"There's a loneliness that only exists in one's mind. The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
Éowyn strode purposefully down the rustic hallway of the Golden Hall with undisputed confidence, spine rigid and features set in a determined glare. She clutched a small cloth bundle tightly to her breast as she rounded one corner and immediately descended down a spiraling staircase.
As she padded quickly down the stairs the shadows completely eclipsed the soft, white cotton of her attire and the flaxen of her hair. The air grew heavy with despondence the lower Éowyn sank, the gloom nearly as palpable as in the throne room itself.
Two sets of eyes appraised her suspiciously as the noblewoman achieved her last step. Éowyn halted for a brief moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the shadow, staring unflinchingly back at those twin gazes.
She was in the dungeons of Rohan. Éowyn had only found herself in this particular part of the Golden Hall of Meduseld at one other point in her life. She was only a child-five years at most-when her father, the Lord Éomund, had taken her down to show her the small prison.
'Pray you will never find yourself here,' her father had told her, eyes shining with barely-disguised mirth. 'But remember, this remains an option for you if I or your mother discovers you misbehaving.'
As terrifying as the prison had seemed in her youth, Éowyn had believed her father. From then onward, she was an extraordinarily well-behaved child.
Now, more than twenty years later, the dungeons still caused goosepimples to surface on the expanse of her arms. The soft hairs at the back of her neck rose in anticipation. However, Éowyn was acutely aware of the fact that the twin gazes of the guards had not wavered. The noblewoman swallowed hard and strode forward, hoping that she appeared more self-assured than she felt.
"I've come to bring some fresh clothes for the prisoner," she stated, holding out the soft bundle in emphasis.
The guards were silent for several moments, appraising her through the narrow eye-holes of their matching helmets. Finally, the smaller of the two men turned to the other in question, as if he were unsure how to answer. The larger guard then, his eyes never leaving those of Éowyn's.
"Théoden-King has instructed us to keep the strange-haired prisoner in isolation," the guard stated, his voice gruff yet almost apologetic. "I'm sorry Lady Éowyn, but we cannot allow you to pass."
A flash of annoyance burned in Éowyn belly, and she fought to keep the emotion from her face.
"No, Lord Wormtongue gave the order, did he not?" Éowyn replied, her voice hard and unyielding. The smaller man actually fidgeted at her tone. Éowyn pressed her advantage.
"I don't know what Lord Gríma has told you of this strange-haired prisoner, or what he intends to do with her, but above all else she is a woman. A girl even, hardly older than myself. A girl swathed in bloodstained rags amidst the scrutiny of evil men in this place." Éowyn gestured beyond the iron gate directly behind the guards. "Please, allow her this one decency."
The smaller guard was full-on staring at the larger man at this point, awaiting the other's response. The larger guard hesitated for several heartbeats, his gaze jerking uncertainly between Éowyn and the soft bundle in her arms.
The Rohirrim were a fiercely proud and respectful people. Though women were not allowed to fight alongside their male counterparts in battle, the Rohirrim men held the upmost respect for their women. They recognized that women held certain strength in their own right, and any mistreatment against an innocent woman in Edoras was met with grave punishment.
Éowyn hoped to play upon this conviction to win her favor. As the larger man's armored shoulders sagged ever-so-slightly, she knew she had been successful.
"Just for a few moments, Lady Éowyn," the men relented, reaching out towards the bundle of clothing. "But if I may inspect the clothing… there are protocols I simply cannot disregard."
"Of course," she replied, surrendering the small bundle of clothing easily.
Once the guard had inspected the bundle and determined that it contained no more than folded cloth he deposited the package back into Éowyn's arm. Then he nodded towards his smaller counterpart before stepping aside and unlatching the gate, drawing it back with a harsh squeak of rusty hinges. Éowyn heard the faint shuffling of curious prisoners scrambling to their feet, stirred by the noise.
"The girl is at the end of the hallway, as far as possible from the rest of the men," the guard told her. "Do walk fast, Lady Éowyn. Many of these men have not seen a woman in ages and have forgotten civilized behavior."
