Dreams from France 3

[Dermont Falin]

Just outside of a castle library in a kingdom long forgotten a young Baron prepares to unveil his true intentions. Goblet of wine in hand tainted with poison he opens the door to find the all too familiar scene. Book piled high the young princess sits in her chair eyes blood shoot from strain picks up yet another book. “You look like you could use a drink” says the young Baron walking around the table setting the goblet before her. The man stands in the shadow watching as the young princess drinks the wine then falls back into her chair. Just as she is about to black out the man leans forward out of the shadow just to watch the look of shock on her face when she realizes just who had been helping her this whole time. Hours pass when Moira wakes in pain opening her eye she finds herself in a dungeon bound in cold iron shackles around her wrist and throat. Gagged she is helpless her only clear sight is that of Baron Rhys with a twisted smile of glee upon his face. “I tried to do this as painlessly as I could but you have forced my hand and now I must make you mine by any other means.”

Back in France the young noble men wakes in a cold sweat breath coming in heavy waves the young man turns on his light there will be no more sleep for him tonight.

[Moira ap Eiluned]

Moira rubs tired eyes, and surveys the books still in front of her. Absently she notes the sound of the door opening behind her, but she pays no attention. She reaches for another book, and is surprised when her watcher, still shadowed in firelight, walks into her view and sets a goblet of wine before her. "You look like you could use a drink." She suddenly realizes that she is very thirsty; how long has she been here? She still can’t see his face, and it bothers her again, suddenly, but the worry is as quickly forgotten, as if it never was. She reaches for the wine, takes a deep sip of the rather inferior vintage to soothe her dry throat. It flows gently down her throat. The drug, when it hits her, saps all will from her mind, her body and she falls back into the chair. The man in front of her leans forward, into the circle of candlelight, and she knows who he is. She has only one moment to register the shock of the knowledge before she descends into darkness.

She awakens to pain, burning pain, and a soul-deep nausea. She is shackled in room of cold stone, damp and smelling of old blood. The agony of cold iron wreathes her wrists and neck, and a ball of stone is bound into her mouth as a gag. Baron Rhys stands before her, a twisted smile of glee across his features. Rhys, the nearest border baron of the neighboring kingdom. The enemy kingdom.

His voice is full of the toxic joy she can read on his face. “I tried to do this as painlessly as I could, but you have forced my hand…and now I must make you mine by any other means.” Moira struggles, but the Cold Iron moving against her flesh brings a fresh surge of agony, and she screams and screams and

…wakes up, throat raw, flesh sweaty and chill. Taking a nap had been a very bad idea after all, Moira thought glumly. The images of the dream still linger, clawing at her, and she pushes herself up and off the bed. She thinks of the stacks and stacks of research she still has to face, and wonders if this is some strange message from her subconscious to do something else for a bit. So instead she heads to her computer, intent on catching up on some coding work, and tries very hard to rid herself of the echoing ache of the dream in her wrists and throat…