Some kind of magic

Macabre shadows came to life, she could not see at first but she felt them moving all around while the fierce neighs pierced through the silence.
The leather strains stretching and snapping from the vigorous struggle of a dark horse going mad with fear and fury. That horrible noise... His eyes, oh, she could envision the vessels bursting under pressure, painting those bewildered eyes in red, mottled with blood, but she did not want to look.

There was something heavy, as if some sinister creature was bringing her body down, pressing heavily on her ribcage, disabling her from any movement like a giant spider. That's why the horse went crazy. Even the animal knew and wanted to run him over, thumping him to death with those heavy iron shod hooves, but the straps wouldn't break. She was helpless, fighting in vain, her body wouldn't obey her mind. The weight was crushing her down, she could almost hear her chest collapse as the air was squeezed out.

Not again...

A dream. ...that dream... So vivid. She was paralyzed.
She couldn't even open her eyes but the images were there nonetheless, forming spontaneously as the moment seemed to have no ending.

Then the disturbing pictures vanished into blackness.

She couldn't breathe. She could not gasp for a single breath of air.

And she fought so hard.

I can't wake up!

Locked in a dream, she was completely aware, all her attention went to her inability to move. If only one single movement! Just one... She would know. She would believe that the nightmare would be over in that single life-saving intake of air.

The dread has overflown her, like an alabaster shell restraining her every desperate attempt to move. Perhaps a finger, deep down in some forgotten corner of her mind something was telling her that it should help. Maybe just a tip of the finger, all her focus was on one sole movement. The numbness of her limp body made her panic every time.

This is my body!

Her heart pounded amok, threatening to burst. Reminding herself to breathe, she kept trying.

I can't move... I can't wake up...

Her finger yanked. Harder than moving a rock but she did it again, it moved, her fist clenched in an effort to take control. It would be alright, she thought, somewhere deep inside knowing that she should open her eyes because this can't last, this couldn't be it.
But the alarm in her brain still declined to accept that fact as the body refused to cooperate. The confusion and the exhaustion took over and just for a brief instant she resigned and got sucked back into the paralyzing pandemonium. No! It is a dream!

With a forceful twitch she started, gasping for air which burned her lungs.
Breathing.
Living.
Perhaps she would have shrieked if her lungs could have forced the process of it. Sitting up, she began explaining the latest experience to herself.

This had happened many times before.

Each time gave her a fright.
How she hated those incidents in which she couldn't make the tiniest move! Commonly, there wasn't much to describe them, just the agonizing inability to wake up and breathe in, ever since her childhood, even before that night. Usually, it would end in a sudden hitch and it would be over.
The worst part was the awareness of it all and the doubt that perhaps this time, there would be no waking. Not entirely a dream, she learned with time, perhaps a moment of transition between a dream and reality, when her body seemed to be numb and late in reacting.
It filled her with terror, to stay that way, captured inside.

Pulling the covers off, as the rustle ceased, she heard breathing.

Realizing the presence of a man beside her, recognizing Erik, she carefully stood up, leaving him alone and asleep.

A rectangular shape on the wall brought the painting and everything that followed back to her mind. She may have fallen asleep enchanted in the arms of a satyr, but she awoke in her own version of Nachtmahr and there seemed to be no mercy for her.
She couldn't help but compare the two works of art, both of them were amazing, enchanting, with something in common: a defenseless sleeping woman and the dark creatures hovering above her.
Somehow, tonight, in her dreams, one turned into another. The latter one she found utterly striking as well as disturbing. Even though she had only seen replications in her father's books and perhaps graphic prints, she admired that painting as much as it gave her chills, and she could almost imagine herself caught in it.
How could she have had known as a child that it would resemble the ugly truth so much? She had even deeper, more powerful impression now, years later. The horse was not in this dream by coincidence, neither was the malicious sneering demon pressing down on her, it was almost as if she were in that accursed horsestable once again.

Completely naked, not even caring to cover herself, she had only one aim in walking across the room. She needed fresh air and only when approaching the window did she become aware of her nudity. Grabbing her nightdress from the corner of the bed, she covered herself. Reaching out for the knob, her hand shook a little and staring at it's shape in the dark, she was glad that she can move it freely.

Outside, the streets were empty. Nobody could see her in the shadows. She left the casement slightly ajar and retrieved into safety of the darkness in their room.

For a brief instant she saw a reflection in the mirror, something tall and dark was standing in the corner. She turned around with a wince, only to realize there was nothing but a coat rack, with a few items hanging there. With a little imagination, she could mistake the spikes on the top for the bestial horns. Uncomfortable in the new territory, something lured her to turn on the lights, but she didn't want to wake Erik. She decided that the light in the bathroom should serve well enough.

