He was having the dream again.
Dazzling, brilliant white surrounded him on every side. It nearly blinded his eyes from the light reflecting off of every surface, yet there was no real discernible source he could see for the light. It was as if the walls, ceiling, and floor simply radiated light, removing any traces of shadows and giving the corridor an oddly flat look. He could see that there were some sort of patterns and decorations painting the place, but he could not make out any of the details.
The only sound in his ears was his own breathing, harsh and fast due to his running. Not even his little feet hitting the ground made any noise, adding a further surreal note to the dream as he hurtled down the hall, straight as an arrow, with his legs and body feeling oddly detached from his mind. Despite the ache in his chest, it wasn't enough to make him want to stop, no matter how long he ran. Getting to his destination was more important, he had to reach it in time, he had to—
Beautiful, swooping arches raced by his vision, hardly registering in his head, just like the pale swirls across the walls barely discernible from the surface they covered. It wasn't important, nothing was more important than pushing himself forward, than whatever he was looking for in front of him. It would be in front of him, he knew that, but he had no idea how. He didn't even know what it would be. Just that it would be in front of him; he strained his eyes, trying to see, needing to spot at least something.
Then just as suddenly as a flash of lightning, he saw it. It made his heart leap, it did not gradually enter his vision due to him getting close enough to see it, one moment the corridor was empty and the next moment the doors were there, blocking his way. But he did not care, it was what he needed.
The double doors were as white as the rest of the corridor and so tall that he couldn't see where they ended. But in stark contrast to everything else, the handles were gold. He grabbed one and pushed as hard as he could, but the door would not move. That had nothing to do with their size, though, he knew instinctively that if he tried hard enough then they would eventually move.
Whining with the effort, he shoved his whole body against the door and pushed with his feet. He put his shoulder against the surface and pushed. He even began pulling in desperation, but then he quickly went back to shoving, knowing that was right. Panic and anger began to well up in him and he even began yelling, banging his fists against the door and hitting it over and over, as if that might somehow loosen it.
His efforts were pointedly ignored. The door remained unmoved. The only thing he had succeeded in doing was bruising and bloodying his knuckles.
With a scream of frustration, his eyes burning, he slammed his body against the door with all of his might, and he finally felt it give way under the force of his assault. It creaked only an inch, but that inch was the only thing he needed. He pushed again, his muscles straining under the effort, and with agonizing slowness the door began to swing open. Finally it was open enough for him to slip through into the beyond.
The room was cavernous, making him feel even smaller than he already was. Looking down, he saw that the floor was no longer featureless, but dominated by the symbol of a silver sun, polished to a shine. His face was reflected back at him: soft and gentle due to his youth, his skin the color of caramel. His hair was night-black, messy and tangled locks sticking to his face or floating about his head due to his frantic sprinting from earlier, but none of it compared to the brilliance of his eyes. The color of flames and just as bright, staring at him with an intensity that forced him to look away, to look up, even though dread filled his heart to do so.
A throne dominated the other end of the room, white as marble, somehow giving him the feeling of it looming over him even though it was not even half the size needed for it to do so. There was a figure sitting on the throne, surrounded by six other figures, and it took the boy a moment to understand what was so horribly, terribly wrong with the sight he was seeing before him.
The figure on the throne was wrapped in what appeared to be a white shroud, the features beneath completely obscured by the cloth. And yet there were six gleaming daggers impaled upon the body, each weapon held by one of the six figures. Even as he watched, the white of the shroud was gradually dyed a fresh, scarlet red as the blood flowed freely from fresh wounds.
He tried to see who the other figures were, but they seemed to be made of light and it was impossible to tell if they were even human or not, despite their vaguely humanoid shape. They looked far too small to be human, unless they were also children like himself, but the idea was absurd. Yet even as he tried, it was as if they sensed the attention upon them, and all of their heads turned in unison to stare back at him, breaking the unnatural stillness of the scene. Their empty, dark eyes stared at him, and all at once he felt as if they would devour him if he remained here.
