Chapter 19

(Hope)

Hope awoke with a shiver—she was freezing. Half-asleep, she cracked open an eye to find that the room was still dark, accompanied by the distinct chill of early morning.

She groaned— It was clearly much too early to be conscious.

She pulled on the covers, which had become hopelessly tangled around her legs. For some reason, it seemed like something was holding them in place— Irritated, she tugged on them harder until there was enough blanket to wrap around herself.

"Hey…" a sleepy voice protested from beside her.

A male voice.

Hope froze— someone was in the bed with her.

"Stop hogging the covers," the voice mumbled grumpily.

She bolted upright, turning to see the shape of a man lying next to her— he was on his side, back turned to her, but she would recognize those messy curls anywhere.

"Clarke?!" she asked in disbelief, quickly scooting to the edge of the bed.

"What?" he grumbled, clearly still half-asleep.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, completely taken aback by his presence.

This wasn't right. This was—

"Hope...?" he asked, turning to look at her. He looked as confused as she felt. "Must be a dream…" he said with a yawn.

"Yours or mine?" she asked, barely stifling a giggle.

She suddenly felt rather unsteady…

"That should be obvious," he answered, finally sitting up. He was in a pair of black sleep shorts and, once again, missing his shirt.

Wait, when had she seen him without a shirt before? They had been looking for something together… right?

"If this is a dream, then why does it feel so real?" she asked, deliberately looking away from him to hide her rising blush.

Instead, she studied the room around her. The low light made it hard to make out the details, but she knew that everything from the dark wallpaper to the large four poster bed seemed both unfamiliar and very, very real.

"How did we get here?" she asked, reaching for the pendant around her neck.

"I'm not sure…" he said, clearly as puzzled as she was.

Hope turned back to him, finding herself unable to keep from staring at his chest—he was muscular, but not overly so. She let her eyes travel up to his face, noting the light scruff on his neck and cheeks… Finally, she met his gaze, surprised to find his face flushed.

"You're really fit," she said, feeling another wave of unsteadiness overtake her. "Is it weird that I said that?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious, but she wasn't sure why…

"I don't think it's weird," he said softly. "If this is a dream, what harm could it do?" he asked, flashing her a crooked smile.

She giggled again— What the hell was wrong with her?

She was acting like she was twelve years old!

Lizzie would have teased her mercilessly…

It was the same off-balance feeling you get playing "truth or dare?" at a friend's sleepover— There was the distinct feeling that she was somehow out of control in this moment…

"Hope," he said her name like a prayer, pulling her from her thoughts. "Why did you have to be so beautiful?" he asked, moving closer to her until they were shoulder to shoulder, backs resting against the headboard.

Clearly, Clarke was experiencing the same loss of control…

"You must be drunk," she said, knocking her shoulder into his. "I don't think you've ever been this nice," she said.

At least not that she could remember...

"No alcohol here, I'm afraid," he answered.

"So, uh, where exactly is 'here'?" she asked, once again feeling a surge of confusion.

"We're—" he paused. "Actually, I don't know… here I guess?"

"Helpful, as ever," she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

He laughed at that, flashing her another smile. This one was more genuine than the first—it was lopsided and imperfect, but she found she quite liked it.

"You have a great smile," she said, voicing her observation without a second thought. It felt so good to be honest, she decided that she should do it more often.

"Thank you," he said softly, reaching out to trail his fingers down her arm. The sensation was immediate and electric.

She wanted more…

She looked down to find that she was dressed only in a nightgown— its low neckline and thin straps left her feeling exposed.

"Jeez, no wonder I was so cold!" she said irritably, hugging her arms around her chest.

He paused for a moment before letting out a sharp bark of laughter.

"W-What?" she asked, finding herself laughing as well, albeit somewhat nervously.

"Just you," he said. "You always make me laugh," he chuckled. "And that's actually harder to do than you'd think…"

The laughter died on her lips.

"Why don't you laugh more, Clarke?" she asked, finding that she genuinely wanted to know.

"I don't know…" he answered. "Is it weird that I can't remember?" he asked.