Éowyn lifted her chin in response. Her conviction gave her strength.
"I understand. Thank you, Sir Guard."
Without further ado, Éowyn stepped over the threshold and into the prison. A long expanse of cells lined each side of the hallway. The occupants of the prison had since stepped up to the iron bars of their respective confinement, pressing their faces against the metal to better gaze upon the visitor. The gleam of teeth and watery eyes in the near-darkness held the promise of malice. Éowyn felt multiple pairs of eyes rake down her form, devouring her visage with greedy voracity.
However she never stopped, even as the chorus of jeers and whistles spilled from the cells. She kept to the center of the hallway, carefully avoiding the grasping hands that sought to touch her. A shrill clang rang out and echoed down the hallway, effectively silencing the prisoners for a few precious moments.
Éowyn was grateful to the guard, as she was sure that he had struck his weapon against the iron of the cell bars to serve as a temporary distraction. It was enough to get Éowyn past the last few occupied cells without too much hindrance.
There she was. As the guard had said, they had deposited Klara in the very last cell. A small, wall-mounted lantern burned slowly from outside Klara's prison, splashing pale light upon her face.
Klara was sprawled upon the hard ground, her strange-hued hair partially masking her features. She appeared unharmed despite the sorry state of her attire. The noblewoman sank to her knees upon the dirty floor to be eye-level with the girl.
"Miss Klara?" Éowyn whispered softly, attempting to rouse the younger girl. "Miss Klara it's me, Éowyn, please wake up."
"A clean conscience must make a soft pillow."
Éowyn jumped at the sudden voice from behind her, nearly falling over herself in her haste to turn around. She turned to peer into the cell directly across from Klara's, her eyes roving over its contents in haste to discover the source of the statement.
A hunched figure she had not noticed earlier stirred from within the cell. She could see the whites of the man's eyes as he looked out at her. It was difficult to determine the features of the man beneath his lengthy beard and shaggy eyebrows. His large, ridiculous hat and baggy brown cloak threatened to swallow his slight form. Éowyn did not recognize the man, though from his attire and statement alone she felt confidence in assuming he had been imprisoned with the diagnosis of madness.
The prisoner must be mostly harmless, however, if the guards felt comfortable with placing Klara directly across from him.
"Tell me prisoner, has she awoken since she has been here?" Éowyn demanded of the man. The noblewoman's patience was all but nonexistent. She was aware that she only had a limited time with Klara, and she needed to speak with the girl.
The man was silent for a moment, studying Éowyn with bored interest. His eyes glittered with an unknown emotion.
"No, tell me," he replied, his voice betraying strength uncharacteristic to his appearance. "Tell me why the Horse King now locks up young girls?"
"That is none of your concern," she replied quickly, too worn to muster a clever lie to abate the prisoner.
The lips of the bearded man pursed, clearly unappeased by her answer. "In a land of blind, the one-eyed man is King, it seems," the prisoner replied lowly. "Are you of the blind, Miss Lady?"
Éowyn just ignored him, as it was apparent he was unwilling to cooperate. She turned back to Klara's cell. The girl had not but stirred from the commotion of their conversation, and was too far from the bars for Éowyn to jostle her physically.
A crude ruckus had begun to brew at the forefront of the hallway. One of the guards must have come in after her, agitated by the amount of time she was taking. She had only moments.
With haste, the flaxen-haired Rohirrim placed the small bundle of clothing just inside the bars. Éowyn then reached up to produce a small, wickedly curved blade from within the folds of her skirts. It was a simple kitchen implement, not likely to be missed by the staff. Yet it was sharp and effective, intended to be used in the skinning of flesh from the bones of small creatures.
The woman tucked the blade into the bundle, arranging it carefully so it was completely disguised amidst the cloth.
By the time the larger guard had approached Éowyn had stood and was brushing away the dirt and hay where it clung to her skirts. She looked up to meet the eyes of the guard, her lips quirking in a small smile.
