[open] somnus & YOU; interactive dream

[luciing]

Who: somnus and you
Which: Interactive Dream, just one, open
What: ITS SPOOKS SEASON NOW so
Warnings: themes of shadow/darkness but emphasis on moving forward. also dreamotion practice.


[ The dream manifests from the depths of sleep and memory, shadow and void, and you may find that the moment gravity recalls its function, your form touches down onto the smooth, cool surface of black marble. The stone base outstretches before you in a long, solitary path, and before your feet is a single gold-and-black metal epitaph with the numeral I on it. A short way ahead, another II marks another epitaph upon the ground. Beyond that, a III, with the rest remaining obscured by distance alone. Whether this pattern is an arbitrary count or a warning for something more, the dream gives no other indication, perhaps purposefully stripped of any further design.

While no walls line the path, it seems you cannot stray from it. Despite the apparent vastness of the hall, all sounds are cut short, swallowed by the overwhelming pitch of blackness beyond, blanketing all in mournful silence. The only other curiosity the dream holds is the faint scent of wheat, of harvest carried by a crisp breeze, that seems to originate from far down the hall.

Somnus is there beside you as you appear within this dream of his, and in acknowledgment, he dips his helm in your direction. There are but two options: force an exit with the practice of dreammotion or proceed. For now, however: ]

Let us walk.

Comments

[luciing]

[ On the other side is a field of wheat.

Lucious and bountiful, its harvest would be worth its weight in gold.

It rustles beneath a sky near dawn. The hall behind them, as well as all the other phantoms, have vanished.

And here Somnus stands as the sole ghost remaining, clad in dark, heavy robes of antiquity, pale as alabaster, and dead as the gravesoil beneath his sandals. His hand raises, and he stares at his palm, blinking once before lowering his arm back to his side. ]

Or... an end, perhaps. [ Without the metal cage of his armor surrounding him, his voice is somehow richer, its metallic echo lost to the dream; the expression he wears is that of stone, as if his helm had never left his head. ]

[sermom]

[She wonders at the weight of his silence, what he must be thinking in between the question and the non-answer. He must have his own guesses, his own uncertainties and worries over the purpose of this, if one exists, and whether or not this is what they're meant to be doing. She can only wonder and speculate; his thoughts left unspoken means he's not willing or able to share them with her. She can accept that his non-answer is itself an answer: whether or not he truly doesn't know, she'll be left in as much mystery.

Whatever she might have expected to find through the final threshold, she can safely say in retrospect that it was not... this. A sea of golden wheat, a beautiful sunrise, and... a man. And for a moment she thinks it might be another phantom, but then he speaks, and-]

It's... you.

[She's not sure how to phrase it more eloquently, so she hopes the surprise speaks for itself. It isn't as if the armor form wasn't him, and it's not like she couldn't get to know him like that. But there is something different about meeting someone face to face, seeing body language, expression, more than a tone of voice and a hollowed-out suit of armor, that at times can be indistinguishable from a statue. Even now she can't read his expression, but to at last give a face to the voice means a great deal. It does, in a very literal sense, make him more human.]

[luciing]

[ The ocean of wheat ripples with a gentle breeze, one that is just enough to rustle the longer strands of his hair. Somnus' helm tilts up and he inhales, eyes closed as if indulging in the scent.

Tragically, the horizon still obscures the dawn. It is not quite the end, not yet, and that makes the weight of this fantasy's finale equal parts crushing and inspiring. If dreams do mean anything at all, then let it be this: for it is enough that the light is there at all, and somehow within the dream and with this form, he can feel its glory. For a few moments, he's speechless.

She speaks, calling his attention, and he turns to face her, expression carved from marble, and nearly just as unmoving. But then his lips press together, then part to speak. ]

Hail, Kisara.

[ It seems that he, too, isn't quite sure what to say. But yes, he's here, and he's got a (semi) human form, now. ]

[sermom]

Hello, Somnus.

[As if they haven't been walking together this whole time. Though in her defense, this does feel like a new meeting, at least by half. Even if he's stone-faced, it's nice to have an appearance outside of the armor that she can now place alongside the voice.]

How long has it been?

[Since... he saw himself? Since he had a body? She's not sure what version of the question she's asking, so she'll leave the answer up to him. She suspects that the answer is 'a long time' for both.]

[luciing]

[ How long, indeed? Not as long as one might think, given the last time his armor had been decimated. But ten years corrupted by the Scourge had made it seem all that much longer-- yet more proof his older brother is that much stronger, having handled such rage and darkness for so much longer. Speaking of, it seems that his sibling's ghost is not within this field. A good thing, although he is uncertain if there is meaning to a lack of him at all.

Still, being a ghost then is different from how he experiences it now, for he can interact physically with this dream, he can feel the warmth of light on his face; he can smell the richness of the wheat around them. Like frost melting to the budding dawn, so too does the rigidness of his expression-- at least, just enough to show a complex expression, that of being overwhelmed, of grief, and perplexion. Likely, he doesn't know exactly what he feels. ]

Long enough.

