In Lost Dreams the Four Were Bound

01 - Unknown - Fevered Visions of the Wanderer

His mind was a blur, his senses stunned. He was overwhelmed, repulsed by the memories that were bubbling up from deep within his subconscious. He knew he was no longer there amongst the ghoulish and lifeless, but he could not let go of those tormenting, tragic moments. He could still feel the heat of the flames and smell the odors of death. Trapped within himself, he was inside a hell he wished never to have known, one he wanted to escape. He tried to focus, to break free of the temptation to relive the agony yet again. He struggled to open his eyes, but when he did, the feelings of the flashback were inseperable from his perceived reality.

He sensed sunlight pouring in upon him, its gentle warmth dancing like fiery coals across his skin. The pain made him want to retreat into his dreadful sleep. Fighting through with dry, narrowed eyes, he could make out the room's general features. Wavering washes of color created unearthly auras among the sterile linens and the walls' earthy tones. The smells of the forest came to him, entwined with others: flowers, herbs, leaves, bark. But the strongest was that of decay, its pungent aroma assessed and embittered by his tumultuous brain.

Focusing on his other senses, he heard the murmuring of others somewhere nearby, too weak to pick up the nuances of their words. He heard laughter and faint sounds, the calm breaths and whispers of those somewhere close but unreachable. They were like double-edged blades, luring him back to a peaceful time that could not have been that long ago but was followed by dread and despair. They drew him on as he tried to obtain a firm grip on reality.

Then he felt it. Warm but gentler than the harsh sun, a blurry silhouette of gold and lavender gripped him by the hand. Soft skin stroked him, playing across his fingertips. Something about the sensation was calm and familiar.

Before he could clear his thoughts, what little hold he had on reality began to slip. His heart started to race, pounding throughout his body until the sound reached his ears. For a second, his mind drifted, trying to halt the onset of whatever was to come. His heart seemed poised to burst, and somewhere in the back of his mind was a strange, frightening sense of release.

With all his conscious effort, he struggled to keep a grip on the present. He tried to force his heart rate down but could not stop it from climbing. His arms and hands twisted and contorted of their own accord. With what little strength remained, he held the writhing limbs to his sides. While his body was trying to die, something forced it to stay alive.

Through it all, the warmth on his hand stayed, becoming a firm grasp as a frantic voice called from beside him. Another voice replied. He felt the thuds of feet upon the ground, growing closer. His convulsions transformed into tremors. A bitter chill and waves of pain rippled through him, reaching out from his chest and through his extremities.

With a firm grip, the one next to him drew close beside his contorted face. The person's voice was soft but stern, gentle but commanding. He tried to lie still and understand the figure's words. He turned his head to focus on the person next to him, but something warm pressed against his forehead, caressing and immobilizing him. He felt their warm breath upon his neck.

"Ge rolm ne vahr," the person whispered in a soft, soothing voice. The words were ancient, calling to a time long ago that he could not quite place. With those words, a calm spread throughout him as they echoed through his embattled mind. With all notion of desperation fleeting, he lost his grip on the moment and allowed himself to fall back into the abyss of his dreams.

"Ge rolm ne vahr . . ."

"Ge rolm ne vahr . . ."

Something was holding his hands somewhere in front of and above him. He followed their tugging as if being led in a dance. The light and colors were intense, making it hard for him to concentrate. His legs wobbled, further disorienting him.