Terror filled him, and—
He jolted awake with a gasp, his heart pounding in his chest so hard that he felt the rest of his body shaking from it. He was gasping, as if he really had just run for miles, and the scent of smoke filled his nostrils with each breath. Glancing down, he saw that the single sheet he slept with had been burned away, while the last scraps of fabric that he held clutched in his hands dissolved to ash right before his eyes, leaving his bare body exposed to the world. There were singe marks all over his room, some of them still glowing a dull orange like the last flickering coals of a fire.
With a sigh he slid himself out of his tiny bed and walked slowly to the center of his room. He always felt strange after his nightmares, especially that one. Everything in his dreams felt so real, and after being so small it was almost unnatural to be back in his regular body again. He arranged himself on the floor, sitting crosslegged, and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself and focus.
"I am flesh, not flame. I am flesh, not flame." The chant was soothing, if anything for the repetition alone. He focused only on what the words were saying and nothing else, letting the words calm his mind like the endless crash of waves upon the seashore.
Eventually he felt his heartbeat starting to slow down, returning back to its normal rate as he kept up his chant and forced his breathing to remain steady and measured. After several minutes, when his body began to ache from sitting on the hard floor and his heart beating calmly again, he stopped and opened his eyes once more. He would have to clean up the mess, but later. With another small sigh he got up and went to his dresser, thanking his lucky stars that it had not caught fire, and began to pull on his clothes. Sitting on top of the dresser was a notebook, with the edge of an obviously loose page hanging out of the depths.
Frowning, he pulled the page out and stared at it. A beautiful woman had been sketched on the page in charcoal, but the only spot of color on the drawing were his eyes, which he had colored a dark orange. He stared at it for a few more moments, his expression unreadable, before sighing and replacing the page, handling the paper with utter tenderness before he headed off to find a broom.
Hours later the sun had fully risen over the horizon and the little town around him began to truly come to life. Horses and donkeys were braying as supplies from the merchants and nearby farms were carted to be sold later or replenish the wares of restaurants all over. Voices were rising over the gentle din, hawking their wares, but from the inside of The Skulking Sheep it was impossible to hear anything from the outside. The pub was supposed to keep people inside, after all.
He was bent over the bar, writing in his notebook with his brows furrowed in concentration. It was as if he made a mistake in his writing then the whole passage would lose its meaning.
The nightmares are getting more frequent. Before they would only happen once every few months, now I'm lucky if I go a week without another one. It's driving me crazy, I'm almost afraid to go to sleep now in case I wake up with my house burned down. I hate this, I hate how the dreams make me feel, but writing in this diary helps a bit. I don't even know what they mean, truth be told. Does this dream have some sort of meaning? It's exactly the same, every single time, not a single detail changed. Or perhaps my mind is just start to fold on itself and this is just its weird way of manifesting.
I don't even know what frightens me so much about the dream: the body, the knives, their eyes, or something else. It's just when that moment happens, when they look at me, I get so terrified and then I wake up. But their daggers are horrifying, there's something sharp and silver about them, as if they're sentient as well. And the body is alive, it's bleeding in the dream. It
"Good morning, Ricardo," a sweet, playful voice interrupted his thoughts.
Thankfully Ricardo did not startle easily, or else he might have jumped and ruined his whole page. Instead he turned his head to look at the elf leaning against the bar and gave her a smile that reflected the one already on her face. "Regan," he replied, sitting up straight and wincing as his back protested at the movement. Goodness he needed to learn how to sit better, he would be hunched over like an old man before he even reached his forties. "Did Dogberry need something?"
"Not yet, but if he catches you writing on the job again he'll throw quite the fuss," Regan replied, although the way she said the words implied that she would find such a situation very amusing if it happened. "You've been writing for a long time, actually. Anything interesting? Not that I mean to pry, but it's rare these days to see a man who has such a talent!"
