Blood everywhere, coating his hands, soaking the heavy black fabric of his clothes. The cracks in his skin run red with it and he tries to breathe, tries to suck in a breath and the blood is constricting his chest so tight, his lungs refusing to expand.
He's drowning, here, in this lake of his own making, floating, turned over in a wave of blood. It sears his throat, hot as an iron when he swallows it, his clothes ripped and torn.
There they lie, the trail of his knife. But he had to kill them, he had to, otherwise they would kill him. His knife slipped through their skin as easy as if they were made of mist, plunging deep and twisting and they dissipated in front of him, swirling and coagulating, haemorrhaging beneath his hands.
Oh, but he had to. He had to.
He's pulled free of the lake, dangling above it, the Punjab tight about his throat. And if it was suffering before it's something more now, trachea crushed and vertebrae cracked. And he can't breathe, a block of travertine upon his chest, the noose pulled tighter and tighter. The lake shatters before his eyes, crumbling to the ground, shards of broken mirror. His wrists sear hot with the burning pain, but he couldn't have shattered it because his hands are bound behind his back and the lake is – was – outside this cage.
The floor of the cage rushes up to meet him, shattering his shoulder and the noose is gone but the pain lances through him and he can't breathe. Still can't breathe and there's blood in his mouth and why can't he breathe if the noose is gone? It makes no sense.
"You said several of your knives were admirably suited for the purpose." The voice echoes, reverberating through his bones and his dear, poor Christine looks down on him, blood staining her white wedding gown, daubed across the pale canvas of her forehead. The hilt of the knife in his chest jumps with his heart, her eyes dark and hollow. "You should have known, Erik, husband dear."
Erik jolts awake, trembling and gasping, the air cold on his face. Ayesha yowls beside him, batting at his face. The very walls press in on him, closing tight, squeezing all of the air out of the room. He has to move, has to get out, every fibre of his being crying out for escape. That's not his Christine, his Christine would never do that but oh, God he needs to get away. His legs buckle beneath him and suddenly he's out, beside the lake, falling to his knees beside the water's edge.
A dream – a nightmare. Nothing more. No Punjab around neck, the scars on his wrists old, long since past the point of feeling pain, yet his hands shake, fingers twitching. No blood stains his skin. A nightmare. His hands swim before his eyes, burning hot now with tears. No Christine.
No blood. And no Christine. And he's shaking, but not with relief.