Volmerian Dreams

Conséquences

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I find myself once again in the heart of the city during Marching Hour, the fear gripping me like icy tendrils as I huddle against the looming threat of the soldiers' advance.

Anticipating the thundering steps and rushing feet that usually accompany this hour, I brace myself for the onslaught, my hands instinctively flying to cover my ears, shielding myself from the cacophony of chaos that is sure to follow.

But instead of the expected chaos, I am met with a gentle touch—a soft hand pulling mine away from my ears, coaxing me out of my defensive crouch.

It's the familiar soldier, his presence a calming reassurance amidst the turmoil of the city streets.

With a tender gesture, he lifts my head, coaxing me to straighten my hunched posture and meet his gaze.

Taking my hand in his, he guides me through the deserted streets, the usual throngs of soldiers conspicuously absent from their usual patrol routes.

As we wander through the eerily quiet city, he points out the lack of soldiers, his touch a comforting anchor in the midst of the desolate landscape.

The glow of the city lights casts an ethereal halo around him, illuminating his striking Volmerian features in a soft, otherworldly glow.

His eyes, dark and intense, never waver from my face, their unwavering gaze a silent promise of protection and reassurance.

Despite the surreal beauty of the moment, a sense of unease gnaws at the edges of my consciousness.

The emptiness of the city, devoid of its usual hustle and bustle, serves as a stark reminder that this idyllic scene is nothing more than a figment of my imagination—a fleeting dream born from the depths of my subconscious.

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5:31 pm.

As I peacefully awaken from my dream, the soft glow of the setting sun filtering through the window greets my eyes.

"God, I slept all day…" I mutter, rubbing my temples as I try to shake off the remnants of sleep.

Glancing down, I notice the absence of the familiar weight of a Volmerian soldier draped across me, the realization dawning that my 'husband' is nowhere to be found, evidenced by the lack of a face buried in my chest and the absence of hacking noises.

Just as I contemplate getting up, the door creaks open, heralding the entrance of yet another soldier—this one different from the last. With a solemn expression, he steps inside and gently shuts the door behind him before taking a seat beside me on the couch.

"Ma'am, I am so sorry to inform you," he begins, his voice heavy with sorrow.

My heart sinks at his words, a sense of foreboding settling over me as I wait for him to continue.

"Your master has died," he says, the weight of the news hanging heavily in the air between us.

Stunned into silence, I sit there in a post-sleep daze, struggling to process the sudden turn of events.

"It seems he was concussed before he went off to battle, which led him to be unable to perform well," the soldier explains, his head bowed in reverence.

As I grapple with the shock of his revelation, he offers a glimmer of hope. "I know you are upset, ma'am. We will have you out of here soon."

A surge of relief courses through me at his words, the prospect of freedom beckoning like a beacon in the darkness.

"You will be escorted directly to your next assignment shortly. I will pack your bags," he continues, rising from his seat to gather my belongings—the duffle bag and clothing from before—preparing me for the next chapter in my uncertain journey.

A bitter realization washes over me as I come to terms with the harsh truth—there is no easy escape from this life of servitude. Perhaps, I think wryly to myself, I'll have to resort to hitting my next assignment over the head with a beer bottle to get any semblance of freedom.

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