"She was not to be woken," Éowyn stated, "I simply placed the garments within the bars."
"I have no doubt she will be grateful of the Lady's generosity," the guard answered, his voice sincere. "But please m'lady, I cannot allow you any more time."
"I understand Sir Guard. I have completed my task. I appreciate you allowing me to offer her one last dignity."
"You are a kind woman, Lady Éowyn," the guard replied, bowing his head and stepping back with every intent to escort her from the prison.
Before Éowyn obliged, she cast a final lingering glance to Klara's prone form, wondering if this would be the last moment she would lay eyes upon this strange, brave girl.
A flash of movement caught her eye and she shifted her gaze to rest on the disheveled madman that served as Klara's neighbor. He smiled at Éowyn with a knowing look, his pale eyes glinting in the darkness.
Kaz didn't remember being released from the police station. She didn't remember clambering into her dad's car. She didn't remember the silence of the ride home. She didn't remember the bite of cold as she pressed her cheek against the frozen passenger side window. She didn't remember staring blankly at the passing colors. She didn't remember the car lurch to a halt. She didn't remember following her dad out of the parking garage and up to their apartment.
She didn't remember stopping short, staring listlessly at the DeFour's closed apartment door until a cough shook her from her apathy.
"Klara," her dad said gently. She looked up to see that he had already unlocked their apartment door, holding it open for her. His eyes were sad. She didn't look into them, but she was sure they were sad.
Kaz lowered her eyes and padded silently after her dad, disappearing into their apartment. The door shut with an audible 'click.'
Titus Ashford hated liars. He hated the way they shifted guilty in their seats. He hated the way their voices trembled. He hated the way they refused to make eye contact. He hated the way they sweat, fidgeted, and shook.
Klara did none of these things. She had stared straight ahead, her hazel eyes boring determinedly into his own. Her hands had been clasped before her. She had not shaken. She had not faltered. She was a Chicago kid. She was tough.
But Ashford was a good detective. Although her hands did not move, he had noticed how white her knuckles got as the interrogation progressed. He had noticed how she had stiffened-however slightly-upon insisting that her friend, Jay DeFour, was not the one who had stabbed her. He had noticed how she had kept her shoulders squared and tense, unable to relax.
Joe had told him that the girl's reaction was perfectly normal in the case of trauma victims; he had-unfortunately- seen it all the time. But Ashford knew she was hiding something. The whole situation stank. Something didn't jive.
Klara Zachary clearly remembered who had assaulted her—to Ashford, her body language had spoken volumes.
"Shit," he muttered as a drop of ketchup fell off his tater tot and splashed upon his tie. He swallowed the last bit of fried potato and drew his tie up to his mouth to lick off the red glob as best he could.
Ashford usually didn't eat and drive, but this case stressed him out. The unusual circumstances were alone to keep him awake at night, but being blatantly lied to by a 22-year old girl…
Ashford hated liars.
The blurry outline of a figure delved into her vision. She could see the blob of Jay's green shirt, almost smeared across her line of sight. His dark hair and skin were visible but his features distorted, as though looking through the lens of a pair of glasses with 20/20 vision. She watched the pink of his mouth open and shut as he spoke to her, though her mind could decipher no words. He seemed agitated and upset, but nary a care could be spared from her own lethargy.
Her body became heavy. Her tongue grew thick. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she descended willingly into the blackness of her mind.
Kaz opened her eyes.
She was lying on the hard floor of her bedroom, the pressure of wood digging into her back.
When Kaz had first wandered into her bedroom, she had stared blankly for several moments at her bed. Or… what was left of it, anyway.
It looked as though crimson curtain had settled over the length of her bed. Blood-her blood-had seeped into the mattress, pooling in the center where she had been lying and spilling out with blushing wings to each edge. The coppery scent of it still hung in the air. It was an impossible amount of blood.
