It came again, night after night. If she was asleep, she would awaken and
lie there, in the black, frozen. The night sky was always smothered in
clouds; the candles left burning after the fourth recurrence always burnt
out; the black always impenetrable, suffocating. The windows were somehow
open; there was not a sound, not a movement, inside or out. And yet she
knew it was there.
She dared not move, dared not breathe. Though it had been warm out when she fell asleep, and would be again when she awoke, no doubt-it being the middle of summer-the air was suddenly chill, of a sudden full of dread, of anguish, or fear.
It was there. Its presence ate at her, froze her and peeled scraps of her away like dead skin, leaving her raw and vulnerable. She never felt it come-it was just there of a sudden, and felt as though it had always been and would always be, even though she knew it had not. And then a chill breeze swept through the chamber, full of despair and sorrow, and the presence was gone.
She never felt the warmth return, for she had already fallen back into slumber. In the morning, and during the day, she did not remember, or remembered it but a dream, a recurring nightmare, but nothing to fear; she'd had them before. Yet at night, alone and sick at heart, she knew they were no dreams. They were real; and clawed at her soul, stole at her reason, her courage, her sanity. Every night, she fought it with all her will, all her might. But it was like fighting an uphill battle. And she was losing. She knew it; at night she knew, but by day forgot.
Her days passed as they always had, with two exceptions; she was prone to short, sudden bursts of melancholy and loneliness, and rarely spent time with her friends. Her days were spent practicing combat, riding, or in the library, reading.
She dared not move, dared not breathe. Though it had been warm out when she fell asleep, and would be again when she awoke, no doubt-it being the middle of summer-the air was suddenly chill, of a sudden full of dread, of anguish, or fear.
It was there. Its presence ate at her, froze her and peeled scraps of her away like dead skin, leaving her raw and vulnerable. She never felt it come-it was just there of a sudden, and felt as though it had always been and would always be, even though she knew it had not. And then a chill breeze swept through the chamber, full of despair and sorrow, and the presence was gone.
She never felt the warmth return, for she had already fallen back into slumber. In the morning, and during the day, she did not remember, or remembered it but a dream, a recurring nightmare, but nothing to fear; she'd had them before. Yet at night, alone and sick at heart, she knew they were no dreams. They were real; and clawed at her soul, stole at her reason, her courage, her sanity. Every night, she fought it with all her will, all her might. But it was like fighting an uphill battle. And she was losing. She knew it; at night she knew, but by day forgot.
Her days passed as they always had, with two exceptions; she was prone to short, sudden bursts of melancholy and loneliness, and rarely spent time with her friends. Her days were spent practicing combat, riding, or in the library, reading.