The door was slightly open as she studied the room. Her eyes assimilated to the darkness and revealed the slight disarray. She put the slipping cover back on the bed, picked up their discarded clothes, found his shirt, straightened it out and put it on that unfortunate lurid hanger. If the viewer's senses should become blurry, it seemed to her, the lines and stripes on the walls could leave an impression of a giant cage.

The old wallpaper closed around her with green and brownish stripes, repeating the sample, exchanging the colors in a steady rhythm. Except for one place, that pitiful corner behind the door, where the two unfit papers met. The scheme was interrupted, broken, throwing the sample out of the regular rhythm. She couldn't understand how the owners could just leave it be.
The little bug that made her seek for order wouldn't rest, just like she wouldn't be able to rest tonight if she kept thinking of the most recent dream. Searching for a first-hand solution, she thought of the coat rack, shoving it into that corner in an attempt to hide the pattern that went amiss, secretly glad that at least the ghastly hanger won't show in the mirror anymore.

Not wanting to fall asleep, she sat on the bed, watching her lover stretched out in the mild embrace of a summer night. The faint light of the street lamps dissolved the darkness, melting the night into lenient tones. A part of her missed the obscurity of that secluded little house where they have shared their first passionate tryst. The city was robbed of such charm. Yet, another side of her was astir to see him exposed this way.

Vulnerable. Relaxed. A man.

Naked. Somehow, it felt strange to be in that nightdress when only a while ago they were equal in their nudity.
Why not? It is only him, the doors are locked, it is dark...
Without thinking much, she reached out for the hem, set herself free from the clothing and, completely bare, found that she likes it this way. It felt natural.

Isabelle's eyes traveled all over his masculine form, learning the landscape of his body, the parts where her hands have traveled, the parts where they still haven't... She wanted to know him all.

The muscles, the hair, the scars... His skin, mottled with shadows. It must have been ravaged many times, the living proof was right in front of her, stretching here and there, scars which faded but never vanished, across that firm back and on the arms, from the elbows, down to his hands, those skilled crafty hands. Defensive wounds.
She remembered some girls from St. Ursule's, who had been beaten, having similar injuries too. Some of them would say that it is the first strike that hurts the most and after that, you go numb. How many times did they hurt you?

She didn't want to imagine him as an abused child, but couldn't fight it. It was disturbing just to imagine a boy trying to protect his head from cruel blows, resigned, waiting for the beating to stop, secretly plotting his way out. It was easier to think of him as a survivor, strong and defying the cruel fate.

There was a tiny bluish shadow on his chest, only now did she notice it under the light hair. Is it a scar as well? A faded tattoo? A birthmark? It may have been just her subjective mind playing with her, she knew that well, but in the dark she could almost swear that it's irregular shape resembled to an anchor and it made her thoughts wonder.
Placing her index finger on it made him stir.

No, don't wake up yet.

He shifted slightly and calmed under the fondling of her palm which followed the slow rhythm of his breathing. Lying down, her head pressed against the muscles of his upper arm, it felt nice there. The tips of her fingers passed through the hair of his chest and lower to his stomach. He stirred again.

Then she saw it, unexpected and surprising.

On their first night, she had only caught a shy glimpse but now it was in her plain sight, although in shadows. Erik slept but that lustful part of him was quite awake, shamelessly erect, steering towards her hand. She kept still, waiting.
Nothing happened, for a few long moments she did not dare to move, thinking he'd wake up any second. What would you do? Little by little she realized that he wasn't going to, and found the fact intriguing. Even in your sleep?

It was strange how she has accepted him inside her own body, been touched by him in an utterly intimate way but she has not touched that part of him yet.

He was lost somewhere in his dreams, looking harmless. She tried to comprehend the situation, finding that she was the one in control, almost as if she had some mysterious power over him at the moment. Her hand ventured lower, slowly, just trying to see how far she dares to go. Right next to it.
There, so close. Within her reach. And he would probably never realize.

Her eyes kept returning to his face, ready to trace any sign of his reaction. Maybe just for a brief moment... You wouldn't even know, would you?

Her fingers opened up reaching out through the air just above him. If someone would have had told her a little over two months ago that this was going to happen, she'd run away repulsed. And now... She didn't find it unpleasant.
It was intriguing. Look what you've done to me. Is a woman supposed to allow herself such liberties?

She bit her lip, curious but hesitating, her teeth pressed harder against her own flesh, nibbling in anticipation. Only a light touch with the tips of her fingers, she felt him briefly, pulled back instantly, and then finding that nothing unexpected happened, she gathered courage, tracing a line up his length.
He was firm... Warm... Pulsating...

Her hand came back to his abdomen, after lingering lower a few seconds longer than she first intended. It was enough, for now it was just enough.

He shifted in his sleep searching without avail for that something unknown that stirred him, turning over and calming down only as her felt the warmth of her body and then kept dreaming on with a silent groan, mumbling something indistinctly.