Her stomach had wrenched painfully at the sight. Her dad had blundered in, as though it had just occurred to him that the crime scene that was her bedroom hadn't yet been dealt with. He had apologized to her profusely-though Kaz knew not what for-and promptly dragged the mattress out of her bedroom and from the apartment. She didn't say a thing; simply watched as the bloodied mattress disappeared out the door.
Kaz then walked to the center of her room, lowering herself gingerly to the ground. Her head fell back and she stared at the ceiling, stretching out her arms as though she intended to make a snow angel from the dust on her floor.
It seemed only a moment until her dad's head poked itself in her room. She didn't look at him, already knowing the concern she would see in his eyes and dreading to face it.
"Klare-bear? Would you like to take the couch?" he asked, his voice careful as though she were a wild animal prepared to bolt. "I can make it up for you."
"No thank you," she responded. Her voice seemed strange to her, disembodied, like it belonged to someone else. Kaz, realizing that her lackadaisical attitude was only adding to her dad's worry, added, "I just want to lay here for a little while, thanks though."
"Okay Klare-bear, I'll be here all night if you need me. Just right next door. Let me know if you need anything sweetie… alright?"
"Alright dad. Thanks," Kaz replied, finally looking over at him. A half-hearted smile quirked at her lips. That one simple smile was exhausting.
It seemed to satisfy her father, however. He reciprocated with a wan grin of his own before slowly withdrawing from her doorway. He shut the door, leaving only a sliver of space between the door and the frame. The yellow crescent of light from the kitchen trickled in, settling on her face. Kaz turned away.
The irony of the situation was not lost on her. Kaz had wanted so badly to spend time with her father and now that he was here, she just wanted to shut out the world… him along with it.
She rolled to one side, pillowing her head into the crook of her arm.
The entire situation was fucked up. She'd been sliced open, skewered, and beaten up. She's run for her life, faced off against muscled monsters, and witnessed death.
But none of that compared to the misery she felt in potentially losing her best friend. Her real best friend… not just a character in one of her dreams.
She sighed and contemplated staying awake for the next 80 years. She hated what kept happening when she fell asleep. She didn't want to have that dream again. It was too much. It was ruining her life.
Kaz had every intention of struggling to her feet. She had every intention of staggering into the living room and watching television for the rest of her life.
The exhaustion from the day's events, however, found her suddenly and without remorse.
Kaz opened her eyes, blinking them several times to adjust to her murky surroundings. She was lying on her side on the hard ground, littered with dirt and hay. Iron bars swam into view. The moody flicker of firelight cast long shadows against the ground. She rose her head slightly to get a better look at her surroundings. Her heart sank.
It took only a moment for her to realize that she was lying on the floor of her own personal prison. Figures. Fuckin' figures.
She dropped her head back to the floor, covering her face with her hands. She must've fallen asleep on her bedroom floor… she was in that dream again. After knocking her upside the head, the advisor's guards must've locked her up.
"FUCK!"
"For such a delicate thing, you have quite a mouth."
Her eyes flew open and her head shot up. The source of the voice seemed eerily close, as though its owner were crouched directly in front of her.
Kaz squinted into the darkness but couldn't immediately ascertain the source of the voice from amidst the shadows. She climbed slowly to her feet. She felt her muscles twinge uncomfortably, stiff from lying on the hard floor for hours. She hid the wince that threatened to appear on her face.
Once on her feet, Kaz drew closer to the iron bars of her prison. Upon closer inspection, she deduced that the voice had originated from the darkness of the opposing cell.
As she narrowed her eyes further in an attempt to pick a person from the unstable glow of firelight, a shaggy face suddenly appeared as a man thrust his head into view. Kaz drew back in surprise from the sudden movement, retreating further into her cage.
"Ah, I didn't mean to scare you, little kirinki. Please come back, all I can see are your locks."
Kaz didn't come closer. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of the gaping, bloody hole in her ruined clothing. Why hadn't she just taken Éowyn's offer to change when she had the chance?
"Who are you?" she asked, hating the way her voice wobbled. "Where am I? Am I still in Edoras?"
