by Lincoln Law
He pulled the notebook out of his pocket, glancing at the girl’s neat handwriting and her address.
A University girl, he thought, pausing. She seemed so young to be at university. Then again, her name. Adabelle Blaise. It seemed to shimmer in his mind’s eye, like a memory of a memory. That name was important, though he could not yet put his finger on what it was. He tucked the notebook away in his pocket, for it had begun to rain. At that point, he hailed a taxi, clambering in.
“Where to?” asked the gentlemen at the wheel.
“The Dreamless Barracks please,” he said.
“Right away, sir,” the driver replied.
Rhene smiled as he drove through Odilla’s streets. It seemed things were really beginning to brighten for him. Due for a promotion at the Dreamless Barracks, finally able to support himself without any help from his grandparents, and now a date with a girl on the horizon. Everything seemed to be improving. He never imagined he’d ever feel as content as he did now, and yet a small part of him told him he ought to wait and see how things turned out. Nothing was entirely set in stone. Not yet, at least.
Come now, he thought to himself. I’m allowed to be happy. Mama and papa would want me to.
He looked past his reflection in the window at the passing city, as they drove by the River and past the bridges that crossed it. In the distance, he could see the towering stone spires of monuments and libraries and the House of the Oen’Aerei—the fiends that they were hiding behind their façade of glowing white! Odilla was such a beautiful city. It was a real shame the Oen’Aerei had to ruin it with their horrid building of lies.
Mama, papa, Rhene prayed in his mind, you’d be so very proud of me if you could see me now.
The taxi pulled up outside the Dreamless Barracks, a squat, brown building of simple square design. The windows were unadorned, the curtains within cream in colour, the façade of it entirely plain. For a city that prided itself on its beautiful architecture, artwork, food and monuments, the Dreamless Barracks was, indeed, a barren, bland-looking place. Rhene made the short few steps between the sidewalk and the front door, using a key to unlock the door and enter. The Dreamless were a rather unpopular Guild in the community—and they knew it. For that reason, they spent much of their time locked within the walls.
Rhene was unusual in the amount of time he spent outside the walls of the Dreamless Guild. Most people chose to stay in, for it was safer, and there were protections that insured their dreams—if they ever did dream—could not be infiltrated. He enjoyed the fresh air and the city, though. His life was a gift from his late parents, and he intended to enjoy every breath.
He could still hear the nightmares that ruined his childhood. They made him shiver. The thunder and lightning outside seemed only to worsen the sense of memory of the night his parents had died. But he didn’t let that affect him. He’d made it his mission to not let his past influence him. He had the present and the future to look forward to, and already it was looking brighter.
The insides of the Dreamless Guild were relatively plain, like the outside, but Rhene simply saw it as being practical. There was no need for great adornments or art or brilliant architecture, when the building in which they resided was not permanent. Once the Dreamless went to war against the Oen’Aerei, they expected to no longer need a house for such things. Once the Oen’Aerei were gone, the Dreamless could disband. They weren’t needed in a city without Dreamers.
A uniformed Dreamless, dressed in the regulation forest-green coats, pale trousers and brown leather boots sprinted up to Rhene, puffed from exertion.
“General Ferrant,” greeted Rhene, with a smile and a nod. “You look wrecked.”
“Dreamless Matthon is looking for you,” General Ferrant said. “One of our Snappers decided to forget to mention he was not available today, and you’re needed to be present for a Snapping.”
“Of course,” Rhene replied, “so long as he does not mind I’m in civilian clothes.”
“Not at all,” Ferrant said, laughing. “The one we’ve got here looks like a fighter. I don’t think he’ll remember much after the event.”
Rhene nodded, following Ferrant down the corridor towards a tall door at the very end. On a small pedestal beside the door were masks, white and featureless, so as to hide the identities of those who could be held accountable for any results from the Snapping. Rhene donned the mask, and Ferrant did as well, pushing open the door into the only room in the entire building that seemed even slightly embellished. It was domed, but windowless, with artworks surrounding the room and a huge chandelier in the centre. There were six pillars around the room, each topped with what appeared to be a violet-coloured stone, and in the air hung the scent of lavender. In the centre of these pillars was a man, lying on the ground completely naked but for a thin sheet to cover his manhood. He was a thin fellow, neither muscular but not scrawny either. Nothing appeared to hold him down—no shackles, no chains, and no locks—and yet he could not move. His eyes stared, darting about wildly within their sockets. He began to scream.
“And he is awake,” said Ferrant, in a rather matter-of-fact tone.
Some people came to the Dreamless to be Snapped willingly. This man, apparently, had not.
“General, Dreamling,” said Dreamless Matthon, his burly figure recognisable despite the mask that hid his face. “Please join the Snapping Circle, and see this man freed from his demons.”
