Blackwell only has the one nightmare, and it's a borrowed, hand-me-down sort of thing, but it gains him access to the thunderhead with a hiss and sound that reminds him of distant screaming. One of the others, he thinks. He cannot see them at all, and the Cloud Fairy does not come with them as they enter, a thing that the flame-dashed stallion notes grimly as the clouds and the sizzling lightning knit back together behind him. It's dark at first, even the pulsing electric light shows him nothing but more grey billows. His face is wet with what he thinks is rain but his lips purse and he can taste the salt of tears on them. Tears of anger and fear and frustration fall gently against his skin, warm droplets that make his hide glisten dully under the light of his halos. Somewhere, someone is weeping, a soft sound to start, but all too soon it is wailing instead and their thunderous cry drowns out the crashing all around him. Blackwell is not immune. His heart quickens in his breast as he presses deeper into the storm.
Ahead, the darkness coalesces. It makes his breath catch in his throat - he is not his mother or his sister, the shadows have never loved him. He is the Flame and the dark that wove in and out of their crèch in the forest has always longed to smother him.
The darkness converges on itself, folding into a familiar shape and he stares fiercely at it. What chance, in this world fueled by misery, that he should find his own mother? Is it the scent of her in his flesh, or the taste of her in his skeleton dream? Did all those traitorous shadows whisper to the nightmare magic and tell it who he is? The clouds become trees (but when he looks closely, he can see they are still clouds, only carved, pretending, not quite right,) and the lightning molds itself to Beryl's shape, running, running, with darkness whipping behind her.
"Where are you going?" he asks her in a hoarse whisper. Her ear twitches as if she can hear him, but she never breaks her gait.
She mutters as she runs, she trips and stumbles, her knees bloodied. She did not look like this the last time he saw her; it takes him aback. Whose dream is this? The golden mare runs a mile but three steps is enough to bring him to her side again where she stands panting, moaning, muttering, with madness ringing her dark eyes. There had always been darkness there but madness? No. He looks where her rolling eyes seem to try to focus but there are only roiling clouds until -- ah! Something in the darkness shimmers, stars gilding a flank hidden well in all that obscurity. The gleam of teeth spread too wide and black, black, grinning and hungry. He can make out nothing more, even the ringing halos do not help, the darkness spreads like poison around them, no slave to Beryl's magic. It swallows them, those black teeth suddenly at their throats, their bellies, the only thing not black is the red of blood and his own golden light. Blackwell shies, mirroring his mother's panic as an ocean of blood pours from her veins until they are drowning in it. All those disembodied black teeth growl and are pleased, a dark tongue lapping at the sanguine lake. The dark stallion chokes on blood that tastes like tears, like seawater, as red waves pour over his head, thrusting him down, dragging him down.
"Mom!" he sputters, thrusting out from the depths in a sticky red spray and Beryl turns and looks at him as if she can see him. But this is not her dream. The wendigo on the bank is as much a skeleton as the palomino, and she is hungry - so hungry - and her prey is tired and feeble, worn down by months of nightmares, worn down by not sleeping, not eating, forgetting to drink, weakened by the bleeding belly wound where those long antlers pierced her. She is dying, but the wendigo is too hungry to wait for that. She walks across the blood lake and her black teeth find purchase in the gored flank while the mare shudders, groaning, hooves scraping the iron-scented ground and Blackwell screams noiselessly, his mouth full of clouds.
And then, because this is not Beryl's nightmare, the mare bursts into flame. The lake of blood becomes fire, her flesh becomes the sun, burning the skeletal predator to its ebony bones and it reels back, screeching, keening. Flames lick at his skin fond and familiar, and they go out abruptly for, somewhere, the wendigo has awoken. Somewhere, it rubs its still-aching mouth against a long, thin leg and tells itself that it was only a bad dream, but here Blackwell finds his shaking feet. His mouth is pressed into a firm line as he stares out into all that grey fog, empty except for him.
He draws a slow breath, and then he steps forward again.
And he hopes that the wendigo will be at the center of the storm because he thinks he might kill it, if he can.
Ahead, the darkness coalesces. It makes his breath catch in his throat - he is not his mother or his sister, the shadows have never loved him. He is the Flame and the dark that wove in and out of their crèch in the forest has always longed to smother him.
The darkness converges on itself, folding into a familiar shape and he stares fiercely at it. What chance, in this world fueled by misery, that he should find his own mother? Is it the scent of her in his flesh, or the taste of her in his skeleton dream? Did all those traitorous shadows whisper to the nightmare magic and tell it who he is? The clouds become trees (but when he looks closely, he can see they are still clouds, only carved, pretending, not quite right,) and the lightning molds itself to Beryl's shape, running, running, with darkness whipping behind her.
"Where are you going?" he asks her in a hoarse whisper. Her ear twitches as if she can hear him, but she never breaks her gait.
She mutters as she runs, she trips and stumbles, her knees bloodied. She did not look like this the last time he saw her; it takes him aback. Whose dream is this? The golden mare runs a mile but three steps is enough to bring him to her side again where she stands panting, moaning, muttering, with madness ringing her dark eyes. There had always been darkness there but madness? No. He looks where her rolling eyes seem to try to focus but there are only roiling clouds until -- ah! Something in the darkness shimmers, stars gilding a flank hidden well in all that obscurity. The gleam of teeth spread too wide and black, black, grinning and hungry. He can make out nothing more, even the ringing halos do not help, the darkness spreads like poison around them, no slave to Beryl's magic. It swallows them, those black teeth suddenly at their throats, their bellies, the only thing not black is the red of blood and his own golden light. Blackwell shies, mirroring his mother's panic as an ocean of blood pours from her veins until they are drowning in it. All those disembodied black teeth growl and are pleased, a dark tongue lapping at the sanguine lake. The dark stallion chokes on blood that tastes like tears, like seawater, as red waves pour over his head, thrusting him down, dragging him down.
"Mom!" he sputters, thrusting out from the depths in a sticky red spray and Beryl turns and looks at him as if she can see him. But this is not her dream. The wendigo on the bank is as much a skeleton as the palomino, and she is hungry - so hungry - and her prey is tired and feeble, worn down by months of nightmares, worn down by not sleeping, not eating, forgetting to drink, weakened by the bleeding belly wound where those long antlers pierced her. She is dying, but the wendigo is too hungry to wait for that. She walks across the blood lake and her black teeth find purchase in the gored flank while the mare shudders, groaning, hooves scraping the iron-scented ground and Blackwell screams noiselessly, his mouth full of clouds.
And then, because this is not Beryl's nightmare, the mare bursts into flame. The lake of blood becomes fire, her flesh becomes the sun, burning the skeletal predator to its ebony bones and it reels back, screeching, keening. Flames lick at his skin fond and familiar, and they go out abruptly for, somewhere, the wendigo has awoken. Somewhere, it rubs its still-aching mouth against a long, thin leg and tells itself that it was only a bad dream, but here Blackwell finds his shaking feet. His mouth is pressed into a firm line as he stares out into all that grey fog, empty except for him.
He draws a slow breath, and then he steps forward again.
And he hopes that the wendigo will be at the center of the storm because he thinks he might kill it, if he can.