The man smiled big at this, the white of his teeth the only feature perceivable in the darkness. Kaz got sudden déjà vu of Alice in Wonderland, specifically the part when the Cheshire cat had grinned saucily at Alice from the blackness. The parallels of Alice's Wonderland and Kaz's own personal dream-hell were not lost on her.
"When troubles are few, dreams are few," the man responded, completely ignoring her questions. She felt, more than saw, his eyes peering out at her. "But your dreams, your dreams little kirinki… they consume you."
Kaz sighed, reaching up to run her fingers through her messy locks. She grimaced at the grime and grease she felt there. Of course, her cell-neighbor was a crazy person. Figures.
"They do more than that," Kaz found herself replying. Finding herself in no immediate danger, she lowered herself back down to the floor. A neatly folded bundle of cloth near the door of her cell caught her eye, set purposely next to a plate with a hunk of stale bread. She ignored the food, scooting closer to the bundle.
"Interesting… interesting…" the man murmured to himself. "So which one is real, little kirinki?"
Kaz's hand froze as it reached out for the bundle of fabric, hovering uselessly in the air. She glanced up in shock, her wide eyes finding the man's gaze. A wash of light blazed across his face for the briefest of moments, revealing his curious stare. His eyes were blue and his nose was red. Deep wrinkles lined his face. His long hair and beard was disheveled and scraggly, as though he hadn't of bathed in weeks. Perhaps he hadn't.
"What do you mean?" she asked, finally finding her voice.
"Reality is merely an illusion," the man replied offhandedly, settling back on his haunches. "Albeit… a very persistent one. It exists in the mind, and nowhere else. Your mind seems rather… crowded."
Kaz hesitated. Her hand dropped back to her side. There were a few moments of silence before she started talking.
It poured out of her… the dreams, the orcs, the wounds, the healing and other powers, and Jay. She wasn't sure what made her end up spilling her guts to a complete stranger. Perhaps she found a strange sort of sympathy and understanding from his bizarre statements. Perhaps she was comforted by the fact that he seemed slightly mad, and nobody would believe him if he repeated anything she had said. Perhaps her inability to talk to her own father left her desperate for a confidant. Perhaps her devastation of what had happened with Jay left a void within her she was frantic to fill.
Whatever the reason, the man did not interrupt her as she essentially bore her soul to him. He simply sat in silence, absorbing her words.
"… and I just don't know what to do," she finished at last, her voice shaking with emotion. Kaz realized then her cheeks were wet… when had she started crying?
Silence descended upon them, the only noise was the soft whisper of clothing as she used the sleeve of her ruined hoodie to scrub the tears from her face. Annoyance began to brew within her as the minutes ticked by. Her annoyance slowly morphed into shame. Of course… she had just poured her soul out to a complete stranger… what did she expect?
Suddenly, the man began to chuckle. Although she knew he couldn't see the expression on her face, Kaz found herself growing angry. Her annoyance flared to life.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh! Oh my dear kirinki… I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. It's just… you spend the blissful escape of your dreams in our reality. That is unfortunate."
"Well… it's not like I have a choice," Kaz muttered unhappily, still feeling as though she were being laughed at.
"Oh, no of course not. If one were to choose their dreams, I am sure they would choose riches and power and women. Well… I assume they would," the man fell silent once again, humming softly to himself as he lost himself in his own thoughts.
Kaz heaved a sigh, turning her attention back to the soft bundle of cloth before her. Upon closer inspection, she realized that the bundle was neatly folded shirt and pants.
Kaz was suddenly very excited about the prospect of changing her clothing. She had been feeling much too exposed with the gaping, bloody hole exposing the flesh of her belly.
As she lifted up the first garment a glint of steel was her only warning before a wicked blade tumbled from within the folds of the clothing. She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Once she had recovered from the shock, Kaz plucked the implement from the ground and turned it over in her hands.
The blade was sharp and curved much like a smaller, cleaner version of the orc weapons. Yet the hilt was splintered and worn and fashioned from simple wood. It appeared as though it had been nicked from someone's kitchen.