"Ah," Ricardo started, trying not to appear too nervous about her scrutiny. "Nothing I'm going to publish, to be honest. It is more own thoughts, writing helps me organize them." He didn't want to use the word diary, something about it not only felt juvenile, but also like he opening himself up to the world for something to go terribly wrong. It was as if the knowledge that a diary was nearby activated every nosey idiot within fifty miles to try and pry at what he was looking at.
"Oh, I see!" Regan said with a bright smile, looking down a little as she giggled. "I'm sorry for assuming, I just thought with how concentrated you were...oh forget it. It's a big secret and I don't want to pry."
Ricardo closed the book and chuckled a little. "You need not worry. Everyone's a little curious, and honestly if it was actually a story worth of merit you would be the first person I would tell it to."
The smile that lit her face was like fresh sunshine, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her pointed ear almost absently. He could see her cheeks flushing, and her eyes quickly darted around before alighting on the newspaper folded and tucked beneath the journal. "What is this? The Lizards lost another province?" She reached out and snatched the paper out from under him and peered at it for half a second before showing him the headline.
TURMOIL IN TENEB TIRIEL: LIZARD LORDS LOSE ANOTHER PROVINCE!
"Look at that!" Regan gasped. "The Lizards have lost even more ground, even though they have all of their technology in their grasp!" She attempted to read more of what was under the headline, but she gave up with a sigh after a few seconds and nearly crumpled the paper from the force of her closing it again. "The war has really started the worry me. I can't decide which of the Six are worst, and they're all growing more crazy by the week I swear."
Ricardo did not speak. A moment later Regan seemed to decide that he wasn't going to say anything at all and gave him a wan smile. "But there is no need for us in Foxdale to worry about that. The Green Mother protects all who stand upon elven soil."
Finally Ricardo opened his mouth, but before he could respond they were both interrupted by a loud harrumphing coming from somewhere closer the floor. The both of them looked down at the cranky, balding dwarf who was glaring up at them with a gaze that made Regan shrink away a little, even though she was twice the height of the dwarf.
"And what are you two slackers doing here?" the dwarf demanded, his beard swinging as he head whipped around to glare at Ricardo, then Regan. His gaze noted the tray tucked under Regan's arm and the towel sticking out of her pocket, and irritation flickered briefly across his expression as he clearly couldn't find any good reason to berate the elf. However when he turned to Ricardo his face darkened. "Especially you! What are you doing here sitting at the bar when there's work to be done! If I wanted someone to sit at this bar all the time I would spend less money on a statue than your salary!"
"I've already done everything, Dogberry," Ricardo said calmly, slipping his journal into his pocket.
Dogberry snorted, a fearsome noise that sounded more akin to a horse than a creature nearly ten times smaller, and put his hands on his hips. "Oh really? Even the floor?"
"That was the first thing I did when I came in," Ricardo replied, waving to the immaculately sparkling floor beneath them.
The frown on Dogberry's brow deepened. "Stocked the kitchen?"
"Yes."
"Polished the—"
"Two hours ago," Ricardo replied before he could finish, reaching over to tap one of the glasses behind the bar. Dogberry was always meticulous about the state of the glassware, to the point of saying if they didn't blind him when he held it up to the sunlight then they had to do it all over again.
"Don't you get smart with me, lad," Dogberry snarled a little. "Wiped the windows, set the tables, watered the flowers, repainted the sign?"
"I watered the flowers," Regan piped up helpfully, raising her hand. To be fair it had been a rather absurd question to ask Ricardo, as she was always the one who handled the flowers and plants outside.
Ricardo tried not to sigh. "Yes and yes, all of it is done except for the sign—" he rushed on as Dogberry opened his mouth, raising his voice a little to cut him off "—and only because the kitchen hasn't told me what the menu for today is going to be. I'll write it down as soon as they do."
The dwarf harrumphed again, in that particular and contradictory manner that people sometimes did when they found everything in order, and hated it. Instead he went to the bar and climbed the steps to his stool and began to pour himself a drink, even though Ricardo knew that if either of them so much as touched the beer in a fashion that told Dogberry that the drink would not be for a paying customer then the tongue-lashing they received would nearly strip the flesh from their bones.
