Nightmares

This week's post is an older piece of work I edited. Originally, it was written during Nanowrimo of 2015.

This particular piece is fanfiction, written for Elder Scrolls: Skyrim. Because I can.

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Fire danced in Cassandra's dreams at night. She could still smell the smoke, still see it billowing - thick and black - into the air and blotting out the sky.

Which fire she saw, and which sky was blotted out varied from night to night. Some nights, it would be the moons and the stars blotted out by the rising cloud of choking black. The blaze she saw was a house in Cyrodiil, completely engulfed by the greedy, glowing orange light. Save for the crackling of fire, there was silence, and tall, dark silhouettes moved about from a safe distance, searching the surrounding area, while from an even safer distance, hidden amongst the trees of the nearby forest, she watched in silent, terrified horror.

Other nights, it was the sun and the bright blue sky that was marred with the dark cloud. The fire was in the trees, in the undergrowth. It chased her as she sprinted through the forest, uncaring of the damage she did in the process as she struggled to stay ahead of the blazing heat and crackling roar at her back. From somewhere behind her, growing more and more distant as she ran, horrified screams could be heard. Valenwood was being scarred; a stray flame from a spell gone wrong destroyed every hope she had left for a normal life amongst her own people and left her an outcast.

On every night that the fires danced in her dreams, she woke with a jolt, shaking and sweating and biting back a scream. The two burns that marred her skin ached at the reminder of those distant memories. On her right leg, the burn she'd received while escaping the Cyrodiil house fire ached. On her left wrist and palm, the burn she'd earned from the Valenwood forest fire throbbed.

Some nights, she'd sit alone for hours after waking, arms wrapped around herself as she fought to even out her breathing. She'd listen to the gentle noises coming from elsewhere in the hall; the steady, even breathing of the others who slept in the Hall of Attainment, the constant, gentle hum of the glowing font in the middle of the Hall, the howling of the wind outside, and eventually, she'd be lulled back to sleep - a lighter, dreamless sleep.

Other nights, someone would come running despite her best efforts to stay quiet. Sometimes, it was Onmund or Brelyna, who'd sit quietly in the chair in her room, not even uttering a sound of complaint when she clutched their hands so hard, she thought the bones might break if she squeezed any tighter. Other nights, it was J'Zargo - who'd mutter quiet complaints but would stay nearby regardless, sometimes sleeping in the chair once he'd dragged it to the bedside, or poking around through the books stacked on her desk - or Enthir - who'd just sit and talk to her quietly, distracting her from her past until morning came.

Sometimes she'd look up at her doorway, sensing someone watching her, and see Ancano standing there. He'd always have the same irritable look on his face, but he'd never speak. Not since the first time, when he’d argued with Mirabelle in the doorway of her room. Sometimes, she thought she was just imagining him. As soon as someone else entered her room to check on her, he'd disappear, as if he'd never been there in the first place. He never mentioned it, and no one else did either.

But sometimes, she'd feel a hand on her back, when no one else showed up - not the uncertain hand of Onmund or the gentle hand of Brelyna, but a stronger, firmer hand. Those nights, she closed her eyes again as soon as she felt that hand so she didn't look up. So she wouldn't be left alone when she needed someone there to keep her calm.

The hand would stay, never moving, until her breathing had evened, and her arms had uncurled from around her chest. Only then, when she had shifted and slumped back onto the pillows, would the hand move. If the Thalmor did or said anything to her, she was never aware; she always fell asleep very quickly after that.

And for some strange, rather vexing reason, she always slept the best on those nights, her dreams not haunted by the flames and smoke of her past.

She hated it, but at the same time, she longed for it.