"A fair woman brought that for you," her cell neighbor informed her, coming up for air. "She smelled clean, like the noble do."
Éowyn, Kaz thought to herself. She suddenly worried at the blade's implication. It was kind of Éowyn to bring her a change of clothing, but why did she bring her a weapon? Were they not going to let her out? Was she destined to whittle away in this small, dirty cage like her gnarled old neighbor?
Or worse… were they going to execute her? Would they drag her out to the town square and behead her, like she's seen in those movies about castles and knights? Or would they consider her inhuman, and burn her at the stake like a witch?
The thought of being consumed by flames brought her back to her first moments within this nightmarish dreamscape, when she was trapped inside of the burning building scrabbling for purchase on the splintering wood. The memory made her shudder.
Did Éowyn bring her a weapon so Kaz could fight her way out? The idea of actually sinking the curved blade into another human being curdled her stomach. Kaz placed the weapon back on the ground, as though the mere idea dirtied her hands.
"Gloom does not bode well on such a pretty face. A coin for your thoughts?" her neighbor asked, drawing Kaz from her own mind. She looked up into the glittering eyes of the elder, expression distraught.
"What're they going to do with me?"
"Ah," he replied, sitting back. He extended his hands out before him, brushing the pads of his fingers together in a contemplatively. "That depends, little kirinki. Do they fear you?"
Before she had a chance to reply, the old man began continued.
"Oh, but of course they do. Just look at you. You're bright, you're different, you're a lady but you're not-"
"Hey!" Kaz retorted indignantly, yet the man continued, paying her no mind.
"-and even the most foolish of fools can tell you're not from this world."
Kaz thoughtlessly reached up and touched her pink-hued hair as if emphasizing the elder's point.
"So of course they fear you. You're a threat, an unexpected complication thrust into the tailfeathers of their grand plan. I bet that stinkin' snake of a puppet is plotting your demise at this very moment. Sneakin' and scheming and cowering under the heavy boot of Sauron the White, pshaw! If darkness infects even the souls of the White, what will come of the souls of the Browns? The Grays? The Blues?" The older man's nostrils flared as he was suddenly and unexpectedly consumed by rage.
"-His creatures of black storming through the trees with naught a care, sucking up the light and spitting out the dark…"
Just as Kaz thought she had lost the man to madness he rounded on her, his once-soft eyes alight with anger and conviction. He pressed his face against the bars of his cell, flushed nose poking through the gap.
"So fly, little kirinki! Fly as far and as fast as your wings can carry you! Break free of your cage and plunge into the night!"
"How?" Kaz protested, adrenaline pooling in her gut at the urgency of the elder's tone. She found herself growing angry back. "How in the hell do you propose I do that?"
The elder paused, confusion flickering over his face as though he was suddenly crushed by the confines of reality.
Aw fuck they're going to kill me and I bet it's going to fuckin' hurt.
Her neighbor reared up to grab the bars of his cell on either side of his face, pressing his face even closer towards Kaz. She shrank back involuntarily, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze.
"Are you scared?" the man pressed.
Kaz's brow furrowed in confusion. "Scared?"
"Are you scared to die?"
"No… nervous maybe," she replied. Who wouldn't be? I just found out I'm probably scheduled to die.
"DON'T!" the man roared. His grip on the iron bars tightening considerably. His cry jounced off the walls of their confined quarters, ricocheting down the hallway in a burst of unintelligible noise. The bars of the cells seemed to rattle in their hinges. A distant muttering of lewd calls bloomed from beyond the darkness of the hallway as the other prison inhabitants responded in kind.
She just gaped at him, stunned into silence.
"Don't," he repeated, his voice softer. "Don't be frightened. Or nervous. Or anything. Your emotion gives this reality power. Your reality is only in the perception of your mind, little kirinki."
The man giggled then, a high-pitched clamor that startled Kaz. "How funny! Maybe Arda is your reality, and all this time you've just been dreaming! Oh, what cruel jokesters the Valar can be!"
