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Falling – he’s falling. Dyami doesn’t think to open his mouth and scream. He’s too shocked by the sensation of free fall to gather his wits and before he knows it his chest has gone hollow, cold and he can feel the impact of . . .

Of waking up as he rolls off of his bed and hits the wooden floorboards of the room they were staying in. Sweat has soaked through his clothes and they stick to his ribs and joints, weighing him down and tethering him to reality. Dyami’s eyes open wide and dart about the room, his focus jumping from one point to another. Everyone’s asleep. Tohr is snoring. It’s dark out still. As he gathers his thoughts he can feel his heart start to slow and it’s eventually no longer deafening in its beat. It had been a nightmare, nothing more. Only it wasn’t the usual nightmares he’d gotten used to. From where he sits on the ground he hastily takes off his boots and socks. He hadn’t bothered removing them or his dirty clothes when he’d stumbled back earlier that night to get some sleep. Once they’re off he leans forward and blindly reaches about for the bag he left under the mattress. His fingers catch on the leather strap and he drags it close so he can pull out a fresh change of clothes.

With the bundle of recently purchased clothing tucked beneath an arm he stands up and his knees nearly buckle. One hand flies out to steady himself on the post of the bed. He nervously glances about, but no one has woken up. As soon as his legs feel steady he moves towards the bath attached to their room, bare feet carefully tip toeing around the squeaky boards and furniture scattered about.

Inside the safety of the bathroom he strips off his ruined clothes, leaving them piled on the floor. The newly purchased clothing though is carefully set atop a chair. His trembling fingers grasp the handles to the shower, turn them until the plumbing grumbles to life and then he steps under the cold spray of water. It helps clear his head of the spider webs that were obscuring his thoughts. Dyami closes his eyes and tilts his head back, allowing the icy chill to spread across his face and down his neck. It takes his breath away, just like the dream had when he was thrown from the bridge made of thread and –

He gasps and stumbles out of the shower, physically recoiling from the dream he couldn’t shake. When he closed his eyes the shape of something unknown was silhouetted against his eyelids and the dread of not understanding it left him queasy. Never before had he worried about what falling may feel like or how terrifying an abyss could be. His nightmares were usually that of dust and thunder. A dry powder that clogged his throat and rumbling that shook his bones. They were comprised of past sins. Sins that accounted for his late nights and early mornings. It was easier to avoid the dreams when he didn’t allow himself the luxury of a long rest.

So then what did this new dream mean? It had felt so real.

Dyami steps under the spray once more, and this time adjusts the temperature to something less frigid so he can clean off the grime and powder from working in the forge. He scrubs until his skin tingles. The dream repeats itself but this time he isn’t frightened from the fall. He’s analytical. Each moment from the first step onto a thin unstable looking tightrope to the final gasp as he was flung to certain death, but he’s no closer to an answer. Dyami shuts the water off and dries himself with the nearest piece of cloth he spots.

“It felt real.” He murmurs under his breath. There’s a fatigue to his thighs that hadn’t been there before he went to bed. In the dream, each step across the tacky bridge had become more and more difficult until he could barely pry his boot free. Like walking in the mud of the Nashios Swamps, only worse. No – that was absurd. His legs ached because he’d worked at the forge for nearly twelve hours. Nothing more, nothing less.

Dyami chuckles at his own absurdity. “Since when did you become so superstitious?” He asks himself in the quiet of the bathroom.

A familiar voice mocks him at the back of his head for putting any stock in gods, ‘I thought we had this conversation already D. Why now do you believe the gods are paying any attention? Why now are you thinking something cares about you? ’

“I don’t. I’m not.” He whispers, conviction strong. Dyami dresses in his new clothing, one layer then another until he feels somewhat protected. Protected from peering eyes, from the unknown, from something he can’t put a name to. He picks up his dirty clothes and places them in the wardrobe that cleans them – a bonus to their staying here. It’s an amenity he intends to take advantage of on their last night at the inn since they leave in the morning. Dyami stands in front of the wardrobe, uncertain of what to do now. Maybe a walk out in the fresh air would help settle his nerves.

He retraces his steps, and makes it back to where he’d left his boots. They’re the only new purchase he’d worn out of the store since his last pair had been ruined by the swamps. With a heavy sigh he sits on the edge of the mattress and reaches down to pick them up. Strangely – they stick to the floor. Dyami grunts softly with the effort it takes to yank them free. Odd. Maybe he’d stepped in something on the walk back from the forge? He shrugs to himself and is about to slide them on when exhaustion settles over his shoulders, heavy and sudden.

His eyes drift shut and he struggles to open them again. His fingers loosen, allowing the boots slip from his grasp, tumbling to the floor with a soft ‘thud’. Dyami runs one hand over his face in the hopes of it waking him up because he doesn’t want to go back to sleep. Not yet. It doesn’t help and he finds himself leaning sideways until he’s lying down, curling up into a ball atop tangled sheets.

Mercifully, the next few hours of sleep are dreamless. When he wakes up for the second time he turns his face into the soft down pillow and muffles a yawn into it. Another yawn follows when he sits up and arches his back in a long, twisting stretch punctuated by a few pops. No one else is awake yet. Another small mercy. The fear and anxiety from the night prior feel silly with dawn on the horizon and light filling the room with a soft orange glow. Dyami’s eyes drift towards the boots, forgotten on the floor. He’d been willing to forget the entire ordeal were it not for the glint of something on the heel. They had fallen over when he dropped them and he can clearly see the sole of the shoes. He can also clearly see the strange thread that had been in the dream. It’s plastered across the entirety of the sole.

He scrambles to pick up the boots and examines them closer. The webbing is white, not silver and when he picks at it his fingers stick but where they pull away free the webbing remains as though glued to the bottom of the boots themselves.

“What the hell?” And with this one realization, his heart starts beating again, adrenaline making his palms sweat. He scoots backwards until he can sit with his legs crossed and the pair of boots in his lap to better look at them. The webbing doesn’t go away, no matter how hard he stares. Dyami doesn’t realize how much time has passed with him vacantly gazing at the boots until the rustle of the others waking up startles him into action. He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and starts lacing his boots up. Long hair falls across his face, obscuring the dark circles beneath his eyes and furrowed brow.

“It was just a dream.”

#Dyami Stone #dyami #stories

The Druid to the Gunslinger

I didn’t think I was going to make it My legs burned, my lungs screamed for air But I couldn’t stop Until the party came from the backdrop

They took me in with no questions Accepted me as one of them Friends, I suppose Sharing the same repose

One stood out to me Copper and chrome and grins that Didn’t quite reach his eyes The others might not notice his guise But I do

I don’t know what it is, but I trust him Something tells me we’re not that different On the run, struggling to face our pasts Head on

Dyami, listen to me You’re my friend And whatever you did It’s not about to end

#Dyami Stone #Lillian Couerbois #poetry