Waking Dreams
Part 1
Antar- Four Square
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What did Tess mean when she said Max wouldn't remember Liz on Antar? What if they had left in Departure before Liz and Maria unearthed the truth? Strange things are happening on Antar, and the time draws near when truth will finally come to light...
A/N Hi! I've been back for a few days now but this is the first time I've had to use the computer. I've altered the first chapter slightly as I realised something was wrong so feel free to check that out, though it's a very minor addition! The next chapter of Thin Line will be up today or tomorrow. Thanks a lot to my reviewers (viv, smile1, Nicloe, Jrae3, Alyanah, maxandlizlover ParkerEvanss- you'll get your answers eventually :P). I haven't checked my email yet so if you reviewed via that sorry for not mentioning you. So, on with the show!
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"People are lonely in this world for lots of different reasons. Some people have something in their disposition; maybe they were just born too mean or maybe they were born too tender; but most people are brought to where they are by circumstance- by calamity or a broken heart or something else happening in their lives that wasn't anything they planned on.
People are lonely in this world for lots of different reasons. The one thing that I do know is, it doesn't matter what anyone of them might tell you; nobody wants to be alone." Allie in Taken
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The robes were white and silken. They draped her form peacefully, clinging to every curve of her skin. They formed the illusion of beauty, purity and compassion. All the qualities she should have; all the qualities she lacked. She absentmindedly brought a hand to her cheeks, the sticky wetness on them cooling her fingertips even as she reached forward to the table in front of her.
She began with her cheeks, covering the tearstains with a thin layer of foundation. Blusher gave the picture of rosy happiness, a stark contrast to the unhappiness that veiled her eyes. Her lips were painted a perfect red and with eye shadow and liner she touched up the mask she lived behind.
The mascara was the final touch. She blackened each eyelash slowly, stretching out the time till her new identity became complete. In time it would be. She had lived too long behind it to be able to take it off with ease.
She played her part. She always had done. She always would do.
A pin lay on the table before her. She raised it slowly to her eye, separating each lash from its neighbour. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, pin obscuring one eye. It would be so easy to end it now. The pin, metallic grey except where mascara blackened it, was so close. One slip, one slight push and it would be embedded in her eye, scarring her face. Would she feel it piercing each layer as it entered?
She imagined the blood, perfect in its vibrant red. First a slow trail of liquid travelling down her cheek. Then an odd metallic taste gracing her mouth as it made its way gradually down her face, before dripping silently from her chin on to the perfect whiteness of her robes, forever marring the cleanliness she was supposed to represent.
What would they do then?
She brought the pin even closer. It was now only millimetres from her eye and she could see every speck of the black mascara that dirtied the metal point. She could now almost feel it entering her eye, cutting through the perfect blue iris.
She could almost feel the guilt trickling away with the blood, the beauty of relief flowing in its place, as she would laugh properly for the first time in five years. That would be how they would find her- laughing as blood trickled from her eyes, pins in both now. They would think she was crazy, and none would realise how sane she truly was.
If she couldn't see, the illusion would be shattered, and then perhaps they would leave her alone. The ghosts of past mistakes that haunted her every step. It would all be over.
Her hand shook with longing, bringing the pin right up to the edge of her eye. Just one small prick...
A small sigh, more of a breath really, brought her to her senses, and with trembling hands she put the pin back down on the table. She couldn't do it. She could never do it.
She made her way over to the bed where a small head poked out from under thick blankets. She sat next to him, on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly stroking a hand through his hair. It was soft and silky, like that of his father, only his curled slightly, a trait inherited from her. As she watched him lost in his dreams, she became aware of tears once more prickling at the edges of her eyes.
He rolled away from her as she pulled away reluctantly, scrunching her eyes to stop tears flowing. She left the room with only one last look at the pin on the table, her head held high.
She was Queen Ava of Antar and she had chosen this life, this destiny, a long time ago. She would not cry over it.
But always, at the back of her mind, the forbidden word haunted her thoughts, and she knew where she must go.
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Vilondra, High Princess and third in line to the throne, looked down with disbelieving eyes at the bundle before her. Could this small bundle of perfection really be half hers?
Nestled in a blanket, dark hair was all that showed of her two-day-old son as he turned and yawned slowly before returning to his slumber.
The days had been so hectic, and she had been so tired after the birthing, that this was the first time she had really been alone with her small son. This was the first time she had really looked at him.
Originally she had been shocked at the likeness to his father. To be honest it had made her shudder, the way his face looked to become almost an exact replica of the man she called husband. But now, as he sleepily opened his eyes she caught her breath. The eyes that stared back at her were not the crystal blue of his father, but the dark brown that she recognised as her own.
