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Falling: that’s how it starts, they usually do.
Dreams are complicated things. Vivid, complex images birthed from apparent nothingness, incoherent stories tangled within your dormant mind whilst your body’s abandoned, unprotected, uncontrolled. Sasha hadn’t thought about it before – why would she? – not until lengthy nights of vigilance, warily watching for signs of attack, ambush, danger.
Even now on Earth, sleep’s evasive. Falling asleep? A colossal task. Remaining asleep? Impossible. Their journey might be over but the events linger like a ghostly long-lost friend stranded worlds apart. Besides, her dreams are terribly predictable these days – which isn’t surprising considering… everything.
“It’s only natural,” the doctors had explained, and Sasha supposes they’re right. Something about stress to a developing mind; she can’t recall. Talking to the doctors was difficult. Her hands shook hard, in fact, she couldn’t stop shaking until Anne and Marcy stole her hands within theirs, calming her enough to remember her surroundings.
Frustrating… like her dreams.
Typically, they go like this: there’s a tower, a girl and a fall. These are important, absolute and uncontrollable. Sure, there’s differences sometimes; once, she’d almost reached safety but at the last second – like always – the floor gave out and she’d slipped, falling to her fate. It’s how it is but hey, it’s consistent. Consistency gives control, or a fleeting sense of it anyway, enough to ease some worries come morning.
Tonight’s dream starts similarly: atop the tower. The world’s miles below. Rich, haunting orange paints the universe. Time dips its brushes within ink, night blanketing the world with each wavering brushstroke. Bristles dapple orange blots as the sun sets, a golden halo peeking over the horizon. Sasha’s not one to sit back and admire the view, but even she’d appreciate its beauty.
Well, in any other circumstance.
In slumber, time’s against her. Silhouetting against nauseating orange, Sasha’s a determined pink figure refusing to blend into time’s water-coloured pages. Steadfast, she hangs by a veiled paper-thin thread, dangling precariously over the edge.
Awfully, the feeling’s familiar. It’s never easier. Bricks break beneath boots. Earth rumbles an ebbing, guttural growl. Ground peels, crumbling underneath. The tower – home – wobbles, trembling in time’s wake. Then, fate cuts strings and as preordained, the tower will fall.
“It’s over,” a heart-locked voice will call above, high and almighty, “you’re not gonna push me around anymore.”
Ultimately, she’ll fall too. Dizzying orange will scorch the world’s canvas. Everything will spin: colours, shapes, reality. She’ll rise, fly, then drop unceremoniously – a falling star burning bright, wings clipped, downfallen.
What awaits… well, Grime’s not around to catch her this time.
Usually, that’s what happens. Now, however, that impending fate looms. Death lingers, a crooked smile atop a borrowed face, their fiery orange scythe raised, waiting patiently.
Cruel really, but have her dreams ever been kind?
Around her, air whistles loudly, screeching for unmet justice. Gusts whir, attacking all directions; Sasha hardly hears past it. Its sorrowful song wails for her inevitable demise, scratching tendrils snagging dry, chapped skin. Icy fingers tug tiring limbs, urging her towards fate. Hair thrashing wildly, her cape encases her inside a fragile cocoon, barely blocking battering winds.
For a moment, time’s gentle. Tenderly, she’s held by a single lifeline, but it doesn’t last; dreams never do. Threads fray, stitches long since plucked – damaged from years of unseeing eyes, pseudo smiles and locked hearts: a self-fulfilled prophecy.
Above: the girl. Shaking hands clasp hers, fingers tangling her wrists, desperate, afraid, unwilling to let go. Another recognisable feeling, after all, dreams build off memories – or so she’s been told – and Sasha’s been here before.
Something must give eventually.
Overhead, tears drip. A heart-torn Anne, Sasha expects, with lashes wet from crying, mouth curved into a melancholic frown. Despite everything – everything Sasha surely deserves – Anne will hold on, adamant to never let her fall, but memories are made, not shaped. Still, it’s a kind reminder. Once, there’d been hope for change – a wish she’d tarnished.
Dreams are complicated things though.
Unexpectedly, it changes . The world shakes, thunder roars and lightning flashes. Rain pours down, cold droplets lashing at skin. Ice spreads, numbing her limbs, freezing her to the core. At every ringing clash, menacing orange fills the painted world in horrific splendour, and when Sasha looks up, her heart stills, breath taken.
“I did it for us.”
