A/N: This actually a continuation of "So come with me, where dreams are born," though you don't have to read it to understand this one. There is a part three in the works. Un-betaed. Please enjoy!
Emma is dreaming again.
She is surrounded by majestic mountains, hills of gold carved intricately into the great cavern, with their peaks stretching beautifully into a startling, twinkling night sky. As she takes a soft step, the great mounds sway and she realizes then that they are not a work of astonishing art but actual piles upon piles of exquisite gold. Rubies and sapphires stick out among the heaps like stars, dancing merrily across the waves. The floor is uneven with jagged edges poking out at the recesses, and when she looks down she notices the bones.
They are laid out in subtle patterns, some forming letters and words in languages she can't understand and others splayed out into magnificent scenes. There is a complete skeleton of a horse and its gallant rider and as she approaches it, the horse gallops away, leaving her lonely and confused. The room shudders as she glares in the direction of the fleeing horse and many of the golden piles begin to topple, coins and jewelry now scattered on the floor making the scenes move to accommodate them. The cavern groans, releasing a loud sigh, and the bones shift again, now depicting scenes of war and dread and shame. She watches as a young maiden dashes out of a forest and falls, an arrow buried into her stomach while a wolf savagely plunders her neck. A beautiful woman approaches and thrusts her hand into the maiden's chest. Emma looks away in horror.
"Come," he says and she can hear the slight hint of worry in his voice. "Everything we need is right in front of us."
He grabs her hand and she lets him lead her, casually stepping on the skeletons, the dull crunch resonating ominously throughout the room. His hand is warm and large and Emma feels the tingle from their touch rise slowly up her arms. His touch is oddly soothing and familiar and so she welcomes it.
They walk for hours in silence, hand-in-hand, and Emma observes the seas of gold froth about without ceasing. Every few steps, a tree sprouts from the ocean's depths and scatters coconuts and beans across the floor. She reaches out to grab one but he holds her back and she knows instantly that they are made of poison. A coconut cracks open on its own and a green vapor emerges.
"It's about a hundred paces ahead," he says and she nods in acquiescence.
Somewhere along their journey she has lost her shoes and the edges of her elegant gown are now in tattered ruins. She scowls in contempt and sighs. It wouldn't do to dwell on lost causes but the dress is important, she just knows, and she is sure that whoever they were meeting will find disapproval in her dress.
"Don't worry about it, love." He stops and places a lock of golden hair behind her ear. "You won't need it where we are going."
She stares into his eyes—they are blue or green or clear or transparent, she can't be sure—and smiles, the relief engulfing her in a rush. His fingers settle on her cheek and the tingle that she felt earlier returns so violently that it grows into a burn that consumes her slowly from the inside out.
"Who are you?" she asks but she already knows the answer.
He smiles softly and says nothing.
She reaches over and grasps his collar, pulling him closely to her face. She wants to kiss him, she doesn't know why, but it feels right and even though she has never met him in her life, she knows (and she is certain that he knows her), and comprehension settles in her consciousness that whatever reasons she had to doubt him are false and that he will lead her to the truth. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, the smell of the leather overwhelming her and it brings the prickle of tears to her eyes. In a daze, she leans forward, pressing her forehead to his, and nudges his nose gently.
"We are slaves of time," he whispers and runs tender fingers through her hair. "Time is running out. Tick tock."
An unsettling feeling forms in her chest and she can't help the frown that blooms on her face. They have done this before. She is sure of it. "Okay," she says.
They continue to tread upon the ruins, spires of gold forming a narrowing canopy above their heads, and the skulls become abundant as they quickly approach their objective. The stony floor has now become sand, made of coarse grains the color of pearls gleaming in a setting sun, and there is a small islet of palm trees where in their center lies a large glittering dais made of bleached stone. Resting elegantly atop the dais, almost mockingly, is a glass coffin.
"Is that it?"
"Aye," he replies and he releases her hand and places his own on her lower back. It feels strange yet comforting and she isn't certain why she is allowing this complete stranger to touch her so intimately. But it feels natural and inevitable and somewhere in the faint recesses of her mind she is aware that she is dreaming and that it doesn't matter anyway. She will wake up and forget. She always does.
She lets him lead her to the dais and as they reach the edge he stops her. She feels something cool and metallic around her wrist. "You have to rest now, Emma," he says in a lilting voice that rolls like waves in the turbulent sea. "It is time for you to sleep."
"But I am asleep," Emma says and the room grows darker. The trees seem to sway as if in a trance and the labyrinthine embellishments on the coffin streak across its surface like snakes evading a predator. A deafening rumble echoes through the chamber and a dreadful fear clenches in her gut. "What was that?"
It is the first time she sees his face look so indescribably sad. He looks to the ground and murmurs, "Tick tock."
The panic seizes her in a strong, unrelenting grip. She doesn't see that the room has faded away, leaving only her and the stranger alone by the dais. "I don't want to go." Her voice breaks on the last syllable and the rumble thunders once again.
"Tick tock." His lips never move but his voice rings in her ears.
"No," she begs, and it comes out in a choked whisper. Her eyelids feel like lead and she realizes with dismay that she now lies in the glass coffin. "I'm not done."
She feels his hand stroke her cheek and glide gently across her lips. "I know."
The coffin quivers under the force of the rumble.
Tick tock.
Emma tries desperately to open her eyes. She hears a soft click and she knows that he has now encased her in a glass prison. She allows herself to relax and to just let the spell take her. Dream of me, she thinks he whispers and her last thoughts are of gold and stars and the ocean… She falls into a deep sleep.
The thunder booms from all sides.
Tick tock.
The buzzing of the alarm clock startles her from sleep and Emma reaches an unsteady hand to the snooze button. It is 8:15 and she wonders blearily why she would choose to wake up on a Saturday at such an ungodly hour.
Oh, right. A day out with Henry.
She stretches leisurely on her bed for several minutes and contemplates her plans for the day. She rises from bed and makes it, and then freshens up in the bathroom. Not bothering to do anything with her hair but run her fingers through, she proceeds to the kitchen to make breakfast. Henry arrives some minutes later, having always been an early riser and begins watering their numerous plants in the living room. Emma turns every so often to watch her son, smiling at his tired expression as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes.
When he finally sits down, she serves them both some orange juice and cocoa and places their breakfast on the table. The gentle melody from the stereo fills the air.
"Mom, you forgot something," Henry says helpfully.
"Right. Cinammon," Emma replies, and pats him on the back. She retrieves the cinnamon and places it next to his plate. "There you go," she says before settling in her seat to enjoy her meal.
They clink their mugs together in a toast and take a hardy sip. Emma barely has time to set her mug down before there is a loud thump at the front door and she frowns.
"Someone coming over?" Henry asks curiously.
"No," she answers. The knock sounds again and it is more brash and insistent. She is surprised by her startled reaction, heart beating vigorously against her ribcage, and she considers for a moment not answering. Yet there is something almost impatient and miserable about the knocking and a sort of pulling forms in her chest and so she rises, throwing down her napkin in her haste.
"Henry, wait here."
Emma turns off the stereo before hurriedly striding to the door and she almost stumbles in an attempt to stop herself from running.
What the hell?
She cautiously opens the door.
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