N is for Nightmare. He awoke, gasping for breath, visions of what had been dancing before bleak, blank eyes, sending a spike of pain slicing through his breast like a red-hot knife, the brackish taste of defeat, failure and betrayal lingering on his tongue. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to clear away the helpless cries sounding in his head, making his ears ring, and inhaled deeply, swiping away the sweat that had gathered on his brow and pooled in the hollow of his throat.

It was the same every night since he'd undergone the reawakening of his memories – dreams of what had been, and what could have been, haunted his mind, filling him with a chilling sense of dread, leaving him weak and broken under the unrelenting sense that he'd failed his family, his people, his king and queen.

He'd once wanted nothing more than to understand his roots, to know the place he'd been born, to find the answers to the questions constantly swirling in his mind. He'd burned with an all-consuming need to know his alien past, hoping that once he'd learned that, he would feel comfortable within his own skin; that he would know from whence some of those self-destructive thoughts and whispers in his ears had stemmed. So when the man named Kal, one of their supposed protectors who'd abandoned them to their fate, had contacted them in an uncharacteristic burst of remorse and offered the chance for answers, he'd jumped at the chance.

But faced with the images of a broken world, his people crying out for mercy under Kivar's reign of cruelty and drive for the throne, of betrayal at the hands of a woman he'd once loved more than life itself, he wished he'd resisted that siren call. It had brought nothing but heartache, as by the end of the ten-year war, sparked by a family squabble – his cousin had disagreed with the way Zan had allied himself to Savo, the newest in their federation and wanted Rath on the throne – Antar had been destroyed, broken, blackened

beyond redemption by unnatural fire. And he – he had been a twisted parody of the man that had begun the war.

The longer the feud went on, dragging innocents into a spat that should have remained behind closed doors, the more embittered and cold he had grown; a ruthless warrior with no care to the precious lives he'd once set out to protect.

It left him sickened and disillusioned; heaving up the contents of his stomach as the smell of burnt flesh, singed by his own hand, filled his nose. And aching, completely lost in despair for what had become of them in the final days.

N is for Nadirthe lowest point; point of greatest adversity or despair. In the last days, he'd been an empty shell of a man. The king he'd sworn fealty to was dead, slain by his own sister's hand, his wife's hand when she aligned herself with their enemy, having always coveted the throne. He couldn't blame her in some ways. She had been the eldest, the first born, and in a fair world, the throne would have been hers by birthright. But old men's suspicions and prejudices set her aside in favor of her younger brother.

But to betray your own flesh...that he couldn't comprehend.

His queen fell next, her throat slit before his eyes by Kivar while he was held down by his disgusting, sniveling sycophant Nicolaos, too broken and beaten to even raise his head. He only saw her death as Nicolaos took great pleasure in holding his head aloft by his hair, a vindictive cackle rumbling from his throat that he, the great warrior that had bested him far too numerous times to count, was riven at his feet.

He owed that little pipsqueak for being forced to watch that horror; if ever he ran into him again, his life was forfeit for being party to the desecration of his queen, the woman he thought of as a sister, one he loved heart and soul. The one he had sworn to protect with his very life when he'd sat by her mother's death bed. Nicolaos would die by his hand for seeing him foresworn, unable to fulfill that deathbed promise.

He figured once Avalina was dead, he would be the next to fall; but that would have been a mercy to what happened next, and his cousin wasn't all that keen on showing mercy to the one that had denied him. In punishment for not banding with his cousin, for remaining faithful to and holding true to his king and queen, he was forced to play witness to the destruction of all they held dear. He'd been strung up, tied to a post and held there for days without food and little water as Kivar systematically executed the entire royal family and those loyal to them, until finally, terrified and broken, the people cowered and prostrated at his feet.

It was then the beatings began; the whip slicing through his skin until it hung from his shoulders and back in ribbons, blood pouring from the open, festering wounds, drenching his clothing and pooling on the ground. Kivar sought to break him, to make him admit that Kivar had been right and he should have joined him while he'd had the chance. He could have lived the life of a king, with his beautiful, treacherous, foresworn wife at his side – but he had refused to capitulate.