“Yes, Dreamless,” replied the other two, in frightening monotone. Outside the thunder rumbled through the walls, and the chandelier flickered.
“Let the lights be gone!” commanded Dreamless Matthon, and so the room went pitch dark. The man in the centre screamed; screamed for sanctuary, screamed for mercy, but mostly, he screamed out of fear.
“And may the Snapping commence,” said Dreamless Matthon, whose voice echoed through the darkness, a deep, commanding rumble above the roaring storm.
The ritual itself involved chanting in Elder Speech—a language very few still remembered, but for a select few phrases here and there—and involved much ceremony. Dreamless Matthon’s body seemed to glow with a deep, red, inner light. That light was enough to reveal the man in the centre convulsing and shifting on the floor. In Matthon’s hands was a spike, similar to the one’s used in lobotomy. In the blunt end of it was a sphere of green crystal. The orbitoclast began to glow, pulsing with green light to the rhythm of the chant.
Rhene knew not what caused the glowing; he assumed it had something to do with the words they spoke, the Elder Speech being, apparently, the words upon which the rest of the world was founded. Somehow through their chant, they were tapping into something deeper, older and more secret than any of them understood. Except perhaps Matthon. He was worldly, knowledgeable, wise. He was older than Rhene, though he hid it well. He was an athletic man, and looked young for his age.
Matthon stepped forward with the glowing orbitoclast, his face crossing between the emerald green glow of the crystal and the deep, bloody red of the man bound on the ground. He lowered it to the man’s head, positioning the spike on the spot between his eyebrows above his nose.
The man fell silent as the metal spike touched his skin, his eyes growing to a tremendous size, turning red with that deep inner light, too. And then his face was entirely awash with the green of the emerald. The redness was gone, but so were his eyes, replaced with spheres of light. Like stars they shone brightly, illuminating the room with their green glow.
He began to scream, too, unable to move or struggle, but for the sound of his own voice. Rhene watched on, still chanting, transfixed by the image before him. It was wondrous, beautiful even, to see a Snapping. And this man was powerful—that he could tell from the way his eyes shone. Only a powerful Dreamer could produce that sort of light.
Some would argue the ethics on Snapping. Once the Snappee was released it wasn’t unusual for them to lose memories or part of their mind. Some would wind up forgetting their family or their friends, others their e
ntire lives. Others would simply die, unable to live separated from their Dreams. Some forgot how to think, no longer able to hear that inner voice that helped them in their musings.
Matthon and the Dreamless were careful in selecting their targets; always careful. What they were doing wasn’t illegal at all—so far coroners were yet to find any connection between the Snapping and the person’s death. But the group was allowed to run as normal, and so they proceeded to save those who could enter Dreams. Sometimes, men and women would step forth for snapping, unable to live with the burden of their curse. The way the Dreamless saw it, they were vigilantes, saving the people from themselves.
Rhene couldn’t lie to himself and say he enjoyed seeing these people suffer—because in the end, there was pain involved in Snapping. You were, after all, sealing away a part of their mind from being accessed. But the knowledge that there were fewer Dreamers in the world gave him a small sense of satisfaction, and made up for the guilt he felt whenever a Snapped Dreamer died or lost their minds.
At the end of the day, they’re better off dead than Dreaming.
The man in the centre of the room stopped screaming, the light fading in his eyes. The room snapped dark once more. He didn’t move or speak. He wasn’t breathing. The silence in the room felt so out of place, given the contrast of what had just occurred.
“Lights,” Matthon commanded, his voice cutting silence as a hammer breaks stone.
The chandelier slowly brought light back to the room, in gentle increments so as not to blind the Dreamless who had all become so used to the darkness.
“Someone check his pulse,” said Matthon, voice aquiver. It was odd to hear that emotion coming from it. He was usually so strong and stoic.
Ferrant rushed forward, falling to his knees before the body. He extended a shaking hand towards the man’s wrist, fingers quivering as they touched flesh.
“That’s odd,” Rhene saw Ferrant mutter, almost too quiet to hear. Ferrant removed his hand, leaning his head down to rest upon the man’s chest.
A sudden, jolting movement threw Ferrant aside and the man in the centre of the room was up on his feet, eyes wild, breath ragged. In amongst the anger Rhene could see in the man’s eyes, he also saw a deep, terrible fear, like that of a dog before it was struck by a car. Or the eyes of a child before he sees his parents die.
It was an odd thought to think now, but seeing Dreamers seemed to bring back memories in waves.
“Where am I?” said the man. “Who are you?”
“Please be calm, sir,” Matthon said, his voice commanding, yet strangely gentle, like a father to his son. “I need you to be calm, else the process cannot complete. It will be ruined, and you will not make it.”
“The process?” the man said, straightening up, falling from an attack stance.
“You’ve been Snapped,” explained Matthon, “and if you fight too much, the sealing will break and your mind will be ruined.”