Dreams can be tricky, Erik.

Her head came to rest by his shoulder, smiling. Don't you know?

With the murmur of a city coming to life, sounds of squeeky wheels and steps clicking on the paver blocks echoed through the empty passage somewhere below. The unwelcome noise forced him to open his eyes. He was pretty sure that the window has been closed last night.
There was someone gently clutching his upper arm and he turned to face her. She slept.

It took him a few minutes to get up, sluggishly. Pulling his pants on, his eyes roamed aimlessly around the room looking for his discarded shirt, almost sure it had landed somewhere on the floor. He almost gave up on searching when he noticed it neatly hanged in the corner.

Something was clearly different.

He was absolutely certain that the coat rack has not been in that corner yesterday.

Looking at Isabelle sleeping peacefully, as though he would get his answer there, he couldn't find one.
No, not just «peacefully».
«Innocently» seemed a much better term.
Like she had absolutely nothing to do with this small oddities. Her arm enveloped a pillow which apparently served as a substitute for his shoulder.

What have you been doing last night?

If not since he'd met her, right now he was quite ready to believe in fairies, nymphs, enchantresses, whatever he'd be offered as an explanation for the way his life turned upside-down. Adjusting his shirt, he was almost surprised that none of the buttons were misplaced by some mischievous magical creature.

The next time he looked at his lover, he found her looking back at him.
She must have noticed the curious gaze as she herself gave him a questioning one.

He didn't say a word, shaking his head with that suppressed smile that seemed to be stronger than his own will, betraying him in the corner of his mouth the very moment as he noticed her eyes were smiling at him.

The carriage jiggled, taking them further on. He'd rather stay in Rouen for another few days. They would come back soon but still, if he should make a choice based on the criteria of what would feel good, they wouldn't even leave that room at the inn. Though he could find numerous reasons to avoid this trip, he knew it would probably haunt him.

"She is dead. There is nothing else left for me to do there." Time after time, he couldn't keep himself from ranting a little.

"Tell that to the heart you're carrying with you."

There, she seemed to have a perfect reason why he should go. And the irony was that he himself had given her one. That wooden piece he didn't know what to do with. It had simply been created, without thinking of the outcome, something to keep his hands occupied while his head was overflown with the ideas about his heartless mother.

"Sometimes, the only way out is straight through the fire. You have said that yourself. Besides, I want to see where you come from."

"There is nothing nice about that story."

"All you have are pieces of a story. Maybe we can find a way to put them together."

He sighed in defeat, knowing she had a point when she had told him that he generally talks to people with an aim, ending the conversation as soon as possible. No wonder he had found nothing much the last time.

They were already used to the road, always going somewhere, looking ahead. He wondered for a countless time, what is it that keeps her moving on and on, by his side.

"Aren't you tired of the endless roads?"

"No. There is always something new to find. I like that, even if it comes down to seeing the sun set beyond a different horizon."

"The last time I was passing this parts, something kept tempting me to simply move forward."

"Where to?"

"I don't know. Perhaps Le Havre. After that, wherever the first ship carries me."

She sighed. "I always wanted to travel. But I never got much opportunity for that." The wistful moment didn't last for long. There was something else that made her wonder. "But you went back."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I am not sure. Something lured me." Or someone.
"I was too numb to keep wandering around. There was nothing, no one ahead. It had never mattered before but... This time there was a friend who cared."
He brushed the skin of her palm right through the tiny dimple of her lace gloves. Such a small surface but what a spark searing through it...

"Or maybe someone cast a spell on me." That deep, playful tone of his words elicited a secret smile on her face.

"I am glad you came back. I don't want to imagine what it would be like if you didn't."
She was certain there would be emptiness, a heart yearning for something she wouldn't know how to replenish. Her fingers intertwined with his, grasping firmly, not bothering how anyone else would interpret it to themselves. At some point, she simply stopped caring about those things. After such a long time living with that cold feeling of belonging nowhere, she felt good belonging to someone.

A/N: Der Nachtmahr ( Füssli, 1781 ) is one of my favorite works of art. It is a painting filled with erotic and demonical elements and it also became a symbol of sleep paralysis. The psychological background of the picture is very rich and I only wish I was older and wiser to interpretate it and perplete it into this story more expertly.

Sleep paralysis is an experience which occurs either when falling asleep or awakening, when the body fails to follow the instructions of the brain. The phenomenon can also be accompanied with hallucinations, an acute sense of danger etc. It is estimated that about 20 - 60% of population will experience it at least once in their life, but it is also not uncommon for a person to have the experience repeating throughout lifetime. As described in folklore of many countries around the world, it has been considered a work of demons or similar supernatural forces. Also the origin of the word nightmare is connected to it :)