wanderer. It almost had him, its claw slicing through his shirt and the top layer of his skin. Heâd grabbed the thingâs malformed wrist just in time to prevent himself from being impaled, sending biting lines of ice into the creatureâs arm. The ice dove beneath the targetâs skin, causing blood to flow and life to flee. Eventually, it fell dead at his feet.
And then he returned to his apartment. Like he always did after his nightly haunts. Those ill-fated adventures that brushed the edge of death only to turn away at the last moment. The man shut off the water, his skin prickling at the cold air. Would it be so bad to fail at some point? To follow his targets into the icy darkness he brought to them? For him, no. For the other humans living in this city⊠absolutely. Every target eliminated was one less Wanderer to terrorize the people living there. It was why he kept going. His reason for continuing. That, and the woman in his dreams. If he made it home to sleep each night, he could at least see her again. With that in mind, he toweled off and headed to bed.
Lying on his side, the TV playing an old drama in the background, he let himself indulge in one of the few things that brought him joy â his memories of her. The woman he saw when he slept. In dreams, he wasnât this cold shadow of a man. Instead, he was a doctor and a well-respected one at that. But his favorite part of these dreams⊠was her. Ever since he could remember he had dreamed of another life. His waking world and his sleeping world â two sides of the same coin. That other version of him had known her since childhood and had gone on to become a doctor because of her. He didnât blame the guy. He would have done the same thing. Eventually, the doctor and the woman met again as adults and formed a relationship. It was those moments he cherished the most, and that was where his mind wandered to tonight.
âI had all and then most of you, some and now none of youâŠ
Take me back, to the night we metâŠâ
A plaintive melody echoed through the small space, accompanying the words of the song that played at the end of the drama on the TV. The words wormed into his mind, into his soul. The night we met⊠But heâd never actually met her. Not really. What he wouldnât give to meet her. To have one night with her, as himself, not as the doctor. To feel her hand on his hand, to brush the hair away from her face with his fingers, not the doctorâs. To press his forehead to hers, feel her breath on his cheek. The dreams were always vivid, but he could never quite remember what she felt like. Or smelled like. Or⊠tasted like. Heâd only been given glimpses of more intimate moments, those dreams few and far between.
It seemed to him that the relationship between the doctor and the girl had progressed slowly, developing only recently into intimacy. Part of him felt ashamed of wanting those dreams to continue. Did this make him a voyeur? Should he not want to see this side of the woman he also loved? Since she had no say in the matter, it seemed a crass, cruel thing to want. But he wanted it all the same. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to hate himself for his thoughts, his wants. He curled his body inward, making himself as small as possible on the bed, fingers gripping the thin blanket in a tight fist. Emptiness stretched inside him, as vast as the night sky above his apartment. His chest ached from the vastness of it. Perhaps that was why he tried to make himself smaller. To make the ache smaller.
âJust one night⊠Thatâs all Iâm asking. One day and one night with herâŠâ His own voice, so rarely used, sounded strange to his ears. He didnât know to whom he was praying. Certainly, no god had answered any of his other prayers. Sleep claimed him, the last notes of the melody crackling into static as his consciousness descended into a different realm.
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Soft moonlight spilled down onto a dark lake, the water lapping gently at fine, black sand. Confusion filled him, his brow furrowing as he looked out from the tree line towards the lake. This wasnât Linkon City. Where was he? He glanced down at the ground, noticing a faint path that led down towards the water. Stepping carefully to avoid the small blue flowers that grew amongst the sparse grass, he made his way down towards the water.
The lake stretched out in front of him, the other side so far off as to be invisible. The moon hung overhead like a swollen fruit, dripping silver light across the vista. A soft breeze rustled the tall pines behind him and stirred the waters of the lake. Was it a lake? Or a sea? He snorted softly, shaking his head. Did it matter what it was? It wasnât where heâd wanted to end up. Besides, he was clearly still himself, not the doctor. No sign of the woman from his dreams, either.
As he glanced around the lonely beach, he noticed small white objects poking up through the soft, dark sand. Kneeling, he put out a hand to touch one of them, a rounded, pale knob. His fingers brushed against the hard substance, and he realized belatedly what he was touching. Bone. A femur, to be exact. He knew this from his time spent seeing the world through the doctorâs eyes. All sorts of anatomical terms were familiar to him now.
