She held up her finger. “For now, I will abide your wishes and not reveal your talent. However, I won’t forget it either. You may go. Stay out of my dreams.”
She didn’t need to clarify that it was not a request.
Chapter 4
Chantelier kept her word. As near as I could tell, no one else knew. I fully expected if they did, that they would be looking at me differently. Everything was the same, only the dialogue shifted. Instead of commentary about when my talent revealed that my lineage would be finally known, it became, “Too bad you never developed a strong talent. I guess you’ll never know whose bastard you are.” Same comments, new days. No one could see past the mystery of my father.
I worked diligently to try to learn to control my talent. If nothing else, the slip into Chantelier’s dream had become a warning. More than once, I woke abruptly from re-experiencing it. Each time, I had to pause to verify that I had been caught up in the memory of the experience, and hadn’t slipped into a repeat performance in the High Priestess’s dreams. I surely couldn’t fault her if she had repeats of her own, it was hot. But, I couldn’t risk being found there ever again.
Several months later, the dream itself morphed and became my own nightmare. Instead of being caught watching her, watching her own memory in dream, I became part of it. I found myself replacing Pan inside the unknown barrier, the object of her sexual taunting. Perhaps more troubling, was realizing that I wanted her to taunt me.
While objectively I knew that nothing had changed, self-consciously, I felt like she knew. I could sense her eyes on me any time we were in proximity to one another. Not that it was a new development, she had watched me closely ever since she learned my secret. If she was waiting for something else to be revealed, or if she had any inkling to the veracity of my response to her self-gratification, or that it lingered, I had no way to learn. No way short of revealing myself anyway.
Generally speaking, witches are sexually amorphous. That doesn’t mean that, like Tyrian, we don’t have preferences. More than once I caught myself wondering if Chantelier’s proclivities leaned toward homosexuality, or if she was more exclusively heterosexual. I couldn’t decide how I felt about just how often the question came to mind. Being that she was the High Priestess, even as she now knew, or perhaps only suspected, that my father was an elder, there was no future there if I would entertain the notion.
In truth, until I had tripped into her dream and seen her, I myself had never considered it. There was no way to account for my response though, and the fact that my arousal only grew with each repetition of the experience in my mind, made it more difficult to deny. Dubbed a bastard however, by nearly every other member of the Coven, there was little chance or opportunity to ever find out. I was a member, even as I was persona non grata. Short of revealing my ability, and by default, my father, I was never going to be more here.
Chapter 5
The Fates have a funny way of taking you in a direction you don’t know you’re ready to go. Finally better able to control my dreamwalking, I was learning how to follow threads of dreams to find the dreamers. It made it significantly easier, and harder, to avoid the members of my Coven. The temptation was extraordinary to slip in and out of other member’s dreams to gain perspective on who they were and weren’t, since most did not share openly with me when they were awake.
Knowing the desperation with which I had kept my secret for so long, as difficult as it was, I steered clear of anyone remotely familiar. Early on, more than once, I had slipped into the background of my mother’s dreams. Not surprisingly, I often found her dreaming about the Festival of Dionysus and Tyrian’s invitation…her one opportunity, and stolen chance. It was amusing to me to see her reliving it in such detail in her dreams, when she couldn’t recall much of it when she was awake. The subconscious mind at work is a stunning thing.
While the moment of my conception could obviously not be pinpointed exactly, the general time frame was easy. Also from her dreams, I knew definitively that Tybor was my father. Tyrian had never deigned to descend into the frenzy of bodies at the festival. Actually, well past a point when most of the participants were too intoxicated to perform for him any longer, I noted from my mother’s dream when he disappeared with a handful of others. Tybor had come to, and taken my mother more than once in the course of the evening. That later she couldn’t recall him to even suggest that he was the one, to me, was amusing.
Settled in to seek out a new dream and dreamer, I skipped easily past my mother. The threads of her dreams were always loud and easy to follow. I chalked it up to proximity. That, or it was that they were so often the same, and obvious. Instead, I quieted my mind and tried to listen for whispers.
Navigating the dreamscape is simple, even as it is difficult. The challenge is being able to discern the different types of dreams. Some dreams, like the one of Chantelier that I tripped into, are memories. Those types of dreams are the most dangerous. In that scenario, the dreamer is not a participant, but rather an observer. It is easy to be caught then as there are two of the same person present. Identifying the wrong one as the dreamer is like raising a red flag and waving it dramatically to announce your presence.
A second type of dream is fears and nightmares. I try to steer clear of them completely. Each person has their own level of what they can and cannot face. There is no wisdom I can find or fathom to taking on someone else’s.
Yet another kind of dream is fantasy. I have found that I like fantasies quite a lot. Often, they are unpredictable and magical. They also seem to bring out the best, instead of the worst, in people. My reality has been filled, all of my life, with the worst of people. In other dreamer’s fantasies I collected the best as I traveled the world, lived hundreds of experiences, heard beautiful music, and had seen the most delicate colors across the petals of flowers. There was no telling where a fantasy could take me. That kind of mystery I could embrace.