Regan watched him for a moment before giggling. "You know I had no idea how much beer truly existed before I met you," she said conversationally. "I mean I knew beer existed from wheat—" Dogberry gave a small snort "—but ever so many types and from so many different grains! And now with a dwarf in one of the elven regions I see them all the time!"
"Don't get too used to it, sweetcakes," Dogberry grumbled, wiping the foam from his beard. "You have any idea how embarrassing it is for a dwarf of all things to live in a place like this? I'll be gone soon enough."
"Oh will you?" Regan replied, her gaze at once turning sly. "A lifetime ban means a lifetime ban as far as I remember. Do tell me how the dwarves have mastered the art of resurrection, because I think the undead would love to know." She watched as Dogberry choked a little and laughed. "Besides even if you died and came back to life I doubt the dwarves would let you back in Steelside anyway, considering you were kicked out because you lost more money than any one dwarven banker had in a whole century."
"Now you listen here—"
Ricardo was snickering at the two of them starting to go at it and figured that at this rate he could probably just go back to writing and neither of them would notice. Then he heard something strange that his ears immediately focused on: the sound of metal boots striking against the ground. He jumped to his feet, cutting off the ensuing banter of the other two as they both turned to look at him in surprise, but neither of them managed to get a word out before the doors to the pub opened and two humans in full armor stepped in, the symbol of the royal crest emblazoned on their breastplates.
The one on the left, a large man from the way his shoulders carried his armor, looking around and caught Ricardo with his scrutinizing gaze. "Are you the owner of this establishment?" he demanded.
"That would be me," Dogberry corrected him, coming around from behind the counter and glaring fearlessly up at the two men. Ricardo wondered for a moment who was the less intimidated of the two groups: the half-drunk dwarf or the two fully armed and armored men. "Now what you you want? If you're comin' to drink then leave your weapons at the door, no need for that nonsense here."
"We are here on business, dwarf," the man replied. "We are willing to pay a modest fee of five gold pieces—"
"Modest!" Dogberry exploded with laughter. "In Axhelm they'd chuck you both out on your miserable asses if you tried to say that to a dwarf's face."
"For five gold pieces!" the man barked, interrupting. "We are willing to buy this...establishment," he gave the place a scornful look over, "and take all responsibilities of ownership out of your hands."
Dogberry crossed his arms, looking more amused than insulted this time. "And what can you possibly want with my pub?" he asked, giving them both an equally scornful examination. "Neither of you two boneheads—I beg pardon of any undead in advance—know the first thing about running a business, unless your business involves hitting something with a sword. I'd do better selling my pub to the local cows, at least they can provide milk."
His words appeared to be having the intended effect, as Ricardo could see their hands tightening into fists and it was only their own restraint (or perhaps Dogberry's remarks) that stopped them from drawing their swords immediately. These weren't the type of men who took well to being talked back to, and to be honest probably never had to deal with such a thing before. Ricardo knew the type: bullying, brash men who were used to their very presence and appearance intimidating others into doing what they wanted in case something bad would happen to them. It was quite the hilarious stroke of irony that they had to deal with Dogberry of all people, as while dwarves were stubborn by their nature Dogberry in particular could have made rocks jealous with how little he was moved by anything.
"By the declaration of the Emperor of Rivellon," the one on the right said, his tone indicating that he had been playing nice before but now his patience was at an end and he was bringing out the big guns, "who's forces now protect the whole region of Foxdale, all business establishments are to be either purchased at the end of the month or declare their allegiance. Doing so would be very wise for you, indeed."
His words were like barbs in Ricardo's stomach, and he couldn't stop himself from interjecting. "Rivellon has no Emperor," he said, his voice calm and yet tense, slicing through the air of the pub.