"A little," she admitted. "But I'm glad that we can be confused together."

"Me too," he said, regarding her carefully. He watched her with a hooded gaze, his dark eyes burning with intensity.

Suddenly, she knew exactly why the term "bedroom eyes" had been invented…

She reached for her necklace again, finding comfort in its weight between her fingers.

"You do that a lot, you know," he said, reaching out to still her hand.

"Yes," she answered. "My family… comforts me," she managed to say.

"I know," he said delicately. "That must be nice…"

Something about the look in his eyes simply broke her heart—there was loneliness, sadness, pain…

"You can choose your family too," she added, moving her hand closer to his. He just watched her as she slowly linked her pinky with his.

She wasn't sure why she did it, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But, for all she knew, she was comforting her own subconscious…

"Hope—" he said, voice strained. He looked up to meet her eyes, the tenderest expression on his face.

"Hmmm," she murmured in reply.

He leaned in closer; she could feel the heat from his skin and the stirring of his breath in her hair.

"Ryan," she whispered, reaching out to lay her hand on his cheek, gently stroking his face with her thumb. She heard him sigh in response, leaning into her touch.

Something about this reminded her of something—a ribbon, a memory…

She finally let her eyes fall closed, feeling the softest touch of his lips against hers, a fleeting promise, before he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers.

"Not in a dream," he murmured against her skin, regret dripping from his words. "Only when you're real," he said, pulling back, leaving her aching.

"What—?" she asked, confused. "But this is my dream," she said.

But between one blink and the next, Hope felt reality crashing down around her. The bedroom, the bed, Clarke— all vanished.

She was alone and shivering on the floor of a dark prison cell with nothing but a strange scent of smoke clinging to her clothes.

(Ryan)

Ryan woke up in a sweat, sheets clinging to his skin. It had been so long since he had slept in a real bed, it took him a moment to remember where he was.

Huan and Akane's house of illusions.

Images flashed before his eyes as he laid there, trying to piece together the pieces. It had been the strangest dream…Hope had been there, in his bed…the very one he currently occupied.

A silk nightgown, laughter, the softness of her skin…

"This is my dream," she had said, right before she vanished.

What did it mean? It was just a dream— wasn't it?

He sat up, running a trembling hand through his hair. He noticed a strange smell in the air, something like smoke… or incense.

Suddenly, the door swung open and Akane strolled in. She had a wicked grin on her delicate face, showing off her sharp canines.

"Pleasant dreams?" she asked, giving him a knowing expression.

"What did you do?" he snapped, jumping out of the bed, backing her into the doorframe.

"Easy, tiger," she said, mirth in her eyes. "I did you a favor. Now you know…Hope may return those naughty feelings after all…"

He was seething. Whatever Akane had done, it involved the real Hope.

"Where is she?" he asked, barely keeping his temper in check.

"Safe— for now," she answered with a smile, twirling a strand of her long, dark hair around a graceful finger.

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty," said Huan, entering the room behind Akane.

Ryan clenched his fists at his side, imagining giving the son of a bitch a broken nose.

"Relax," Huan said, pulling the pouch out from under his shirt. "Remember who's pulling the strings here…"

Ryan stilled, watching Huan tuck the pouch back under his clothes.

"It's fascinating, really," Huan said. "The mythology of golems," he clarified.

"Have I told you about it?" Huan asked Akane.

"Why yes, you have," she said. "But will you fill me in on the highlights again?" she asked silkily.

Ryan knew what they were doing— reminding him of his place.

"Well, you see," Huan began. "Golems are fascinating creatures. They're soulless creatures—created from earth to serve their creator. Not much can hurt a golem because they simply reform! No soul to destroy, empty shells, just living to serve," Huan emphasized the word.

"But how does one control a golem?" Huan asked, tapping a finger to his chin.

"Oh, tell me," Akana asked, circling Clarke slowly.

"To control a golem, you only need a piece of the original material it was created from, shaped into its likeness. Of course, there are some artistic liberties," he said, shrugging.

