The Book of Universal Paths

Prologue

Sometimes she dreams of scars. Thin, pale, white lines against porcelain jaws. They always slash across a face, taunting you, making you ask where they came from. She always reaches out to touch them. She always forgets what she was reaching for.

Sometimes she dreams of different colored eyes. One is blue. It is electrifying, sometimes the color of the sea when the waves are calm. Sometimes bright like lightning when the ocean is at war with the Gods. The other eye is olive colored. It looks sickly in sun, but gentle in shade. Darkness suits the creature she dreams of. The creature who is dazzling and beautiful and who she forgets the face of.

There are always dreams of teeth that are sharp and pointy, sparkling in the rays of sun that reflect in gruesome puddles of blood. It stains dirt paths and splatters on plants and is smeared into powerful languages against walls. Blood spilled by the innocent. Blood spilled by the poor. Blood spilled by the ones who try to help, pooling around their ankles or heads or torsos.

The darkness is never injured. Evil lives on. Evil lurks in dark corners and on banished lands. It snickers at the foolish and discourages the determined. Evil wears a thick layer of strength that is as thick as the layer of weakness good wears. The good in her dreams has been crushed by evil. In her dreams the sky is not blue but the color of sea when waves are calm or bright like lightning when the sea is at war with the gods. 

Then, only when her mind is clear and her head is trusting, the sky lights up with red and orange and pink lights. The sun decides to hide behind a sturdy mountain, vines creeping up it’s walls like dainty children tip-toeing past their sleeping father. The grass under her fingers feels like silk and smells like rain, trees blow her bright hair gently to the side. She traces her fingers into a small patch of clovers, always finding one with four leaves. Always wishing for the same thing, though she can never remember what.

She likes to make daisy chains. She had been taught by a faceless girl with no personality. The girl was lost from her memory, as was most of the dream. She plays with the end of her beautiful white dress that is embroidered with thin golden designs that give her an elegant feel in the playful gown. 

She braids her hair. Unbraids it. Braids it again, as if she is bored, or perhaps nervous. She feels nervous when the dream is more vivid. Sometimes she feels nothing at all, as if her sensors have gone away. 

When night falls, she likes to watch the stars gleam. She likes the feeling of comforting darkness on her skin, damp with promise of morning dew. She likes the valley’s view below her as she waits for a prince to come. A prince with a bitter heart. 

Sometimes she wakes up from these beautiful dreams, still wondering where he is. Sometimes she doesn’t get far enough to mourn his absence. Sometimes she hears the crinkle of his boots in the dry brush behind her. 

And sometimes, she swears she felt the brush of fingertips on her hips, and the imprint of someone’s lips on hers.