The storm’s eye, Marcy stares back. It’s a first, usually she resides within dreams of bloodied castle floors and spiteful, treacherous kings. The unsettling change sends chills along Sasha’s spine, leaving a thrumming ache that oddly burns. Heartbroken sobs carry through winds, Marcy’s shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Upon every lightning flash, death paints her in its visage, an orange skull highlighting jaw and bones, her eyes hazed as rain mixes with tears. Behind, her cloak whips violently, a burnt hole in the middle, and that’s when Sasha realises; her armour’s blackened, ruined just like before. On her chest, there’s a huge slash where orange sparks continue flickering, Sasha’s heart dropping at the sight.
Marcy doesn’t react. Knuckles shining white, she holds Sasha desperately, grip waning and water filling between the gaps. Bewildered, Sasha stares soundlessly, but when Marcy tries speaking, there’s another loud snap of thunder. Orange lightning blinds Sasha, and as she blinks spots from her vision, an unexpected voice returns.
“Nice of you to fall for our trap.”
Sasha’s heart lurches. Suddenly, with a sneering cackle, sharp fingernails pierce into her wrist. With a pained shriek, her vision whites out, fire-hot agony trickling down her arm but a hand slips free. Weight unbalanced, Sasha sways dangerously, and when her sight returns, everything’s the same as earlier, all but orange shining within Marcy’s eyes.
“I gave you this,” Marcy pleads, voice all wrong – laced with something dark, overwritten, overridden. Orange glitters in her eyes, tears freefalling. Her face twists, conflicted, brows furrowing together but she doesn’t let go. Marcy would never let go. “I gave you everything.”
“You’re not friends,” that other tormenting voice howls within winds, “not anymore.”
You’re wrong, Sasha would voice, but the words never come. They lodge, leaving her gasping for breath. The wind bellows louder, thunder booming in the background. Stinging pain explodes tenfold, fingers digging deeper, wrestling another tormented scream from her. Green and purple blotches bloom underneath Marcy’s grip – afraid, unsure, dangerous.
“I just didn’t want to be alone.”
You weren’t alone, I should’ve been there.
Body shaking, Sasha strains towards Marcy with her freed hand. Wanting nothing more than to be free, to hold Marcy close, to heal what was once broken, Sasha delicately pulls at Marcy’s skeleton-like fingers–
Wait, what’s happening?
Still, Sasha pries carefully, watching as they peel away one by one–
Stop. Don’t you dare let go of her – not again.
Yet, she continues, or rather, the dream does. With every finger pulled away, Sasha finds herself edging closer to her fate, Marcy’s hold weakening, threads snapping fibre by fibre.
“I’m sorry for everything.”
No, I’m sorry for everything.
Time slows. Orange flames explode from Marcy’s chest and Sasha watches, heart trapped behind dream-locked words. Marcy’s knees buckle as her body keels forwards, and if Sasha were fast enough, she’d catch her.
But she can’t.
After all, that’s how it starts, they usually do, and that’s how it ends.
Marcy drops.
Sasha falls.
Waking’s a complicated thing too. With it, there’s that liminal space between reality and surreality. A muddied plane where fantasy and awareness collide, rippling waves atop a bottomless ocean’s surface. There, your body’s left weighted yet weightless, mind fogged yet clearing, heart restless yet resting. It’s the worst part: the relentless blind fear before realisation hits.
Sasha’s no different.
With a muted gasp, she jolts awake. Veins ignited orange, her mind rabbit-races, reeling from the repercussions of an immense drop. Cogs stick, churning, trying to decipher through truth and illusions as her vision blurs. It’s useless. No matter how much her mind searches, the same answer remains: memories weave between the passages.
In truth, she’d almost lost Marcy forever.
At that, everything hurricanes. Shapes mix and the room spins endlessly. It’s like falling again. Colours blend, discarding confusing trails of deep blues, soft yellows and calming purples. Sasha’s anything but calm. Body hypervigilant, her heart thunders to a lingering vicious storm, electrified with haunting orange, sparks dancing within her vision. Blinded with fear, her trembling hands fumble, searching for hands stolen from reach – mind repeatedly calling for who she’d dropped, let go, abandoned.
“I’m sorry for everything.”
What’s within reach now isn’t Marcy, or even Anne; her fingers curl around something soft – the duvet, her addled mind supplies – thrown haphazardly during nightmare-hazed struggles, binding her legs and trapping her in place. Breath hitching, silent tears roll freely.
“Just a dream, Waybright,” she recalls Grime saying once. His voice was low, gritted, face painted with the familiarity of someone who’d regularly greeted demons alike. This was during the resistance’s beginning, amidst blood, ruin and war, back when she’d nothing but the stubborn belief that her girls were alright. “You’ve handled worse,” he’d continued, wrapping her in a hug, rubbing circles on her back as she’d cried herself hoarse, “and no matter what awaits us, I’ve got your back.”