[ He answers, distracted. Somnus raises his hand and places it lightly to his face, finger and thumb over his temples, then lowers it as he looks at his palm once more ]

...So this is warmth?

[sermom]

[His comment catches her off-guard; it's such an unexpectedly open admission, a slice of truth about his other existence that he'd not really expressed before. Of course a suit of armor would be cold. It wouldn't be able to feel the way that flesh and blood bodies can. She'd known on some level, but it isn't the sort of thing one thinks about unless one either lives it or is forced to confront it.

The warmth of the sun, of another person. He's not felt it at all, has he? Long enough. Too long, she suspects is the actual answer that he can't bring himself to admit aloud.

Quietly she steps over, closing the distance between them, reaching out. If he allows it and doesn't pull away, she'll clasp her hand around his.]

This is warmth.

[It's nothing to her; she's been free with her touch with plenty of others before, friends and family alike. Even if he doesn't consider her a friend, he's still a person, he's still human. He deserves to feel some warmth as long as he's able to enjoy it, especially if he has to go back to the cold metal form when he wakes. Everyone deserves this much, and it's such a small thing.]

[luciing]

[ Her hand comes into view, clasping over his, and he goes still as the stagnant sky that surrounds them. Somnus' lips part for a single, silent breath, as the sensation takes hold, and his fingers contract, rigid. Warmth exchanges between her palm and his. It is different from the light, the dawn yet kept beyond the horizon; it is direct, concentrated. Her touch is light and unimposing. It has... texture, her palm and fingers roughened with labor and callouses, but these parts, too, are made tender by the warmth she offers alone.

This is warmth, she says, and it is an ordinary human experience, one which he has been denied for over two millennia. This is a connection made only by touch despite the inflexibility of his fingers, and by the way his hand remains stiffened within hers, the experience is as novel and disorienting as breathing. But with such a simple gesture, she has grounded him.

Although his expression is reticent, there is something else within his eyes, a silent form of gratitude and guilt. Here in this dream realm, plucked from his duty to save his Star... He is still dead. Yet, to have another hold his hand, to offer him warmth through touch, he is the fortunate one, for no other king has experienced this since their deaths. He does not deserve this, and his fingers twitch within hers. Still, he doesn't pull his hand away. ]

It is... [ Somnus' gaze slowly raises to meet hers, and for few moments he says nothing, searching for the appropriate word that can be substituted for warmth, for touch, and-- above all-- for this patience and kindness, so rarely found. At last, he settles with this, spoken upon a low whisper, carried by the quiet rustle of wheat: ] beautiful.

[sermom]

[Her smile softens, encouraged by his response. There, he's not so cold after all. He has his own way of showing his humanity, it only takes some time and patience to coax it out. It's very likely he's been caught off guard by being like this, and surprise can change one's reactions, she's aware of that. She won't be expecting this sort of openness when they wake. But he's right, and it's refreshing. The warmth of human touch is beautiful, and not everyone is capable of openly acknowledging that. They're both scarred, calloused and worn from years of combat and a difficult life, no doubt, but that's not a deterrent- rather, a reminder of something to be shared. No matter where you come from or how you grew up, from king to slave, life is painful, and it is companionship that eases the burden of it. That, too, is beautiful.]

Yes.

[A simple phrase merits a simple response, and her expression is gentle as she meets his eyes, not judging, not expecting anything more than what he's willing to share. It isn't as if anyone is lining up to hold her hand, either; while she hasn't had a dry spell anything close to as long as his, it's... nice. It's really nice.

As he said, it's beautiful. And she's content to remain in contact for as long as he wishes, or as long as he's comfortable to do so.]

[luciing]

[ There is no other word that describes it best, a fragile but powerful beauty found within humanity. He's seen it before in others, of course-- in the Chosen, in how he fights for his cherished brothers; in both the first and the last of the Oracles, and all they have sacrificed; ... and his own brother, who dedicated everything. All of theirs will be gone, once the prophecy is fulfilled. He takes some comfort that their goodness will be carried on by those that survive. (Strange, though, that it is a bittersweet sort of comfort, that the promise of dawn no longer entirely alleviates the sting of loss.)

After two thousand years confined to the Ring, the sensation of touch cannot be understated. He had nearly forgotten what it is like-- yet the more he holds her hand, the last time head experienced such touch comes to mind: on his death bed, with his queen, his young son.... He recalls that their touch had been warm, too, soft and scarless. Something within his chest aches.

Somnus turns his hand over with hers as if experimenting with the touch, revealing the faint, web-like scarring on his own that crawls up his wrist and disappears beneath his cloak. His thumb moves against her palm, then returns to its initial place. He turns her hand over again. His fingers curl against hers. What a simple thing. Thus, he remains like this for a few minutes more, silent, and his eyes slide shut.

The vision of the field and the sky around them wavers, becoming hazier as the horizon begins to blend into the sky. The dream is coming to an end, the effects of which can be felt as they are called to wakefulness.

She has succeeded in resolving this dream. ]