"But the principle stands—the original creator keeps a piece of the golem he created with him, a token of control. And whoever possesses it controls the golem. Unless that golem wishes to no longer exist. Because all it takes to destroy a golem is to destroy its token," Huan finished.

"Stop," Ryan said. "Just tell me, what do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I need you to deliver something…well, actually, deliver someone," Huan answered with a smirk.

"Who?" Ryan asked warily.

"Just someone I picked up…" Huan answered. "Now why don't you get dressed? Akane got you a new suit…"

(Hope)

Hope paced around her cell for what felt like the hundredth time. No matter how many times she shouted, no one answered her calls. She had tried using a spell, but whatever the bars were made out of, it was impervious to her magic.

It seemed like she was in a basement of some sort— a basement furnished with prison cells.

"Hello?!" she shouted again, growing increasingly frustrated at her predicament.

Finally, she heard the creaking sound of someone coming down the stairs. She moved back from the bars, tensing her muscles in preparation for a fight.

First, she saw the men's dress shoes, followed by a dark pair of slacks, suit jacket and— Clarke?!

"Clarke!" she shouted, rushing to the bars. "What the hell is going on?" she asked breathlessly. "When you said that we were going to take a rest in the woods…did Huan find us?" she asked, not bothering to hide the panic in her voice.

She noticed a pained expression on his face as he looked past her to the wall of the cell. She reached out through their connection, but it felt like hitting a stone wall. It was like he had closed it off somehow...

"Hello?" she asked, growing annoyed. "What's going on?" she repeated.

He wouldn't look at her…

"Here's the other prisoner," a female voice said from the stairs.

Hope watched helplessly as a man was led down the stairs by a strikingly pretty Asian woman. The man had his arms bound behind his back and a sack over his head, obscuring his identity from view.

"Clarke, what is this?" she asked, voice trembling.

"Hello, Hope," the woman greeted her. "Long time no see," she said with a smile.

"What?" Hope asked. "Am I supposed to know who the hell you are?" she asked, glaring at the newcomer.

The woman smiled, transforming in an instant into an exact replica of Clarke.

"I enjoyed our time in the woods," she said in Clarke's voice, letting her eyes travel up and down her body. Hope suddenly remembered how strange Clarke had been in the woods; how wrong he had felt.

Hope backed up, looking to the real Clarke for answers, but he just stood there, silent and unreadable like a statue.

"Clarke?" she asked, her voice breaking on the word. "Please, what's going on?" she begged. She reached out with her feelings, imploring him to acknowledge her.

"Open the door, Clarke," the woman commanded, suddenly looking like herself again.

Clarke moved to the cell door, unlocking it with a key hanging from his belt.

"Don't move," he finally spoke.

"You bastard," she whispered. "You betrayed me…after everything. You actually betrayed me!"

His face remained impassive, a perfect mask of indifference, but she swore she saw him flinch at her words.

The woman shoved the new prisoner into the cell while Hope just stood there, burning in shame and anger.

She had let him fool her. She had let her guard down.

He was going to pay for this...

Clarke slammed the cell door shut, locking it securely. She watched him follow the woman up the stairs, leaving her and her new cellmate in darkness.

She just stood there for a moment, shocked and hurt.

Oh, God, it hurt.

Finally, she turned to the man standing bound and hooded next to her.

"I'm going to take this off, okay?" she asked tentatively, approaching him.

The figure seemed to nod his head, so she proceeded to untie the rope holding the hood in place, letting it fall to the floor.

She lifted the hood carefully and gasped, nearly fainting at the sight—standing in front of her was an all too familiar face.

"No," she breathed, taking a shaky step backwards.

He was gagged, bruised, and bloody, but there was no denying it—

It was Landon.

"In Jewish tradition, the golem is most widely known as an artificial creature created by magic, often to serve its creator. The word "golem" appears only once in the Bible (Psalms139:16). In Hebrew, "golem" stands for "shapeless mass." The Talmud uses the word as "unformed" or "imperfect" and according to Talmudic legend, Adam is called "golem," meaning "body without a soul" (Sanhedrin 38b) for the first 12 hours of his existence."