Dreams from France

[Dermont Falin]

        Somewhere in France a young man sits on the edge of his bed looking at the woman fast asleep next to him. "It has been a long time, it seems, since I have been awake but one thing hasn't changed...the ladies of house Fiona are still a lot easier to coax then the others of the court," he says to himself, laying down and drifting off to sleep.

       The room was large dark and cold -- one of the problems with old castles. A fire crackling in the pit on the far side of the room throws shadows across the room, and the man watches as they dance over piles of books and a solitary figure among them. “Good evening, Princess. Is there anything I can help you with?” the man says to the figure. “I have lost something...I know the way to get it back is in one of these books, I just have to find it!” responds the young lady. The man walks around the table, putting his back to the light of the fire and covering his face in shadows. “Well, perhaps I can help you find whatever it is that you have lost. I have already given you access to my library, but if there is anything else I can help you with...?” Princess Moira looks up, startled, from the books. “I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t realize it was you,” she says, casting her eyes down for just a moment. “Thank you for again for the use of your library. I haven’t found anything yet, but there is still much to go through.” The man picks up a book and slides it across the table. “Here, try this one. I’ll send someone in with food; eat and try and get some sleep. There is no point in killing yourself from lack of sleep,” he says, leaving the room.

      The young French man wakes in a cold sweat. “What the hell was that? Something from my past?” The man places his head back on the pillow and drifts off to sleep again.

[Moira ap Eiluned]

It's eight in the evening when Moira finally falls asleep at her computer. She's been up since the prior evening on a mad programming binge, bouncing between her work for the vampire, her own stretch project and the revamp of her old Silver Web social-media data mining code. But even her considerable stamina and willpower flag around hour 37, and she drifts off while code compiles complacently...

The room is dark and cold; there is a fireplace at the far end providing light and some meager heat, but the chill is pervasive nevertheless. Moira sits on a hard wooden chair; shackles on short chains bind her to the chair, but that seems all right. She's pretty sure she put them on. She can't remember why, but that doesn't matter. There's something she has to find, and the key to it is somewhere in the books piled on the table and stacked around her. She mutters to herself, and rubs her forehead. She takes off the jeweled coronet she is wearing -- that isn't right is it? No, it must be, yes, of course it is -- and places it on the table.

A voice penetrates her distraction. “Well, perhaps I can help you find whatever it is that you have lost. I have already given you access to my library, but if there is anything else I can help you with...?”She starts, stares at the man standing with his back to the fire. His face is in shadow, but his frame is lean and well-proportioned. Moira looks down for a moment, embarrassed not to have heard him approach. “I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t realize it was you,” she says. “Thank you for again for the use of your library. I haven’t found anything yet, but there is still much to go through.”
The man glances at the stacks in front of him, then picks up one tome and slides it across the table to her. “Here, try this one. I’ll send someone in with food; eat and try and get some sleep. There is no point in killing yourself from lack of sleep,” he says, his voice deep and silky.

Moira watches the man leave the room. She can't remember his name, and that just doesn't seem right. She starts to stand up...

...and the shackles are dark, wet tentacles, dragging her under the cold ocean, and she feels the cold chill alien horror of another mind sliding into hers, and the horrible, wonderful joy she feels as it takes control. She opens her mouth to scream, but all she hears is a persistent chime...

Moira wakes in a cold sweat, her computer chirping cheerfully to notify her of the completion of its latest task. She wipes her face on her sleeve, and reaches over to grab the bottle of goldschlager. She takes a swig, swallowing a mouthful of the potent cinnamon liqueur gratefully. "Stupid nightmares," she mutters, and goes back to coding, the odd lead-in to the nightmare disregarded, if not forgotten.