Instead he'd spat in Kivar's eye and called him eweling droppings, not even fit for gracing the bottom of his boot.

And in a final show of defiance, he'd used the last of his flagging strength to break free and struck down the traitorous bitch at his side with a single, decisive blast of his powers. He'd grinned smugly when her eyes had widened a split second in surprise before the dimmed, lifeless as she crumpled to the ground. And then he too had fallen, drained by that final defiant blast; he hadn't even felt the mortal blow as Kivar exploded into a rage, infuriated that his ties to the throne had snapped when Vilondra took her last breath.

N is for Nebulous. The memories always left him feeling dazed, lost, scattered; drifting between reality and dream, vacillating between the past and the present.

Confusion reigned as he gazed at the ceiling, his heart still thrumming madly as he swiped a weary hand over his face; he knew there was no point in him staying in bed as sleep would be elusive until he made sense of these new images. Pushing aside his blankets, he sent a cursory glance towards his wife, making sure she was still asleep, and when he was met with a serene face, still lost in dreams, he let out an inaudible sigh of relief. She really needed the sleep this late in the pregnancy and their nights had been interrupted far too many times to count by these dreams.

Sliding from the bed, he padded into the kitchen and set about making himself some cocoa, one of those soothing rituals they'd adopted when they were still teens and their love was new. It never failed to bring clarity and order to the chaos in his mind, brought on by visions he barely understood. Shivering lightly, his skin pebbled as a wave of unknown apprehension flowed over his body, the adrenaline still pumping through his system, prompting him to take flight despite the fact that there was no visible foe.

He hated this feeling, this ambiguous, nebulous sense of dread that came over him, pushing his warrior instincts surging to the fore; because there was also nothing to fight. You couldn't slay dreams or memories no matter how hard you wished. They were always there, floating under the surface, lying low until a prodigious weakened moment and then creeping up when you least expect to ambush you – usually in the dead of night.

It was in times like these that he envied amnesia victims; it would be pure bliss to forget, to live in that oblivious little bubble he'd shattered with his own curiosity.

Running a hand through his hair, he heaved a ragged sigh and sipped his chocolate, startling when a hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Looking up into soft, concerned brown eyes, he felt the edges start to melt away under that gaze and sighed in relief when she eased her way into his arms.

N is for Nepenthesomething, like a drink, capable of making one forget suffering. Her touch was a balm to his soul, smoothing away the rough jags, comforting and washing away the sting of betrayal, of failure. Pulling her gently into his arms, he buried his face into thick, molasses strands and just breathed in the scent of her – strawberry and vanilla and something he could never define, but uniquely her. It always amazed him how she had the ability to heal him with nothing more than a look and a soft kiss; one that said she understood, that she was here if he needed her, and that she'd never leave him to face his demons alone.

She never spoke in these moments; she'd never had to because her actions, her loving gestures, always stated everything loud and clear.

Pulling away, he looked down into her face, and cupped her jaw, his thumbs gently stroking the apples of her cheeks. He didn't bother to smile, as it would have been a lie, and there were no secrets between them, and no false reassurances; they'd come too far in their relationship to jeopardize it with falsehoods, even if they were meant with the best of intentions.

Instead, he leaned over and kissed her softly, letting the caress say all that he couldn't – thank you for being here, no, I'm not okay, but I will be; I couldn't have made it this far without you; just being with you brings me greater joy and comfort than I can ever express. Letting out a shuddering breath when he felt soft hands running through his hair, he pulled away and leaned his brow against hers. They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, and he finally felt the last threads of the dream...vision...memory snap, fading into the ether as a sense of calm took its place.

She pulled back, one hand resting on her baby bump, caressing it as she reached out with the other and entwined it with his, gently tugging him back to their room and pulled him into bed, where she wrapped her arms around him. Closing his eyes, he let sleep overtake him, knowing that she was there, that she'd always be there, to soothe away his aches and pains.

N is for Nurtured.