The man drew his hand back, recoiling slightly as he made the connection â all the white objects on the beach were bones. They were just buried in the black sand, mostly swallowed by the darkness. What was this place? Some sort of limbo, he guessed, a world between worlds. He had no idea how heâd arrived here, as this was unlike any dream heâd had before. Slowly, he rose to his feet, stepping down towards the water. The black sand sucked at his shoes, and he understood why all the bones were mostly buried. Gravity felt different here. Heavier, somehow. The ache in his chest hadnât disappeared as it normally did when he dreamed. Here it seemed just as real and heavy as in the waking world, if not more so. He stopped just before his shoes touched the water, gazing down at the dark swirling liquid, expecting to see his face reflected.
He was not prepared to see her face, too. But there she was, reflected in the water, standing beside him. His heart skipped a beat, and he turned to his right, half expecting to see her standing there next to him. She wasnât. Heart pounding, he looked back down at the reflections in the water. She was there, looking straight out, her eyes focused on a point he couldnât see. His hands curled into fists, knuckles popping, frustration coursing through him. Even in whatever this place was, she was still unreachable. He dropped into a crouch at the waterâs edge, the reflections rippling and changing. When it stilled, it showed him in a crouch, with her peering over his shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise, and he sucked in a breath, not expecting a dynamic reaction from a reflection.
Exhaling slowly, barely registering what he was doing, he extended his hand towards the reflection of the woman. His fingertips hovered above her cheek, not quite touching the surface of the water. She stared out past him, her gaze distant and remote. Like her. He drew in a shallow breath and let his fingers drop down. They broke the surface tension of the water, placing a soft caress along the reflection of her cheek. If only his wish of one night had come true... Then he would actually be touching her, and not just some reflection. Ripples spread outward from his fingertips, disturbing her visage. As the water coalesced again, the man realized that her gaze had changed. The woman was now staring directly into his eyes.
Startled, he jerked to his feet with a gasp, blood thundering in his ears, galloping through his veins as his heart thudded in his chest. He started to step back, not realizing how deeply heâd sunk into the wet sand. The strange weight of this realm yanked at him, tugging at the ache inside him. Instead of moving backward, he fell forward, face first, into the lake.
The water enveloped him, drawing him down in a dark embrace. He put out his hands, expecting to catch himself in the shallows, but they met no resistance. A lake shouldnât be this deep so close to the shore. He had to hit the bottom eventually, right? Just like when he showered, the cold water washed over him, surrounding him, forcing its way into his eyes, his ears, his nose, and even his pores. Water shouldnât do that. If this wasnât water, then what was it? He tried to twist his body around, his hands clawing towards the surface. But there was no surface, no moonlight filtering down through clear water. Had he gotten turned around? Despite facing death almost every night, panic welled up inside him. Could you die in a dream? Would you wake up if you did? These questions and more flitted through his mind as he rotated in the water column, searching for whatever direction was up.
Up didnât seem to exist anymore. Neither did down, or left, or right, forward or backward. The water that wasnât water pressed in on him from all sides, suffocating and oppressive, darkness stretching out in all directions. He kicked out, trying to move through the substance, but the viscosity of the fluid around him had changed. Ever tried swimming through syrup? He decided he wouldnât recommend it. If he even got the chance to speak to anyone ever again. At this rate, he wasnât sure he would. His lungs had begun to burn, and the water that definitely wasnât water seemed determined to pass between his lips, threatening to drown him. At some point, he wouldnât be able to stop himself from gasping for air, thus inviting the thick substance into his mouth and lungs.
If that happened⊠No, when that happened, would he wake up? There seemed to be no other option now. His heartbeat was as loud as a drum, the sound harsh in his ears. His chest felt ready to explode as though he were coming apart at the seams. The strange hiccupping feeling that accompanies a lack of oxygen began, starting deep in his throat â the carbon dioxide in his lungs clamoring to be released. At least if he woke up, he could try to get back to sleep again. Try to dream of her once more. He fixed his mind on the image of her from his most recent dream â sheâd been lying in bed next to the doctor, sleeping peacefully. Her hair splayed out across the pillow, forming a halo that framed the face of the only angel heâd ever seen.
The demand for air won out. His chest heaved, his lips parting as his body begged for oxygen. Blackness took him as it plunged down his throat, invading every part of his body and consciousness. His last thought was the memory of her eyes meeting his, ripples dancing through the image.
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Light fell across his face, turning the insides of his eyelids a soft red hue. The brightness of it surprised him â a sunny day was rare where he came from, and besides, the only window in his apartment wasnât near his bed. Guess you do wake up when you die in a dream. Slowly, he opened his eyes, just a crack. Bright morning light filtered down from bay windows, illuminating the face of the woman from his dreams, sleeping peacefully on the pillow beside him.