With a soft cry she bent down to gather him to her chest, softly rubbing her cheek against his smooth satin one. In his eyes she had seen his potential; to be kind and good and nothing like the man who fathered him.
She vowed then that she would never fail her son, like her mother had failed her. She would love him enough to make up for the fact his father did not.
She was unaware when the first tears began to fall, but before she knew it they streamed down her cheeks, splashing lightly on to the soft skin of her son and he squirmed away. She put him down and let them flow unrestrained, a release of all the emotions she had kept locked inside.
She cried for her husband, whom she did not love; she cried for her brother who seemed so empty; but most of all she cried for her son, whom she could not name.
She had tried every name she could think of, yet none fit. They all seemed harsh and wrong somehow- Seyoph, Meani, Yorcut, Zydi- she'd run through them all, yet she knew none were for her son. He had a special name that floated just out of reach, and try as she might, she could not find it.
It was tear blurred eyes that she saw her sister-in-law pass the door, and without thinking she called out. Ava had seemed to know instinctively the right name for her son. Even though it was a name no one seemed to have heard before, they all knew it fit him perfectly. Maybe Ava would know the name for her son too.
The two women embraced, Vilondra sobbing into Ava's chest, the words barely intelligible, "I can't name him." She cried harder, realising what that made her. A mother that couldn't even name her child didn't deserve one.
Ava looked down at the baby, releasing Vilondra long enough to stroke his hand, which clenched round her finger. A dreamy smile crossed her face, as she seemed to talk without thinking. "He's beautiful. I always knew you'd have beautiful children." She withdrew her hand from the baby's grasp. "As for a name, his name is Alexander. His name is Alex."
Later Vilondra would remember that Ava had stiffened as she realised what she had said. That she had looked at her with almost fear in her eyes and had glanced around to check no one else had heard. Later she would wonder what had been wrong with Ava, but at that moment she had been enraptured with her son and the name she knew was meant for him.
"Alex."
Candles surrounded her, music played softly from behind and she was so safe in his arms. She was loved in his arms and she knew then that she could trust him for now and eternity. They whirled around and for the first time she knew hope. Hope that everything would turn out all right. Hope that they would be accepted. Hope that finally she could let someone in.
"Alex is perfect."
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The prisoner who was not a prisoner sat on the floor of his chamber. He had a bed and several chairs, but he saw them for what they were- enticements to forget who he was and take up the role they had prepared for him. So he sat on the floor, its hardness reminding him not to let his guard down
His clothes were of a fine weave. He had no choice but to wear these, as his others had fallen apart after years of continuous use. Untouched food lay on the tabletop. He would eat, but only when hunger drove him to it.
Every time he was forced to concede and do what they wished, eat their food, wear their clothes, he could feel himself lose another small battle. Only through sheer determination and faith was he still in this war. He would not give up though. He knew what they wanted, what they fought for and he would not give it up.
There was no outward sign to show he was a prisoner. He could leave his room freely, walk around the palace, do whatever he wished unless it brought him too close to a place he was not meant to be. Then the pain in his head brought him to his knees and he was forced to make his way back the direction he had come.
But the prisoner who was not a prisoner did not give up. Even on the bad days where he almost believed what they said, where he almost believed it was he that was mad, he kept faith that one day he would find his home.
But until that day, he sat on the floor, its hardness a comfort, and lost himself in dreams. He would not allow them to see the pleasure of seeing the torment he was in, so he kept his thoughts carefully in his mind, repeating them over and over- a mantra with which to face the day.
I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy. Maria. I didn't make you up. I'm not crazy.
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He was tired. Very tired.
His eyes itched and images twisted in front of him, people changing form even as he looked at them.
He couldn't shake the sights of last night's dream from his head. He knew somehow that he had experienced the dream many times before, yet only now was he remembering it.
Their hold is slipping
He spun round but there was no one there. He rubbed his head. He needed to lie down.
Everywhere he turned the appiritions followed him. He remembered those lips and how he had sunk into them, as if they had been made just for him.
He shook his head, trying to shake the images out.
A new vision hovered before his eyes. His wife, crying silently in James' room that morning.
She grows unwilling
He rested against a nearby wall as his vision swum.
He was going crazy.
There was no other explanation for the voices in his head and the odd dreams.
He felt almost relieved that he could put a label to his malady. What would Lonnie think? He grinned. She'd send him to a shrink for sure.
Only a minute later he realised he had no idea what a shrink was.
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And the eyes that saw all knew the time had come for the first step to be taken.
It had begun.
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As always please R R and tell me what you think
Love
Kat
