In Dreams
Annabelle
“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” Eleanor Roosevelt
Chapter One
I was but a little girl of eight when I discovered my ability. One night, whilst my brother Antoine and I were sleeping, I found myself awakened, only I was not where I should have been. Instead of a warm bed beneath me, I was wandering on a path in a darkened wood, guided only by an odd glow.
An orb, suspended in the air, a strange warmth radiating out from its sphere. When my finger touched its surface, it flickered lightly like a flame, only it did not burn or sting, merely a tingle.
Not but a moment later, more orbed lights appeared before me, one after the other, lined neatly in a row, their flames dancing in a playful pattern as though begging me to follow.
So follow I did, deeper into their veiled wood. As I approached a clearing, the most peculiar of noises began to fill my ears. Sounds of metal clanking, low growls and frenzied grunts.
Peering through the thicket, what I witnessed next had me questioning everything. Roman soldiers, knights of the old world. Entire armies battling under a darkened sky. But they fought no ordinary enemy. Alas, their foe took a shape I did not recognize, shifting from one form to the next as easily as to breathe.
And it was here among them, I found him. My brother, Antoine. Although he did not appear as my brother, I knew him within an instant. It was then I understood what had happened. Somehow, I had strayed into a dream. His dream. For with all the chaos and monsters, how could it belong to anyone else other than a mostly feral boy of six.
As his army defeated one monster, the imposing figure obliterated into nothing but shapeless dust, it resurrected, taking on a new body. This one a giant insect, knives for feet, crushing several soldiers upon its first strike. But my brother did not cower, instead, his shield and sword raised, he lunged forward.
“Antoine!” My mouth could not help but utter it, lost to my fear.
Yet, even as I did so, he could not hear me. Either that or he chose to ignore me. Stumbling through the wood, I charged forward, through the crowd of soldiers, reaching to grab the edge of his leather armor. Only, when my fingers should have latched themselves heavily onto substance, there was none to be found. For I was nothing but a ghost in this place.
Awakening the next morning, while sitting across the table over breakfast, all I could do was stare at him.
When he noticed, his face went sour, “What?”
“I do say, brother, with all those monsters to slay, how do you ever manage to actually sleep?” I grinned.
“Pardon?” His mouth was half open, spilling food back into his bowl.
The following night, I tried to recreate what had happened, shocked to find not only could I conjure the very bridge I followed to my brother, but that I had the ability to span into the minds of others as well.
Occasionally, I would come across a fortified wall, a barrier I could not cross. I learned in order for me to fully see, their mind needed to be open, willing to receive. At times a bit of coaxing could be done. Alas, some were shut tight, barred with all manner of frightful creatures. And some I dared not go at all.
One night, I strayed into Chef’s dream, a kitchen alight with frenzy, every dish, pot and spoon doing an odd sort of dance. Though her recipes were somewhat ordinary, what she thought of here was nothing short of extraordinary. Ingredients from far off places, spices from the isles, even dragon’s breath, though I’m still uncertain how she obtained that one.
With each visit, I stretched my ability further and further, branching out not merely into members of our household and staff, but to some in the village as well. The seamstress had all manner of secrets she longed to divulge. A sordid affair, a gown for a long forgotten princess. I loved dancing among all of her newest designs, imagining, like all young girls, myself sheathed in its beautiful lace and frills.
When I came of age and father decided it was time for my debut into society, I measured the days until my time had come to clothe myself in such wondrous fabrics. And I was not disappointed.
Not long after my debut, however, my world changed. Mother passed quite suddenly and I was left in tatters. Father became colder after that, his heart hardened to stone. His entire purpose became my affairs, my potential suitors. And though there were many, none had garnered my heart. As the time passed, father became increasingly stubborn and bitter, ultimately making a choice for me.
What he didn’t know, however, was that by then, my heart had already chosen. Stolen by a handsome stable hand.
“What if he finds out?”
I leaned forward, kissing him again, “Then let him,” I said.
“Annabelle, you know I can not marry you.”
“And why not?”
“I am but a meager stable hand. I have no name, no money, no status. I can not- I can not care for you as you are used to.”
I tugged on the neck of his shirt, “I do not care.”
He took my hands in his, releasing my hold.
“No, but your father does.”
“Let me worry about my father.”
I was naive to think I could manage. That I would have a voice of my own, to decide my own heart. When father found the letters he had written, he was furious, tearing at the pieces and throwing them into the fire’s flame. Then one day, he was gone from our estate. No tale as to why, though I knew the reason.
