It takes the form of a blanket, if not one that she's ever owned, then maybe one she's seen in a picture or at a market, and wanted, and never had. She burrows herself in it, like if she covers herself she can hide and everything will go away. "I want to go," she says in a small, childish voice, but there's something hesitant there, too. Her eye is moving upwards towards the sky, taking the point of view of the dream with it, where it becomes clear that it's not that the stars are in the wrong position. They are moving, twisting, curling around.
Spiraling.
"No," she says, but the voice coming out of her mouth isn't hers. That's an adult's voice, the voice of someone from Baedal. They sound beyond frightened, that wobble in it tipping it nearly back into childhood.
(In the background — "Good God, what is that?" "Are they moving?" "That's not her, it —")
The dream changes. Just like that, like someone violently flipped a page in a book. A moment of whiteness, utter blankness, and then complete scenery change. It's somewhere wooded in the northern hemisphere, but again totally devoid of any sign of man-made structures — this could be any time period at all. It's winter, snow blanketing everything.
The little girl up in the tree is younger. Ten, maybe. She's very pale and blonde, wrapped in bright blue and red clothing with reindeer fur, peering down from a dizzyingly high perch. "You're not supposed to be here," she says, frowning, puzzled by the presence of an intruder but not quite able to articulate why.
(In the distance, faintly audible, there are groups of people tramping through the snow, making more noise than they should — they are not from here. They're egging each other on, shouting burn the witch. They're far enough away that she's not concerned about them — yet.)
no subject
Spiraling.
"No," she says, but the voice coming out of her mouth isn't hers. That's an adult's voice, the voice of someone from Baedal. They sound beyond frightened, that wobble in it tipping it nearly back into childhood.
(In the background — "Good God, what is that?" "Are they moving?" "That's not her, it —")
The dream changes. Just like that, like someone violently flipped a page in a book. A moment of whiteness, utter blankness, and then complete scenery change. It's somewhere wooded in the northern hemisphere, but again totally devoid of any sign of man-made structures — this could be any time period at all. It's winter, snow blanketing everything.
The little girl up in the tree is younger. Ten, maybe. She's very pale and blonde, wrapped in bright blue and red clothing with reindeer fur, peering down from a dizzyingly high perch. "You're not supposed to be here," she says, frowning, puzzled by the presence of an intruder but not quite able to articulate why.
(In the distance, faintly audible, there are groups of people tramping through the snow, making more noise than they should — they are not from here. They're egging each other on, shouting burn the witch. They're far enough away that she's not concerned about them — yet.)