As I shuffled through the different threads I was encountering, this night was filled, for others, with memory-type dreaming. Some nights were like this. I would have to decide, sooner or later, if I was going to continue searching, or give up and hopefully find dreamless sleep of my own.
One thing I have learned as a dreamwalker, is that the threads, or bridges, to my own dreams are more easily visible to others like me. I have had to carefully navigate around the dreams of my father, and his brother, often. For as clearly as I can see them and theirs, I have to believe that they can see mine. Which, begs the question, at least in my mind, even though it has never been presented or announced, do they know that I am like them?
It takes an extreme amount of energy to reach a place of dreamless sleep. The subconscious mind wants its turn. More often than not, if I want to sleep knowing that my own dreams are not open for inspection, I will work myself to exhaustion. Only from that place, do I reach the depth of sleep that more closely resembles death, where no threads are available to follow. I began planning for my activities to reach such exhaustion as I navigated myself back to the boundary.
I was nearly there, ready to call it quits for the night, but lingering for one last moment. Standing on the edge of the expansive dreamscape world, I was turning my back when I heard it. Laughter. It called to me and pulled me back from my retreat like nothing else could.
Chapter 6
Now, let me take a moment to clarify something. I do not make a habit of drifting into other people’s sexual dreams, fantasies or otherwise. Once in a while, it happens. Usually, they are fairly easy to avoid as the sounds are obvious. Sometimes, like this time, the truth of the topic is unknown until I’m already there.
The laughter that pulled me from the precipice was so infectious, that it took me several full minutes to recognize the fantasy I was in. Mind you, I was, as usual, in the periphery, but it didn’t change the scene as I stared, absorbing it. It took me several more moments to ascertain whose fantasy I was in. Center stage, or center whatever, were two women. They were laughi
ng exuberantly even as their limbs were tangled together in what appeared to be a painful scenario as they bucked against each other.
I finally decided the one whose back was to me was the dreamer. The one who was facing me didn’t seem to be noticing anything around her except for the other woman. That kind of vacancy, generally indicates that they are not fully present. The dreamer always is.
Tempted to leave, I stayed to the shadows behind the dreamer. It was her laughter that had caught me. I wanted to see her face before I left. I didn’t want her to see me however. The dichotomy of the desires would be difficult to manage. So far, I noticed no indication that she was aware of my presence. I looked around several times to make sure this wasn’t a memory, and was finally satisfied it wasn’t.
The dreamer was raven-haired and copper-skinned. I had to pull myself back to the shadows several times. I was so desperate to see her face that I was stepping out of the din, trying to get a glimpse, or at the minimum, a reflection. I was playing a dangerous game.
“Destiny.” The dreamer called softly.
“At your command as always Nova.” Came the breathy response.
The one called Destiny was a different kind of beautiful. She had a freckled nose, bright green eyes, sunset red hair, and lush curves. She looked soft and pliant. By the dreamer’s lavish attentions, I would guess she was pleased.
The dreamer’s hands filtered through the long red locks. At the ends, the journey continued and I had to guess she was raking the woman’s back as her torso arched toward the dreamer. Reverberating moans gave way to more laughter when she stopped. “Do it again.” She encouraged.
“Needy alchemist.” The dreamer teased.
“Says the fire-keeper who seeks a canvas for her flames.”
The longer I stayed, the more dangerous a position I was putting myself in. I found myself getting caught up in the exchanges. The dreamer manipulated the other woman’s body to do her bidding, even as it was to create an offering of flesh in another way. When the dreamer raked the woman’s back again and she arched up, the dreamer’s raven head dropped down. I pulled back quickly as I realized just how far beyond the shadow I was extended trying to see what was actually happening, but not before catching a glimpse. The dreamer licked, flicked, and nipped at the offered torso. The redheaded woman’s hands came up and cradled the dreamer’s head, holding her to continue.
My own temperature was rising as I watched the dreamer’s hands reach down and begin to caress pale flesh starting at the knees, working up. Over the swell of the woman’s hips, the dreamer kneaded the full curves, her hands disappearing behind the other woman for a time. Before they reappeared, she was pulled forward into the dreamer’s lap before she was coaxed to lie back.
Expertly, the dreamer trailed her fingers along the curves and hollow places of the other woman’s body. I didn’t need to be closer to see the trail of dotted flesh that was left in the wake. Like Chantelier had done to her own, the dreamer teased the tips of the woman’s breasts into hard, pebbled points. I knew without the vantage point of a direct line of sight when the dreamer started suckling the other woman. The sounds of the dreamer’s seduction, and the other woman’s response, were glorious.
I was struggling. There is a disparity that happens in dreamwalking. The dual focus has to be managed. I was teetering on a fine line. The version of me that was observing the dream was fighting desperately to avoid the temptation that my physical form, left behind, was exploring. If I wasn’t careful, I would easily give away my presence, if I hadn’t somehow already.