A heavy sigh escapes her, the panic-induced storm fading into numb sorrow. Settling, her surroundings slowly piece together. The hospital room is dark, coated in midnight blue, delicate yellows seeping through the large window from street lamps outside. The air’s cool as a citrusy aroma floats in – the bouquet Anne’s parents brought earlier to help liven the room. Helpfully, it masks the antiseptic and bleach well acquainted within the hospital’s walls. Rhythmic mechanical buzzing fills the silence, and underneath that, if Sasha focuses, there’s quiet snoring from the neighbouring bed. Glimpsing over, she finds Anne fast asleep, and out of view, Marcy must be the same. Thankfully, that agent (Mr X or something) pulled some strings, ensuring the trio would stay together throughout their entire stay. Sasha doesn’t think she’d have survived otherwise.
“You’re not friends, not anymore.”
Hastily wiping tears, Sasha’s unsteady hands cover her eyes before pressing her palms heavily against them. The pressure’s enough that blue, green and pink dots form, dancing, lining the insides of her eyelids. It doesn’t rid the persisting images: the fire blazing from Marcy’s chest, the ghoulish orange painting her reaper-like, the sinister colour staring back, harrowing, deadly.
Horribly, the feeling’s familiar. Dangerous desperation’s an old friend, one Sasha knows well. It lurks within shadows, a false light reflecting back, alluring but crucially hopeless. She’d recognised it earlier but foolishly ignored it, much like her own. It’s only when it’d returned, flickering between orange flames scorching skin, that Sasha had noticed, back when she’d been haunted by ghosts, hunted by death wearing a friend’s face.
“I gave you everything.”
Abruptly, Sasha sits up, nose whistling, inhaling a rush of air. Frustrated, she presses her eyes once more, blinking away the last bursts of blue, green and pink before throwing her hands angrily into her lap. That wasn’t Marcy – not the Marcy she knows. Her Marcy’s incredibly smart, she’s sweeter than honey, their lovable nerd. She’s kind, she’s funny, she’s caring, she’s… she’s…
She’s gone?
Past Anne’s slumbering form, Marcy’s bed lies empty. It’s identical to her own: the pillow has an imprinted dip where Marcy should be and the covers are thrown to the end, all jumbled into an abandoned heap from sleepless sleep. The door remains shut and there’s nowhere to go, but thankfully as her heart pounds worriedly, it doesn’t take long to spot her when Sasha glances around the room.
By the window, Marcy sits silently. Perched on an uncomfortable chair, her knees are pulled up, arms hugging them into a tight, awkward hold. Paling light drapes her, painted ethereal within a mixture of luminous yellows and reflected moonlight. From where Sasha remains, her stomach churns. Bandages peek from Marcy’s hospital gown collar, with more covering her wrists.
“Old injuries,” Marcy hesitantly explained before. It’d been the armour she’d worn and… before that. Still, as she’d said it, her eyes couldn’t meet Sasha’s and Sasha could only hear reminiscent sounds of metal clanging against metal, swords to a scythe, a dark laugh and dangerous desperation.
If Marcy notices, she doesn’t react though. Back turned, she watches a world filled with plaguing darkness, lamps lighting a yellow brick path to nowhere with a starlit canopy of unreachable worlds above. Something aches within Sasha’s chest at the scene, carving a cavernous hole where her heart lies. Marcy looks… cold, and though Sasha’s unsurprised – despite being indoors, there’s an icy bite to the air – there’s also a deepening heaviness atop Marcy’s drooping shoulders, one that feels inexplicably recognisable.
“I just didn’t want to be alone.”
A flicker of forgotten resolute pink returns. The feeling – strange, unknown, yet curiously familiar – grows, spreading from her hollowed heart, an unwavering fire crossing her torso. The warmth crackles along veins, drawing strength to her aching, exhausted limbs.
Marcy doesn’t need to be alone, not now, or ever. Not whilst Sasha still lives and breathes.
Untangling from the blankets, Sasha carefully swings her legs over the bedside. At the movement, a dull throb strings along her spine, and as her feet touch the floor, sharp pains spike from her wounded ankle, lining the insides of her leg. Earlier, adrenaline and lost magic had kept her afloat, but now, she’s riddled with festering after effects. It doesn’t stop her though. Determined, Sasha pushes through, leaning towards the bedside table, taking the cane she’d been given for recovery. Pressing the end to the ground, Sasha tests the stability, feeling for its weight before cautiously pulling herself up and walking to where Marcy is.
“Room for one more?” Sasha asks softly, but when approaching, her feet falter considerably. Exhaustion casts over her suffering body in waves, her strength ebbing away, stolen into the night. Stumbling, she catches herself from falling, grabbing the back of the chair, leaning heavily against it and her cane.
