Author's Note: Renault is a character who I often have overlooked since I never used him in the game due to his late entry. However, having read a few chapters of 'Wayward Son' by Gunlord500, I've come to realise just how much introspective potential his backstory is. I haven't written many intensely introspective fics in a long time, so I thought that writing Renault in a dream - a state where one's subconscious and conscious are deeply connected - would be a very rewarding experience. I have to say, being able to come back to this almost purely contemplative style using the free-flowing style involved in writing dreams has been remarkably refreshing. In writing this fic, I've tried to manifest Renault's feelings and emotions considering his past and current existence as how it could appear in a dream, and I feel I've managed to succeed to some degree. But that's just my own biased opinion - you can read it and review all about it ^^
Dark Dreams, Sleep Eternal
by Lacunose
Water was never meant to be black. It was always meant to be a pure, serene, neutral colour which reflects whatever is around it. Water was peace, like the glassy surface of the lake, and water was violence, like the raging waves of the storm. To contemplate on water was to contemplate on life, on self, on how the fickle nature of man was dwarfed by the transcendent will of the seas and rivers. Water was formless, but because of that, it was all forms. Water was change - water was vibrant. But never black.
Yet it was in this endless abyss of darkness that his eyes stared around, the light in them extinguished by the complete, pure emptiness of the water. His body curled up, trying to protect itself from the huge shadow that threatened to engulf it. His entire body was meant to be warm, but he could feel with every burst of blood that his heart sent pumping through his veins that they were freezing with every inch that they went.
He tried to blink. He was meant to see, but he couldn't see anything. There was no difference between closed eyes and open. There was nothing that he could see. Nothing but complete and utter darkness with the occasional blur that passed by every now and then. He didn't care about them. There was nothing- and as long as there was nothing, he was safe, alone with his fears.
He tried to wake. He was meant to be asleep, but the water kept him inside a state of waking, but not waking. Inside the water, he was dreaming wide awake, dreaming of wondering if he was dreaming. He was without strength, without breath, without life - a fact of existence, hanging inside the endless void of waves and ripples that he could neither see nor feel. The world outside was no world, as there was nothing beyond the water. The water was real. Here, he could lose himself in emotionlessness. How he wished that could be so.
Something moved. Another blur- nothing that he needed to set his mind on. Not that his mind was anywhere at the moment. He had forgotten how to feel, they were words- shapes that appeared in his head, that fitted together in a pattern that was supposed to make sense but didn't. The blur moved again. Irritating. This was not a place to share, and this 'other' was intruding. He wanted to shout something at it, but what would he say? "Go to hell"? He would have smiled at the irony of this, if he remembered how to smile.
There it was- it was definitely there. It seemed to be a dark shade of blue, floating but also moving in a direction. He could only just make out the outline of the shape- long, and slender, like a spindle. As he forced his eyes wider, he began to see more of the features- a man. He was dressed in armour, and his eyes seemed closed. His mouth was open in a non-existent moan - breathless, motionless, frozen. He floated across his view, drifting slowly, his the locks of his hair undulating slowly as they clung to the man's lifeless head. A word seemed to linger in the space between them, but his frozen mind failed to read it. It was slow, letter by letter, like waxen drops on cold, bare skin - but somehow, he pieced together a name that went with the face.
His eyes widened fully, and he opened his mouth in horror, bubbles escaping from his mouth. Memories came rushing in - terrible, awful memories that reminded him of the existence of time, of past horrors and future pain. How he had met him during his service to a noble house. How he had come to call him 'friend'. How the same man had fought by his side. How the same man had died by his side. Now, his wordless lips filled him with agony and longing. Friend! A friend no more, for he was gone.
Another corpse drifted into view. His mind, spurred by one memory, took little time to recognised another - this was the first man which he had killed, one who had begged for his life, then tried to kill him as he loosened his grip. The scar where he had drawn his blade across his throat was still bleeding. How the anger had burnt him! How it had fuelled him! That wrathful wound now a macabre gush of smoke that was lost in the pitch black oblivion of the water, only seen against the deathly-white fluorescence of the wretched carcass.