Kaz shook her head, flabbergasted at the idea. "No, this is definitely the dream. And it's not like I'll die in real life if I die here... that's ridiculous."
Maybe that'll be my final escape from this hellhole, she thought with sudden excitement. Though rather macabre, Kaz wondered if she should be looking forward to her 'death.' Perhaps 'dying' in the dream was the one way to stop this hellish dreamscape from occurring every time she went to sleep.
"Foolish girl!" the elder spat as though he could read her thoughts. His vehemence made her jump. The slight, frail appearance of this man did nothing to betray the amount of passion he exuded in this moment.
"Tell me, was that injury painful? It certainly looks like it was," he continued, gesturing towards the gaping hole in the torso of her top. Kaz's hand unconsciously moved to cover the spot protectively. The memory of the wound's origin surfaced in dazzling detail, causing an involuntary shiver to tickle down her spine.
She said nothing, though the elder's eyes flashed knowingly. Her reaction spoke volumes.
"Now why would it be painful, hmm? This is naught but a dream, is it not?"
The elder man had just vocalized what had bothered her since arriving in this dreamscape. Kaz could comprehend the strange characters and monsters and insanity. She could comprehend being able to heal herself and jump farther and fight better. She couldn't, however, understand why it hurt. Why did her dreams put her in the hospital? Why did they send her best friends to prison?
It all seemed like some colossal cosmic joke nobody had filled her in on.
"Tell me then, if you know so much," she challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why do I feel pain in my dream?"
"Have you been listening at all?" the man blustered, exasperation in his voice. "Clean the cobwebs from your ears, child. It's you! Your mind. Your mind believes something ought to be painful, so it makes it so."
Suddenly, in one quick movement the man produced a small pebble from the folds of his robe and launched it with surprising strength at her face. Kaz uncrosses her arms and moves to deflect the projectile but was too slow. The pebble smacked her right between the eyes before bouncing harmlessly to the ground.
"Ow!" she yelps, rubbing the bridge of her nose. The elder man was stronger than he appeared, if the smarting of her nose was any proof.
"Did that hurt?" he asked, his tone bordering on triumphant.
"Yes it hurt! You threw a rock at me!" Kaz growled before realization dawned. "…oh."
The corners of his lips drew up into a satisfied smirk as he watched the realization play over Kaz's face.
"If your mind can't tell the difference between a real pebble and a dream pebble, will it be able to tell the difference between a real death and a fake death?"
Oh.
The man sat back on his haunches, looking damn near pleased with himself.
"Well… fuck," she murmured softly, sitting back.
He was right. The crazy man in the dungeon cell across from her was right. Was her mind making the events that transpire in this dreamscape real because it can't tell what's a dream and what's not? It would certainly explain a lot.
After all, this 'dream' presented a rather convincing pretense of reality. She could clearly smell the rot, feces, and odor of unwashed bodies that comprised the stench of the dungeons. She could hear the faint rumpus of the other occupants of the prison down the narrow hallway. She could see the soft flicker of the lonely candle that illuminated the features of her neighbor in its golden light, casting long shadows from the crevices of the elder's face. She could see the hallway was completely encased in darkness, the yellow fingers of light only reaching so far.
It was all so real. Not for the first time, Kaz was in awe of the material existence her mind had concocted.
But it's not real, none of it is.
She picked up the old man's pebble from the ground, running the pad of her thumb over its smooth surface. She squeezed it gently, gauging the solidness of the weight in her palm.
If it's not real, I should be able to crush this into dust, Kaz reasoned.
"Wait, WAIT!" came a shout, disturbing her from concentration. Kaz looked up in annoyance. The man had thrust an arm through the gap in the bars and was stretching his hand out in her direction.
"That's my pebble, don't you hurt it! Give it back!"
She rolled her eyes but obediently tossed the rock back to the elder man. She barely resisted the urge to chuck it at his face, much like he had done to her.
