Silence

~(a nightmare)~


It was infinitely worse to be awake, he decided, than it was to be here.

Here the dangers, the menace, was clear, substantial, easy to believe in. When he struggled through the waking world, it was hard to tell which aspects of his life were dream and fantasy, and which the cruel truth. Was he really dead in the other world? Was the monster real or just a figment of his imagination? Was he mad?

He thought he might be. The hands were not hurting him now, but stroking his face and embracing him about legs and chest, perhaps trying to reassure him. He shuddered in revulsion at the thick minty scent of them, at the feel of their rot on him, but he didn't make a sound, for fear of the overpowering thing that was at the heart of this.

The nothing surrounding them was bright still, like a summer day without land or sky to quantify it.

Like drowning in the sea.

I will never drown you, answered the Voice candidly. You cannot drown to begin with. That is not what you are.

He was confused and curious, but too afraid to ask what the monster meant. One of the myriad hands drew soft claws over his cheek in reproach, and he bit his tongue, closed his eyes, trying to deny the sensation and the chills it sent through him.

We are closer now. You may speak, if you wish.

Gathering up what courage he could, he took a deep breath to speak. Before he quite knew what was happening, seven or eight of the creature's appendages slapped over his mouth in warning.

Oh yes; not aloud. Now he remembered. What...am...I? he attempted slowly, uncertain if he was communicating or thinking. Perhaps, here in this half-world, they were the same thing.

You are as I am, answered the monster matter-of-factly. When you are where I am, you may talk to me freely.

His brow furrowed. The hands over his mouth remained, though not so much to gag him as to touch him. He got the unpleasant feeling that the creature liked very much to feel him, the texture of his skin and the shape of his form. As much as he disliked the feel of its hands on him. What do you...want...from me? Why have you... He faltered, fearing that too many question would anger the Voice. Why were you hurting me?

From the odd void around them, he somehow got the impression that they were moving now, to a new place. If he focused his eyes on a single spot around him, it seemed he could almost make out scenery, fleeting and multi-colored, flashing past them. But where were they going?

I want you to fix this, the Voice said simply, as the nothing gave way to a terrible vision.

The fire burned high and hungry, powered by oil, dry wood, and the bodies of so many animals that the air was rank with their roasting scent. Screams filled the air, vying with the roar of flames for supremacy, while destruction rained down in the form of bullets, cannonballs and flaming arrows. Soldiers, men and women alike, in dark uniform, marched across the conquered territory, destroying all that they touched. He cringed at the merciless determination in their eyes, and suddenly the horror faded away. Again, there was absolute darkness.

Swallowing a lump of fear in his throat, he queried weakly, What is that?

It was as though the Voice shrugged. The hands paused in their exploration of his mouth.

That is mankind. That is the above world. I like to see it grow. In a reflection of their owner's anger, the hands tightened briefly, the ragged claws snagging on his skin. When it burns, I can feel...my children. Dying.

Brief rage flared, overcoming him and the nothing and the Voice at the same time. He tensed, as if to attack, while the hands clutched convulsively at him, cutting, piercing, making him bleed by what seemed accident.

You're hurting me, he gasped in the thought-words that it allowed him, the rage fading to weariness. He was always hurting now. He was very sick of hurting. To his surprise, the hands withdrew their claws at once and stroked at the newly-made wounds apologetically. Though this did nothing to ease the pain, he realized of a sudden that he was no longer afraid.

I want you to stop that from happening, the Voice murmured. You are what I cannot be, sometimes, and that is why you are here.

He meant to ask more, but the weariness was slurring even his thoughts into an unrecognizable chaos. The hands pet him gently as he fell into sleep (sleep? wasn't this a dream?), and he drifted for the first time in weeks without fear, trying to understand what it had told him.