The larger of the two men looked at him and decided that he was a better person to talk to, with Dogberry muttering to his companion about how "protection" was just a fancy way of them saying "occupation." He took a step forward, squaring himself up to Ricardo and looking him right in the eye. To give him credit he at least tried not to look too intimidated at the blazing inferno in front of him. "The future king Avaritia has graciously decided to spread his generous hand over the five elven provinces, setting his foundation for his eventual rise to the throne. You would be wise to remember that, boy, and to thank him for his consideration."
Feather-blond hair swept stylishly across his head, Avaritia always wanted to project his air of elegance and refinement down to every strand. But it never worked, for the scornful blue eyes that always looked down at everyone else from his long nose always marred his image beyond repair. And worst was that if he was even aware of it, he did not care. His hand would always come up to adjust his glasses better upon his nose and then he would dismiss anyone as easily as that, if they were no more than a fly in his presence, while he went back to absorbing himself in the tasks he had set out before himself.
Ricardo shook himself from the image, coming back to the present. He couldn't have spaced out for more than a moment or two, because the soldier was still clearly awaiting a response, and he met the man's eyes again. Although this time, he noticed, Dogberry and the other guard had quieted down and were looking at him for a response as well. Ricardo squared his shoulders, trying not to smirk at the fact that he was a good inch or two taller than the man before him, and spoke in a voice that would brook no argument: "I think we've heard enough. If neither are you are going to buy a drink, then you should leave before things get ugly."
"Threatening the heralds of Emperor Avaritia is not a good idea, boy," one of the soldiers laughed.
"It's a warning, not the threat," Ricardo said, taking a step forward until his chest was pressed right up against the armor of the guard's uniform. "Get out."
He knew it was happen long before it did, but Ricardo made no move to prevent it. The soldier look at him with derision and anger, and then suddenly his fist, sheathed in the protection of his thick metal gauntlet, flew out to crash squarely against the soft flesh of Ricardo's cheek. Except it was the guard who cried out in pain from the impact, falling back a step as he cradled his hand, while Ricardo for the most past seemed unharmed except for a small cut that was starting to bleed.
Everyone else stared in utter amazement, while the injured guard sputtered in his rage and embarrassment. He launched himself at Ricardo again, determined to make the younger man falter or at the very least show some sign of pain. And yet while punch after punch landed, Ricardo stoically bore it all, even when the fist ended up hitting him directly in the eye. Red bloomed across his skin from the hit, but the soldier still seemed to be the one who was suffering more, as he was holding back grunts of pain each time his blows connected.
"Hey, cut it out!" Regan could finally take the sight no more and began to run forward. "Stop it! I'll get the guard!"
The other soldier moved, in a flash he had grabbed her arm and yanked her back, making her cry out. "Didn't you understand, you stupid bitch?" the soldier snarled, starting to draw his sword. "We are the guard now!"
That finally sprung Ricardo into action. He swatted the next blow away from his face easily, and used his opening to grab the soldier by his neck and lift him off his feet. The man sputtered and choked, amazement and fear flitting across his face as Ricardo performed the feat with seemingly no effort whatsoever, and tried to flail his legs to kick at the man. Ricardo was unfazed and turned, using the strength of his body to hurl the soldier into his smaller companion. The two of them smashed together with an earsplitting clang of metal against metal and fell into one of the tables, shattering it under their combined weight. Regan managed to break free in the chaos, sprinting away until she managed to jump over the bar to put some distance between her and the men.
They were busy trying to pick themselves up and tripping over planks of wood, swearing and looking for their swords. Ricardo strode over, his eyes bright like fire, and grabbed the both of them by the back of their necks and hauled them up. "Like I said," he snarled, giving them both a shake, "this particular shithole isn't up for purchase."
"What did you call it?!" Dogberry snapped.
"So you get out, now, and never even think of returning" Ricardo finished before hauling them over to the door and throwing them into the street.
The both of them looked up to try and glare at Ricardo, but paled under the burning fury in his eyes. Without another word they picked themselves up and hurried away, and Ricardo slammed the door behind them.
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, for a moment imagining that he could smell smoke, before he turned around and headed back.
Dogberry was tapping his foot, standing directly in front of the mess he had just made of the table. "You're buying a new one."