Startled, Marcy jumps and when she finally faces her, something twists abysmally inside Sasha. Moon-kissed tears track Marcy’s cheeks and though it’s dark, Sasha sees the redness of her eyes. Her hair’s tousled, likely from a rough night’s sleep, and instinctively, Sasha brushes fingers through it, gently uncoiling locks as Marcy leans into the touch. Closer though, that awful feeling swirls. Mirrored on Marcy’s face is a reflection of Sasha’s: ghost-paled skin, jaw fear-locked tight, terror-filled darting eyes.
“Sorry Sashy, did I wake you?” Marcy winces, voice shrill, cracking at every syllable. Of course she worries over Sasha first, and she rushes to wipe her face with a bandaged wrist like she’s been caught before an illusive mask casts over her. Uncurling from the chair, she hops to her feet, moving directly ahead of Sasha and steadies her, holding her forearms, “c’mere you, you should rest.”
It’s sweet, so typically Marcy, but it hurts now Sasha sees past the veil.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sasha sighs tiredly, shoulders sagging whilst Marcy guides her to sit. Though she’d love to curl into the embrace – where it’s safe, warm, homely – there’s also something off, something desperate in her touch. When Sasha blinks, haunting orange spills behind her eyelids. Death watches her back, fingers constricting around her wrists. Naturally, she flinches but when she looks again, there’s only a worried Marcy who’s unable to meet her eyes. By the time Sasha sits, Marcy’s already retreating away, disappearing under that veiled cloak, out of sight and out of mind.
Sasha won’t make that mistake again – she can’t.
“Hey, wait,” she asks, lightly catching Marcy’s arm and frog, she’s shaking, “is everything alright?”
Shadow-shrouded, Marcy turns towards her again. There’s an unreadable expression, but the more Sasha focuses, there’s a swirling hint of confusion within her eyes, as though she’d expected all the pieces to fall back into place, into routine. Warily, she looks at Sasha’s hand and Sasha’s skin feels like it’s been caught alight, razed, burning orange under that stare.
“Just a bad dream, that’s all,” Marcy admits, wearing an uncertain, forced smile, and Sasha hates it. The way she shrugs it off like it’s nothing, like she wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t care. “I’ll be fine, sorry if I worried you.”
“Of course I worry, I care about you,” Sasha reassures, letting go of Marcy’s wrist and shuffling to one side, patting the space left behind, “will you sit with me?”
This time, her smile is genuine.
Though it’s a squeeze, she accepts the offer, sliding beside Sasha and leaning on her shoulder. Avoiding agitating any injuries, Sasha wraps an arm around Marcy, resting her head against Marcy’s. They stay like that for a while, comforted within a group of just the two of them, quietly listening to one another’s peaceful, rhythmic breathing. She doesn’t remember the last time they’d done this – just been together, enjoying each other’s company.
She’s here now though, that’s what counts right?
“Mars, I know you didn’t wanna talk about it, but if you need someone, even just to listen, I want you to know I’ll be there, no matter the time or distance, alright?” Sasha promises, and she tucks herself closer to Marcy, pressing a light kiss atop her head, a lasting promise, “I know I’ve not been the best of friends, I could’ve been better – for you and Anne, but I love you, both of you, more than life itself. I’m sorry I never made that clear and–”
“I thought I killed you.”
Like a blade engulfed in orange flames, the words cut, sharp and clean. Suddenly, everything makes sense. The way Marcy slumps defeatedly, sniffling wetly and rubbing straying tears again. Loneliness is a silent killer, and even now, on the other side, Marcy’s still hunted as its prey.
You’re not alone, Sasha screams internally, but before she can voice the words, Marcy lays Sasha’s hand out on her lap, circling her palm with her pointer finger. It’s meant to be calming, Sasha thinks, the movement repetitive, a distraction, but she doesn’t think it’s helping.
“My nightmare,” Marcy clarifies – like it wasn’t obvious – but her voice wobbles as she recalls the details, “I was back there, in the castle but I, uh, I could see everything,” – she chokes back a sob, her finger halting in place before trembling fingers interlock with Sasha’s, gripping fearfully, “I struck you both down, there was so much… you were dead. I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t…”
For the first time since her rescue, Marcy weeps. Tears stream down her face, and if she weren’t already sitting, Sasha knows Marcy would’ve dropped to the floor, distraught. The sight is… awful and strange. It’s reminiscent of the throne room before her world tilted, carpet pulled from under her feet. But then Marcy raises their conjoined hands, pressing her lips to the back of Sasha’s like an unspoken apology and something inside her breaks.