“Annabelle, you are a noble of this land, the daughter of a viscount. The right marriage will secure your place. You can not simply go galavanting after any man you see.”
“But father, I loved him.”
He scoffed, “And what do you know of love? Love is for fairy tales.”
With my eighteenth birthday on the imminent horizon and yet another social season without a proposal, I watched my father draw the line.
“Father, I can not marry him.”
“You can and you will.”
“He is twice my age!”
“He is a fine match indeed. Lord Cartwright has the status and plenty of wealth to go along with it, something of which you will be eternally grateful after I am gone.”
“Father, I do not love him.”
“Oh again with this silly notion! I will hear none of it, Annabelle. Lord Cartwright has already made his intentions known and I intend to see it through. It is done. You will marry within the fortnight.”
“That is less than two weeks away!”
“Yes. Much to do and little time to do it in.”
Within two weeks time, as my father had promised, I donned my wedding dress for the Lord Cartwright. And, while I did feel a bit of apprehension for our wedding night, nothing could have prepared me for what I would endure.
He had never been shy about his opinions on women, thinking of me more a slave than a potential wife, but even I could not fathom the true extent of his abhorrence and violence. When he had taken what he wanted, he left me broken, an utter shell of what I had been before. And every night he returned, I felt another piece of me relinquish and fade into oblivion.
His servants took pity on me, my handmaiden being some of the only kindness I ever received in the household. She tended to every injury, even taking to helping me cover the bruises as best as she was able.
When I told my father of the abuses, he would hear none of it, simply stating I should do my best to please my new husband and produce an heir. I was heartbroken.
While Lord Cartwright paraded me about at all the right occasions, he hardly let me leave the house otherwise. That was the moment my dreams became my only refuge, my only escape.
It was my time to explore, to see the outside world through the eyes of anyone who would let me in. I saw the grandest of venues, dined on the most marvelous of suppers, walked the park in starlight, and fell privy to the most fantastical of affairs. The only one with which I did not dare stray was Lord Cartwright. For his dreams could only be the very worst of nightmares.
Though I knew it was merely a dream, I felt closer to each and every one I visited. Each one felt dear. A light in my very narrow world.
One night, I managed to find myself in the dream of a stranger. A dream unlike anything I had ever witnessed. As I strayed past the flame lit orbs, my feet struck something unusual. Sand. I giggled as it squished between my toes, warm and inviting, the water from a lake rippling up toward my ankles. There was a hush about the night, the sky filled with streaks of color, stars scattered like snowflakes. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A picture only an artist could devise.
As I walked the shore, listening to the laps of water, the insects chirping away their night, I noticed a small stone archway ahead, gilded in moonlight, the rest of what it had been long since forgotten by time. And it was there, leaning against one of its ends, a knee bent, a book unfolded ever so delicately in his hands, sat a man.
Though the christened sky lay above him, he was lost amongst the pages, his gaze trapped. His golden hair fluttered about in the breeze, though it didn’t seem to bother him.
I, however, was completely entranced. The way he rested so easily, his feet bare like mine, hands firm but meticulous and orchestrated. Every movement held purpose and substance. Carefully disciplined. Suddenly it wasn’t the night sky that I cared to look upon.
The closer I came, the more I could see of him. Eyes the color of a sun-kissed sky after a storm, a bare hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, lifted more upright as the pages turned.
Caught by the sight before me, I missed the branch a mere step ahead, a sharp edge cutting into my heel.
“Ouch.” I picked up my foot, inspecting the small scratch now seeping a spot of blood onto my ankle.
“Who are you?” A voice. His.
When I looked up, he stood focused, staring in my direction.
I turned, expecting to see someone behind me. Only, I saw no other figure. Nothing but empty shoreline. Yet clearly he could see something. Almost like…
With a flush, I panicked, my hand coming to my mouth as I ran for the forest line, hiding amongst the trees, my breath erratic, heart racing.
As he came closer, I shut my eyes tight, desperately trying to calm this rush in my veins.
Not but a moment after I did so, I gasped, sitting up in bed, curling my hands around the linens, my breath still shallow.
How? How can this be? In all the years not once had I been seen. Every now and then someone may proclaim they saw a ghost or hear a bit of breath, but it was always fleeting. I was nothing more than an apparition, if they acknowledged me at all. But he saw me. As clear as a summer’s day.
And he was talking, not to the stars, nor the trees, nor anyone else who might be among them.
He was speaking…to me.
The story continues…
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Quite intriguing! The magical princes archetype, if I ever saw one. Can't wait to see what happens next.
Wonderful writing MaKenna! And Michael's art! So awesome :)