The version of me that was watching, balled my fists to keep my hands from straying. The version of me that was left behind, was mimicking the dreamer’s motions against my own, all too willing, flesh. The spiral of arousal was condensing down on itself within my actual physical form. I was going to have to leave this dream, as willing myself to step back and only observe was not working anymore. I was too close to my own release to be able to remain quiet in the dream.
I forced myself to take a moment to try to figure out where in the dreamscape this was. I was already an addict. I wanted to be able to return somewhere in the future when perhaps I had better control. Resigned, I allowed myself one last, long, glance and turned to leave.
“You can stay.” The dreamer said softly, startling me.
The shock of being addressed by the dreamer from inside the dream threw me awake like nothing else could have. Not even being caught by the High Priestess in her dream previously had managed to wake me as abruptly. I was instantly furious. Not only had I lost the opportunity to stay, but the shock had extinguished the burn of my desire that I had left to take care of in the first place. There was little hope that I could relax enough now to regain a dream state and return to where I had been either. I mourned the loss.
The process of shutting myself down to try to find sleep was excruciating. I was too wound up to relax, but also too disappointed to continue. I replayed the dream over in my conscious mind, grasping at the notion that perhaps I could regain a fraction of its passion. It was a fool’s errand and a poor substitute. My physical form knew the difference. I was not even remotely aroused, only wanting and unfulfilled.
I went through the regimen of closing off my mind so that no one would be able to interlope on my dreams if I found sleep. Not that I was holding out much hope, but if it actually happened, I didn’t want to be caught unaware with someone observing. Of the other dreamwalkers that I knew, I didn’t want any of them seeing into my unguarded mind. It was how I had managed to keep my secret so long. I had to remain vigilant, even in sleep. The events of the dream I had just observed could not change this now.
Chapter 7
Weeks passed and I could not recover or reconnect to the couple I had found. The first rule of dreamwalking is that you cannot force someone to dream. You can only walk through a dream that is happening if you are walking when it occurs. I’d never really thought about it before, but now, I found I was irritated by the notion that there were rules to dreams.
I tried repeatedly. Every time I entered the dreamscape, I looked specifically for the raven-haired, copper-skinned woman called Nova. If there was even a fraction of a chance that I was going to encounter them again, it would be through her since hers was the thread I followed the first time. I came up short at every attempt.
I chastised myself repeatedly. I had made a practice of not interfering in other people’s sexual dreams. But, she had said I could stay. I had never known of a dreamwalker being invited to remain, not that I had anyone else to compare notes with. And, it wasn’t like there were volumes upon volumes on the subject. Or, if there were, it wasn’t like I could openly borrow or read one without raising questions as to why. The secret I was keeping, at least temporarily, was a burden.
I realized that I was falling into a melancholy. Reaching for something that could not be found, everything else I encountered fell short. The fantasies, even the vibrant, glorious adventures of them were flat for me. I was half tempted to spend some quality time in someone else’s nightmare, just to shake things loose and find a new appreciation for the dreams I used to enjoy. That temptation was short-lived. Truth was truth. I didn’t need, or want, to experience someone else’s fear to force a false appreciation for something I should appreciate anyway. What I wanted, was Nova.
After being unable to recover the thread for so long, I took a respite from dreamwalking altogether. I spent several days pushing myself to the extent of what I could physically bear, dropping into exhausted sleep night after night. Perhaps, if I waited long enough, the thread would call to me. It was a small hope, but the only one I had.
I finally gave up completely. After returning to the dreamscape, and coming up empty again, I decided that I needed to let it go. Evidently, it was just not to be, or not to be for me.
The Coven enclave was approaching. Ours, along with a dozen or so other Covens from the surrounding counties would all be gathering. Chantelier was in a dit
her making sure that everyone was prepared, and that we would put our best representation forward. The enclave was a time for the exchange of ideas, the opportunity to interact with others who shared our abilities, and a chance to demonstrate existing skill sets as we learned new ones from others.
Chantelier pulled me aside. “Do you still intend to keep your talent a secret?” She asked quietly.
“I do.” I affirmed. “Why do you ask?”
“’Scrying is a perfectly legitimate talent,” she waved off, “though it is one that most witches claim as a secondary ability. You are certainly capable in it, but I do need to point out that there are others who are better. At the enclave, it may not be noticed for the sheer number of those participating, but as it would be the only area where you would be speaking from, I thought to ask if perhaps you were ready to reveal yourself.” She answered with a sideways glance. “I know from personal experience that your other ability is significantly stronger. Talking and sharing with others, you could perhaps develop it further, faster than you can alone.”
I blushed at the reminder of how she knew, what she knew, and at the memory of it. “No, I think it would be best to continue to keep that a secret. The enclave does not need to be overshadowed by the sudden answer to the mystery of my paternal lineage.”
“As you wish.” She said definitively. Her tone conveyed the disagreement she didn’t voice. “But, you need to understand, and accept, that one day the truth will be known, and how the information comes out will be possibly more significant than the information itself.”
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