Shadow of Dawn

Chapter 7

Valmyr woke quietly from a dreamless sleep and was surprised that he had been granted a sleep without nightmares. Since the stone circle, his mind had been awash with terrifying images and memories every waking hour. He had prepared himself to be riddled with nightmares, yet there had been none. The cold had waken him, though, an icy grip tearing through his furs and scratching at his bare skin.

The fire had died.

Thorval and Valhilde slept still, though his sister still seemed fitful. On the other side of the coals, which continued to glow, the elder lay still, breathing softly. Wreaths of smoke climbed upward in smooth curls and were sucked out through the pocked ceiling. How long had they slept?

Though he wanted to spark a new flame, he did not have a flint and exhaustion drew him swiftly back into a deep, but frigid sleep. This time he dreamt, but of things blurry and shapeless, neither joyful nor frightening. He slept cradled in a stifling emptiness of grey and white. In his dream he plodded through strange stretches of nothingness, fending away faceless wraiths and ghosts he knew did not wish him harm. He was unafraid as he marched neither forward nor backward, up or down, he just waded through a clinging mist. After what seemed an eternity he peered through the grey and spotted an indistinct blotch of black, floating. He went to it or it came to him, there was no difference.

Then he was facing it, a writhing mass of shadows. It swirled about him, as if smelling him, black tendrils reaching out to touch his bare skin. He looked down and saw that he was naked. The shadows twitched and jerked, a shape slowly being carved from it. It became him, a darker image of him, the same features, the same posture, the same eyes. They were identical. He was not afraid because he was facing himself. There was nothing to fear. His mirror image grinned, then inched closer. Soon their heads were touching jolts of energy surging through them.

Yes, he answered an unasked question.

The mass of shadows dissolved and began roiling like a stormcloud. It hurtled around him, but there was no wind, no rush of air in his ears. His heart began pounding, his head hurting.

Then the shadows poured into him, through his mouth and eyes and nose and ears. He was swallowed by the darkness, or rather, he swallowed it. It was over soon and the grey emptiness returned. Nothing had changed. He was Valmyr, floating in a shapeless mist. The pull of reality came harshly, a hook through his navel. It wrenched him from the warmth of his dream and returned him to...

He woke gasping, sweating, squirming, but remembering nothing. Around him the others still slept, though it seemed he had been gone for ages. He rubbed his eyes, trying to recall the dream, trying to understand the strange feeling coursing through him. The pink light of dawn streamed in through the hole bored into the cavern's ceiling.

Then his stomach tugged at his insides and his mind was suddenly turned to finding food. He discarded the dream and rummaged through the old woman's provisions; a pair of packs fashioned from beaver skins and full to the brim with gathered nuts and berries. Sparing a brief glance for the sleeping crone, Valmyr let his hunger overwhelm him and swallowed as many handfuls as he could manage. His teeth ached from chewing, but the wooden aroma of the nuts and the sweet berry juice flowing down his throat satisfied him for the time being. He found the waterskin and drank enough to feel refreshed.

The crone would hardly need sustenance for long, she was on the verge of death, one hand already holding Mhor's. Valhilde's wellbeing was all that mattered to him anymore. Though they had all suffered the unthinkable, somehow Valmyr knew it was worse for her. So young and small and helpless. A twin, alone... Mother torn away, father... Valmyr shut his eyes. His heart ached beyond pain, but his mind had become, in the space of that crimson night, an impenetrable fortress behind which skulked horror and sorrow.