Niamh trudged along the sidewalk, trying to dodge the far too many people who were out and about. It was nearing midday bells, and the city noises pushed against her like a physical shove. She staggered, taking an off-rhythm step. Her satchel slid onto the crook of her arm with a violent lurch, and she yelped in pain.
“Are you well? Do you need help?” A man with a grocery basket on his arm started toward her, brow furrowed in concern.
“It’s fine. Just a bad step,” Niamh said, a little too quickly, and added a “thank you” that she did not feel.
Without another glance at the helpful stranger, Niamh dodged out of the flow of foot traffic. She limped along a shaded alley, wide awnings offering some much needed coolness. She emerged suddenly into a small garden courtyard complete with a bubbling fountain. A fantastical creature, some sort of dragon from Ahra’s myths and fables, jetted clear water from its mouth, the stream glinting in the noontide sun.
The light dazzled Niamh, forcing her eyes to close. She was tired. She spied an empty bench nestled in the shade of a miniature tree with fan-shaped leaves.
I must rest. I must…
She collapsed onto the bench and again closed her eyes.
The visions began the instant her lids lowered. Marching, marching. Mechanae grinding the world under their treads into gore. And alongside them, something new. Wormlike, insectoid things, gray and necrotic green and unnatural. Hisses and jabbers filled the air and—
Humming a song she did not know. Sweet, off-kilter. Something from a nightmare.
A hooded figure in robes of black and rot-green moved toward her, feet inches above the grass. Human or elven feet, fine-boned and bare, stepping measuredly through the air.
Everything turned to ice. So, so cold… impossibly cold. Snow whirling through the warm spring skies like petals from a tree. Ice creeping over branches, withering new grass. And the whole time, that clear voice humming its haunting tune.
Tears slid down Niamh’s icy cheeks, shocking her with their heat. What was it about that hooded figure that made her want to curl up in a ball and hide? Why did she feel like she would never be safe again?
Wake up, Niamh, she begged herself. Wake up from whatever nightmare this is.
Moving slowly, Niamh lifted her head. Her eyes opened a moment later, and she shuddered against the daylight.
They weren’t gone. The monsters and shadows flitted over the quiet garden, overlaying the peaceful scene with horror.
“No!” Niamh shouted. She rubbed her eyes until they hurt. When she looked around the little courtyard again, the nightmares were nowhere to be found.
A gardener stood near Niamh’s bench, a trowel in one gloved hand and a concerned expression on her lined face.
“Oh. I apologize. I have nightmares after…” Niamh’s voice broke off into a choked sob. Horrified, she covered her face.
“My son had an accident, too,” the woman said softly, moving to sit next to Niamh. “His nightmares are gone now, but it can take some time.”
“I’m sorry about your son,” Niamh managed, voice threatening to break again.
“He is fine, so do not be sorry. All of that is long past. He is busy with a wonderful family, and his brewery, and talks to a mentalist over at Hightower if he ever has need of it.”
“That is a good idea, and I’m glad he’s happy,” Niamh said, her breathing normalizing and her heart slowing from its thunderous gallop into a mild canter.
“Don’t lose hope. And ask for help if you need it. Speaking of which, do you want me to fetch someone for you? Or, I could walk you to wherever you need to be.” The woman smiled, and to Niamh, the gesture and all the light it brought chased away the shadows from before.
“I will be well, thank you, but you are good to offer. I hope the Source rains blessings upon you and yours.” Niamh crossed her arms over her chest in a traditional Sylvan blessing.
“Light go with you,” the woman replied warmly.
And just like that, Niamh was back in the living world. The afternoon sun warmed her face and arms, and a light perfume of flowers danced on the breeze.
She was just exhausted. Overwhelmed. After all, she had only today realized how much Jeron had sacrificed to keep her alive.
And, she had practically fled him. It was all too much. Too much to absorb, to understand. Even the kindness of the people she had met here in this beautiful but busy city was overwhelming.
No wonder the nightmares were so much worse during her unintended nap. Surely, there was work to do, ways to normalize. Clothing to clean, breakfast dishes to wash, and maybe Eren-Ras would be around for some extra practice drills later. Anything to keep from falling asleep again, at least for a while.
Niamh realized she was at the portal and forced herself to stand straighter as she offered the attendant her silver crowns.
“Source go with you,” she added to the young man with a deliberate smile. She would conquer this. She would heal, she promised herself as the portal’s magic flickered around her like the shadows still lurking in the back of her mind.
—
Hours after his meeting with Niamh, Jeron hunched on the edge of his bed, tool kit shoved aside and shavings from the artificial leg’s cushioning on the floor at his feet. He had tinkered, adjusted and honed. It would fit Niamh’s needs even better now.
Keep working. Do not think about her out there alone, clearly hurt and confused.
It was the only way he could stop himself from rushing to a portal and banging at her door until she let him in so he could somehow make it all better. But he knew, trying to confront her now would be unkind and unfair, no matter how his heart thundered in his chest or his hands shook when he thought of it.
He would not push the issue until she made it clear she was ready to talk. He cared about her, and as a friend first. Trust had to be nurtured, and Niamh had seen more trauma than many… he would do whatever needed to keep her trust.
Jeron sighed.He picked up his sixpick and oilcloth again and set back to the final adjustments, hoping against hope it would all resolve in a way that brought Niamh close to him again.
Lizzie Sinclaire 