One night, she had a strange dream. It wasn't about a magical adventure. It wasn't about a world at stake. It wasn't about a metaphysical reality.
It was about him.
The time was early morning. At first, she thought she managed to wake up early. That was quite a feat for someone like her. If only he was there to wake her up every day. She'd like that. But she immediately noticed that she wasn't on her bed...or that she wasn't even in her house. She was all alone, and she couldn't find anybody else around. Not even her own father was there. This...worried her, but she convinced herself to stay calm. After all, her best friend could find her, and bring her back to safety! And she could tell him how much she loved him, and he'd say the same, and then they could really, truly live happily ever after!
He appeared. But he was not happy.
"Circi," he quietly asked, "whatever could you be doing?" This was a strange sort of tone, she wondered. It was only a few moments after he said those words when she noticed the darkening shadow behind him, and how it seemed even more darker than when she saw him in a shade. She came to her own conclusion he was holding that book (which was obviously true), which was most likely manipulating him! Perhaps that tome had a mind of its own?
"Wilfre? Don't tell me you're using that book again!"
No response. She didn't know what to do. Why did he ask her that? She wasn't doing anything. Was he seeing something she didn't? Was he seeing things? Was he losing his mind? Was he—
"They're here."
The bright, sunny, world was suddenly covered in darkness. Glittering eyes lit up the darkened sky, their minds full of malicious intent. She could feel the scribbles in his book coming alive, looking for a new soul to devour. The ground became slippery with smog, and she couldn't help but slip and fall into the chaos. No matter how hard she struggled, she knew she couldn't escape the nightmare that had its own potential of becoming a sick prediction for their fates. But she knew, deep down, she couldn't let that happen.
"Wilfre! Wilfre, speak to me!" she cried out, trying not to swallow the incoming smoke of gloominess, preparing itself to surround every crevice of her body and mind. "I know this isn't what you want! I don't want this either!"
She thought she could hear him reply, but she could only hear a faint mumble. Perhaps he was surrounded by darkness as well? She knew he wasn't the threat—only a victim, another pawn of the shadows' sick game of chess. It was madness; she hated that word, but there was no other name for it. And she couldn't let that happen. Once she found a way to end the nightmare's cruel reign, they could finally get their happy ending. And if she failed, well, she just had to try again.
"Really?"
And, like a wish came true, he appeared once more. He looked sick, his body trembling, his ears twitching, his expression full of regret and uncertainty. It looked like the book he was holding would drop at any moment, yet at the same time he seemed to be grasping it with such force that it appeared to be glued to his palm. He tried to take a step back while looking into her eyes with precision: which, in turn conflicted with his desire to turn back and run. She knew one thing was certain: he didn't want this—not at all.
"You...agree with me, right? You don't like it when that book messes with your mind." she told him, trying her hardest not to slip. He nodded; but his expression remained uncertain. Was he conflicted? Did he not know if he should agree or disagree? Would he act as if nothing was wrong? Some speculations were more out there than others, but it never hurt to try. She just had to wait for his response, and she'd exactly know how to help him.
"Are you talking about this book?"
He showed the book to her. And then, she realized something: it wasn't an ordinary book. It was a very, very special journal. One which read the words inscribed on it with cuts and the faint sighting of red—"Wilfre". His very own journal, one that no matter how hard he tried, would twist his works of art into monsters in the making. They were shadows, manifestations of the pain he felt in his mind, what felt like years of suppressed agony—that would soon become suppressed no more. And, for once, she realized things were becoming too extraordinary. So, what did she do?
She fought back.
She cried out for him to slam the book down and to throw it into the darkness, never to be seen again. She did this over, and over, and over again, to seemingly no avail. All he did was show her the journal, his expression changing to that of empty confusion. He didn't understand, did he? Was he truly convinced there was nothing wrong with it? Had her attempts at helping him been in vain? He likely still remembered the promise she made to him. Did he just decide to throw that away, like a useless scribble? Was she useless? It was only a matter of time before his cutthroat words would break the emptiness made from her agonized sobs—and what a matter it was.
"Believe me, I understand your sadness. If only I could comfort you."
A strange smile appeared on his face. Her tears seemed to evaporate immediately, becoming one with the endless darkness. The glittering lights of the shadows peered into her friend, who didn't seem to mind the looks. In fact, he seemed to embrace them.
"But it's far too late for me to do that. Not when the darkness has consumed me, after all."
She knew what that meant. And when the shadows finally took their chance to devour him in their twisted sense of beauty, she knew she couldn't do anything about it. Her eyes closed in a state of panic, slipping once more into the smoggy abyss. Endless thoughts seemed to cloud her mind, but only a single sentence remained clear.
"We shall meet again, my Circi."
"NO!"
She woke up to faint lavender skies. Blinking once, twice, she realized she was truly home. Just a nightmare, she thought. And yet she noticed the shadow beside her growing darker, gradually covering the entire space itself was contained in. In this moment, there was a state of realization.
This isn't over, isn't it?