Alone • Liam Dunbar

Twenty-Seven

The open clearing was the same as it always was in my dreams, only I was different now. I wasn't restrained, living through someone else's actions. I could move freely and explore the landscape my mind continued to conjure each time I slipped under.

Bloody snow crunched beneath my boots as I ventured forward, trudging through red and white. Dry trees encircled the environment, their curved brittle branches creating a dome around me from the outside world. It was beautiful, yet the cold that viciously nipped at my skin made me wonder how long it had been since warmth was able to exist here.

A subtle gnawing feeling grew within me as I walked. It told me I was meant to be somewhere else. I wanted to listen, to see whatever memory was lying beneath the surface of this dream, but with every new step I took, going deeper into the shelter of winding trees, I was confronted with the undeniable truth that I was returning home. Nothing else seemed to matter after that.

These were the woods of my people; my family.

They walked this same path over a century ago. They settled here as the world evolved. Then, they ultimately died here, too.

I hadn't recognized the typography at first, not used to how winter could interfere with the structure of nature. I had only seen these lands during a decade-long summer. When my grandmother was alive, she would say we were blessed for it. She saw snow as a bad omen; a pale face of death. I wonder what she would say if she knew our home had been consumed by flame instead.

My journey comes to an end when an unidentifiable blur passes me.

I whirl around in a circle, not wanting to keep my back to a potential enemy, but whatever was out there was quick. It disappeared behind thickly frosted tree trunks one second, only to appear in an entirely different area immediately after. I wondered, briefly, if there were multiple foes closing in on me. Though, as I catch glimpses, I'm able to see I'm only in the company of one person.

They have a lengthy cloak made of wool that covers their body, protecting them from the elements. A quiver of stitched leather hangs from a strap wrapped around their hip, holding arrows with feather fletchings. The bow clutched within their nimble fingers is hand-carved, sculpted from fine, dark wood.

It dawns on me then that this is no ordinary person, they're a hunter.

I'm meant to fear this. I'm meant to prepare to fight. I'm meant to do a lot of things, but I don't. I stop searching for the figure and allow it to reveal itself on its own. These are the woods of my people, and nothing that exists here will harm me.

Behind me, the snow shifts.

"Knight," a low, feminine voice speaks. Their tongue holds an accent I can't place, not with one word. Despite that, there's a sense of familiarity that floods me. It's the same sensation one gets when reuniting with an old friend.

I turn to greet them, finding a faceless darkness staring back at me. Their hood is pulled up, a void of black beneath it. I wait for the figure to speak again or show their true face, but neither happens.

The hunter reaches out to me. Their wounded palm faces upward, revealing a thin cut that traveled across the surface of their skin. Drops of their blood fall into the snow as they wait for me to accept their silent offer. I extend my own hand, finding myself willing, but before we can touch, another voice calls for me.

"Jac, come on, wake up."

Lydia's distant, seemingly coming from a place beyond my own mind. She sounds terrified. It makes this dream insignificant. I pull away from the hunter. I wanted answers for what this dream meant, but the needs of my friends would always outweigh my personal desires.