“I’m so sorry, Marcy,” Sasha consoles, and refusing to let go even once, pulls her closer, tucking her into her chest. Tears stain her but she doesn’t care, not when Marcy’s hurting, aching in a way that can’t easily be fixed. All she can do is be there for her – just like she’d promised. “I’m here, alright? I’m here, you’re here and so is Anne. We’re alive and we’re going to be okay.”
Marcy shakes her head solemnly. “You know what the worst thing is?” she says regretfully, “I don’t remember,” – fingers angrily curl into the fabrics of Sasha’s clothes – “I don’t remember anything. Andrias stabbing me, Olivia and Yunan trying to save me, The Core. They’re just events people talk about, but they’re not mine. It’s my fault though, isn’t it? I asked for–”
“Don’t you dare,” Sasha hisses. The words are harsh, angrier than she’d meant but she can’t help it. The weight of what Marcy’s feeling is unimaginable, but putting that blame on herself – when it was never a choice, forcibly inflicted onto her time and time again – infuriates Sasha. Taking a deep breath, fingers soothingly trailing Marcy’s hair, Sasha tries to calmly continue, “you didn’t deserve any of that, you hear me? And I’ll keep reminding you as many times as you need.”
“But,” Marcy starts, and Sasha has to hold back from cutting in, afraid to talk over, to take control like so many times before, “I hurt you. You’re hurt, still hurting, because of me.”
Taking Marcy by the shoulders, Sasha leans her back to face her directly. “Hey, look at me,” she instructs, and shakily, Marcy does, her eyes puffy, cheeks flushed red. “That wasn’t you, alright? The Core’s the one who did this. We thought we’d lost you. I thought I’d killed you,” – and this time, it’s Sasha who swallows back a stifled sob – “but you’re alive, you came back to us, back to me. I meant everything I’ve said, I swear. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry you felt like you had to shoulder things alone. I’m sorry for everything, but I love you and I want to be better for you.”
Adoration sparks within Marcy’s teary eyes, a reclaimed smile tugging at her lips. With a quivering hand, she reaches up, a thumb running along Sasha’s cheek, brushing away tears she’d never realised had been shed. “You already are,” Marcy reaffirms, and her hand lingers on Sasha’s cheek, bumping her forehead against hers, “I love you and I forgive you too.”
That strange, determined pink from earlier returns in full force. Burning like a wildfire, it sizzles along Sasha’s chest, but unlike a blaze, it feels safe, homely like a hearth as it spills, overflowing all around her. The sensation spreads, encompassing everything, and filled with resolved pink strength, Sasha presses an affectionate kiss to the tip of Marcy’s nose.
Then, Marcy laughs. It starts as a soft giggle, light, airy and free and it only continues to build as she wraps her arms around Sasha’s waist, resting her chin to Sasha’s shoulder and pressing her cheek to Sasha’s. And Sasha can’t help but join in, pushing back into the chair as she pulls Marcy along with her, and everything feels so weightless, like all her burdens are gone with the wind.
“Sasha? Marcy?” a still-waking voice calls out, somewhere behind them, “where are you?”
Without another word, they both get up. With a renewed smile to her face, Marcy takes Sasha by the hand, guiding them both over to Anne’s bedside. When they do, they find Anne lying on her back, eyes partly closed, half asleep, half awake as a searching hand stretches out towards them.
“We’re here,” Marcy hushes, and she intertwines her fingers easily with Anne's, who only smiles at the touch. When Marcy turns back to her though, there’s a knowing look, and without saying anything more, Sasha nods in agreement.
Rounding around Anne’s bed and using the sides to support her, Sasha discards her cane as she clambers onto the bed. She slides in by Anne’s side and Anne welcomes her by curling an arm around her loosely, but ensuring she pulls her in close. On the other side, Marcy does the exact same.
“Is everything alright?”
It’s a loaded question, one Anne doesn’t realise but as Marcy nestles into Anne’s shoulder, she casts a look to Sasha, but this time, there’s no reason to hide. After all, they both already know the answer, and reaching across, Marcy offers Sasha a hand, an offering that Sasha gladly accepts, tangling their fingers together.
“It’s complicated,” Marcy admits freely, and she sighs softly as Sasha runs her thumb along her knuckles, “but we’ll be okay.”
Things are complicated. After all, just like dreams, friendship, love and life are all complicated things, but that’s the exact same reason why they’re worth fighting so hard for. Sasha understands that, and with time, effort and support, things will eventually be okay.
They’ll be okay, and with her hands tangled within Anne’s and Marcy’s, Sasha finally sleeps peacefully.