He felt something touch him on his back. He yelled as he twisted around, his limbs suddenly realising that they needed to move. His gaze fell on the thing that had touched him. It was a dagger hilt, its steely shine dampened by the black ice that flowed from the body from which it protruded from. Suddenly, he had a hand, gripping that gruesome handle as the blood wound itself around his fist. He pulled his hand away, staring in horror at the blond hair that reached out from the man's skull - reaching for him, to seize him and ensnare him -
His hand struck another. This time it was one of his comrades- one of his first failures as a soldier. He had tried to stop him from going into the crossfire, but he was hot-headed and foolish. He was over-confident. He had been cut down, that gruesome gash on his stomach still spewing dark blood into the nothingness. He had been barely over nineteen, who had had his whole life in front of him, only to be ended by the single swing of a sword. That same shock as his shouted name fell upon dead ears was still etched cruelly onto his face.
As he kept on turning, his eyes saw dozens of corpses, their eyes closed, all of their looks of death different, yet horribly identical. Each one was a lost comrade, a man he had killed, a close friend. Everyone whom he had ever known was there, floating about in the dark water, their mouths open in a silent scream.
And he screamed. His cries of terror and despair echoed through the murk of the water, but he knew that no-one would hear him. Only the bubbles sped out of his mouth, like grains of sand on a countdown to his death. He suddenly realised that his body had returned, muscles and lungs that needed air. He tried to claw his way to the surface, but he couldn't see. There was a deadly silence, even his own heart was soundless as he engaged in a desperate struggle with the darkness to sweep it away, trying to find a source of light.
But there was always the water, the black, dark, chasm which he had fallen into. That water which was not water, but blood - a sea of war, greed, anger, ambition and death, so much death. And still the corpses surrounded him, a livid collection of thousands of nightmares, the blackness pouring out from the holes in the innumerable bodies, their life still gushing forth from their wounds to claim him - tormenting him, killing him.
He wrapped his hands around his head, and he screamed again, resuming his fetal position, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was lost, and there was nothing. What could he do? How could he say sorry? How could he make up for the terrible things that he had seen, all of the terrible pains that he had administered on countless mothers, comrades and friends? He deserved to stay with them, become a nightmare with them, staring forever into nothing, and his mouth open in an endless scream. His eyes closed shut, and as his life seemed to ebb away, he saw no difference as he went from knowing he was in darkness to knowing nothing at all.
His eyes opened. There was darkness again. He was here. Among the nightmares of the past and present and future, the realities of war. He was aware of the shadowy walls of his dwelling, his cage and punishment for the beast he had become. He was awake.
And there were voices… the voices that he never heard, but rather felt- being projected into his existence, whispering, suggesting, but he could never tell what was actually being said. Words that he could comprehend but never understand. His brain seemed to know what it was that the voices were saying, but forgot to tell him what it knew. They were just words again- words alone, with no meaning.
Hector! Take out that valkyrie!
Yeah, I'm on it! Ugh, these things just keep on coming - Lucius, fall back to those ruins! You're only going to get hurt over here!
Yes, Lord Hector - wait, it looks like...
Again, he closed his eyes, waiting, waiting for someone to tell them to stop, just to let him sleep again. He unclosed one fist, as if to wave the voices away. But the sounds persisted, cutting through the enigma of his prison and he eventually forced his body to rise from his bed. These were noises of battle - how he wished he never had to hear that sound again. The shadows on the walls now shifted, and he was suddenly reminded of the shapes in his dream. There was someone here.
A figure with long blond hair, dressed in the white robes of the clergy stepped around the corner. A priest. How ironic that his sleep should be disturbed by a holy man - not the mockery which he claimed of himself. This was what he had aspired to be - that same purity in his blue eyes, that face untroubled with the lines of sin. A lifetime of atonement - even one of a length such as his own - meant nothing before the sin forever torn into the pages of immortality.
'So noisy...' he muttered as he picked up his staff from its place next to his bed.
As stepped out into the light to meet the stranger, he spared a glance behind him, where the darkness of his past lingered amidst the shadows of the walls, their silence still left unanswered even as the sounds of conflict that raged in the world outside. Was this truly why he had been here, tortured by the ghosts of the past, coming so close to that endless sleep but being forced to cling to life? Was his calling here not to reflect on his sins, but to atone for them with the sword? People were fighting here, very possibly dying. There was no doubt from the silence of the unearthly morphs that they fought that the evil they pursued was the same blight which clutched to his own past like a disease - the infection caused by his own misdeeds. This was the time for his atonement.
He shook the remnants of his dream from his eyes as the sunlight cut into them - that same dream he had seen every night since his eternity began. Perhaps this time... no. It would come to an end today.