"If you're going to test your reality do it on something useful, like the bars," the older man huffed, cradling the rock in his hands and clutching it close to his chest. Kaz wondered if the stone was one of the few artifacts the man kept from his freedom.
But he was right. Kaz scooted closer to the bars of her cage, reaching out to grip the solid columns. The bars themselves-though old and covered with grime-were thick and sturdy. Upon shaking them they hardly budged.
"Do you really think I could break th-"
Upon catching sight of the elder man the words died in her throat. He wasn't listening to her. He had again lost himself in his own mind, stroking the small pebble with his forefinger and crooning to it softly. He gave no indication of having heard her. Kaz sighed.
Well. Time to Superman this bitch, she thought to herself, licking her lips and climbing to her knees for better leverage.
Kaz remembered wielding the heavy sword as she faced off against the orcs in the valley of Harrowdale. Though it had been dense and irritatingly weighty as she carried it along in the daytime, she didn't remember being bothered by its girth as she dueled with the gangly creatures. Perhaps she had assimilated a sort of super-strength in that moment.
Kaz struggled to remember her mindset at the time. What had she been thinking about? What allowed her to turn into a dream-ninja?
I was angry. No… I was pissed, she remembered. Juliet had just asked me to kill her. I was pissed because it was my dream… and there was no way in hell-
"I knew it was a dream," Kaz murmured to herself. That was it. As long as Kaz knew it was a dream, and felt strongly that the dream was, in fact, a dream and nothing more, she could do anything. Nothing could touch her.
Then why the hell did it hurt when she was impaled by the orc's blade? Why did she experience the white-hot blow of pain upon seeing the injury? How had she let it happen in the first place?
"Allard."
As his name fell from her lips, she knew suddenly what had happened.
Moments before she was skewered by the orcs' weapon, she had lain eyes on Allard. She distinctly remembered the deep gashes that spewed bright blood from his head and forearms. She remembered the sweat that darkened his blonde hair and matted it to his skull. She remembered the expression on his face, the relief upon seeing Kaz alive and well.
In that moment, Kaz felt something for this man. Relief? Fondness?
Whatever emotion she had felt for this man had damned her. In that moment, Allard became more than just a figment of her imagination. He became a man-a man that had saved her from being obliterated by the Uruk-hai creature, a man that had stood up for her as she wandered barefoot into the group of Upbourners, a man that was kind to her as they lay down for the night upon the cold dirt of Harrowdale.
In that moment, Allard had become real. The dream had become real. The blade penetrating her body had become real.
"Fuck," she whispered at the realization. "Fuck fuck fuck."
These people... Juliet, Tompkin, Allard, Éowyn… no matter how real they seem… they're not people. It hadn't been real when Juliet gazed at her with tear-stained cheeks, pleading with Kaz to end her life. It hadn't been real when Tompkin had berated her in front of the tribe of Upbourners, rousing rage in her gut.
Kaz remembered clearly the way Éowyn had first gazed at her with so much intensity from the other side of the room, her very demeanor radiating nobility and grace. She remembered the relief she felt when Juliet tumbled into her arms with a cry, sobbing with joy at Kaz's miraculous recovery. She remembered the way the men from Upbourn had looked at her as she burst into the Golden Hall, the grief of the recent loss etched into their faces.
None of it is real. It never was. It never will be.
She couldn't feel a damn thing for these people. To wake up, to survive in this hellish nightmare she'll have to treat them for what they truly are-figments of her imagination.
She reached out to grip the bars in front of her.
It's not real. None of it is.
Kaz's eyes flicked up at the elder man. He's not real.
She looked over at the lantern and its tiny flame, glimmering lazily on its wick. That's not real either.
She shifted slightly to adjust her angle, feeling the hard, unyielding dirt beneath her knees. Not even the ground is real.
Kaz narrowed her eyes at the bars before her, seemingly steadfast against her feeble strength. Those are definitely not real.
Keeping a firm grasp on the bars and the thoughts in her head, Kaz pulled with all of her strength.