EDIT 13-2-12:
Edited again. Please leave a review before adding it to your favourites.
AN: This is a drabble that I promised someone. Something light, and easy to digest.
Nostos Algos
Disclaimer: If I owned this, then there would be more Rachel.
Word Count: 583
Summary: The feeling of lost isn't new to you. Ever since you came here, you have dreams that are growing with nonsense, a swirling face, and nostalgia. And when you are awake, you just feel confuse, as if you thought the dreams were the answers that never came.
A dream which is not interpreted is like a letter which is not read. —The Talmud
In dreams, we enter a world that's entirely our own. —Steven Kloves, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (movie)
The feeling of lost isn't new to you. Ever since you came here, you have dreams that are growing with nonsense, a swirling face, and nostalgia. And when you are awake, you just feel confuse, as if you thought the dreams were the answers that never came.
You close your eyes as you go to sleep. And then you dive headfirst into your conscious; and all you see is nothing.
Nothingness, and the feel of water coating your skin.
Colours drips around you, painting a scene of a shabby boat that is tipping over and a girl standing over you.
Her orange shirt is soaking with running water, trickles fell down the hem and is joining in with the larger body. A blue hat of some kind is in her pocket, water darkens the colour and made it stand out from the bright, cotton orange and the foliage greens.
Her pale lips move, saying a name. But you can't hear her. It is as if you were underwater and the only thing you could hear is the pulsing echoes from all around you.
You are confuse. Who is she?
Strands of her curls escape from her hair-tie. You reach your hand out to brush them away, but you're still on the ground.
She reaches her hand out to you, her grey eyes sparking with laughter, she's saying something again. Why can't you hear her?
Her skin feels rough, calluses and scars mark the skin like badges of honour. Two of her fingers bracelet themselves around your wrist and she helps you up.
The most amazing thing is that she feels solid—real.
You tower over her with shaky knees and you brush away the hair that is in her face. You want to say something to this mysterious girl. But what? She could only be a figment of your dream; made out of only desire and imagination.
There is a sharp expression on her face as she looks up at you. Sadness, made the laughter in those eyes burn out like something blowing out a candle's flame.
She speaks again, but slower so that you can read her lips.
I miss you.
Words clog your throat. You know this girl, and the nostalgia is burning up inside of you. You want to hear her voice, to know her name, and what connection you have with her.
Then everything starts to melt away. Colours blend together, whispering the unknown, the scene deflates and collapses, and you hold onto her, the only real thing in your dream.
And then she's gone. Barely anything left that proves that she can exist.
As you wake up to the reality that has no common ground; there is a name—a ghostly whisper of one—that dances over the edge of your feeble memory.
Annabeth.