“Snapped? Snapped from what?”
“From Dreaming,” Matthon said, smiling. In that smile, Rhene saw grace and pity and kindness.
Yet the man’s expression fell from confusion to horror. He closed his eyes, and in that instant, every one of the Dreamless placed their forefinger and middle finger on the space between their eyes, to ward off the man’s dark magic, in case he was able to break through the Dream Seal. Normally, they would close their eyes too, but for now, that was too dangerous. They could not risk a fight. Not with someone’s mind at stake, and not with a dangerous, confused man before them.
The man roared with fury as he realised he could not reach into his dreams to do as he wished. He was a wilding, meaning the Oen’Aerei had not yet intercepted him for training, and that made him dangerous. A trained Dreamer could be dangerous, but an untrained one could be deadly. Sturdings didn’t know they were Sturdings half the time, and the damage they could cause in the Dream Frequencies could be very real.
“You may leave whenever you wish, sir,” Matthon said. “You are not a prisoner here. You can be free of the demons that bound you. And from here you can grow as a person, free from that which once burdened you.”
“But it was no burden!” cried the man. “It was wonderful! Beautiful! In there I could see my wife and my child! I can’t see them anywhere else! And you’ve taken that from me!” Tears in the man’s eyes, his face turning red. Rhene couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. But he was better off this way. This way he couldn’t ever hurt anyone, or kill anyone, or—heaven forbid—infiltrate anyone else’s mind.
“That’s all I used my powers for,” he said, looking to the heavens. “Forgive me, Renee. Forgive me, my love!”
“Enjoy your peace,” Matthon said, indicating to the door. “You may leave now.”
Rhene poured himself a cup of hot tea, as was his routine. Whenever facing a Snapping, he felt exhausted afterwards, almost like the glowing emerald was able to sap his own strength away. Then again, he wasn’t the only one who felt tired. He knew for a fact that Dreamless Matthon nearly always needed a nap afterwards. Ferrant didn’t normally need to rest, but after the shock of the man coming to so suddenly, he’d needed a moment to calm himself down.
Rhene’s room was tiny, with a bed, a wardrobe, a bookshelf and a desk, with the window just large enough to let air in. It wasn’t a particularly pretty room, or even that comfortable to live in, but it was a room and it was better than being on the streets. So long as he worked for the Dreamless, they were happy to give him free food and lodgings, so he was quite content to go on as normal. He settled down onto the bed and enjoyed simply resting. It had been quite some time since he had been allowed a moment to himself.
A knock at the door startled him from his resting, making him jump suddenly out of bed. He shot to his feet and ran to the door, not realising he’d left half of the blankets from his bed on the floor.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Me,” said Dreamless Matthon, Rhene recognising the voice instantly. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” Rhene replied, opening the door and stepping aside to allow the man in.
Dreamless Matthon was older than Rhene, with tanned skin, brown hair, broad shoulders. Where Rhene was thin, Matthon was a thick, strong man, a full beard cultivated tightly around his square jaw, brown eyes set deeply under dark brows.
“How are you, Rhene?” he asked. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” He nodded to the sheet spread across the floor.
“No, I was just lying down. Must have started dozing when you knocked and it just shocked me.”
“Well anyway, the reason I am here is because I have some news. It is not meant to be known yet, because of secrecy and whatnot, but I wanted to tell you now to prepare you.” He paused. Rhene assumed it was for dramatic effect, and little else. “As I’m sure you’re aware, we had about ten of our recruits apply for the General position.”
“Yes,” Rhene replied, feigning nonchalance. In truth, deep down, he was bursting with excitement. He knew exactly what was coming next.
“Well I’m here to congratulate you, soldier,” Matthon said, extending his hand. “You’re being promoted to general.”
Rhene managed to contain his excitement, but could not fight a smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said, shaking the Dreamless’ hand. “Thank you so much.”
“You’ve earned it,” Matthon said, “and it’s times like these we need men and women like you more than ever. The Oen’Aerei are gaining power. I’m assuming you’ve heard about the girl from the University who died?”
“Of course,” Rhene replied. He’d read about it in the papers that morning. The vagueness of the article suggested the Oen’Aerei were involved—no one dared insult those who could enter others’ minds—but nothing was ever really certain.
“And the girl was a Dreamer, too,” Matthon said, “I don’t wish to see innocent people killed because of the Oen’Aerei.”
“Absolutely not,” Rhene replied.
“And
that is why I believe it is time we begin preparing, well-and-truly, for war. Things are only going to get worse. Decades of our existence because of the deeds of a single man, and the moment has finally come to act upon our charge.” Matthon smiled. “And I am proud to have you at my side for this battle.”
“As am I,” Rhene replied.
“So tomorrow morning at nine is the promotion assembly. I’ll make the announcement tonight at dinner, but make sure your uniform is clean and pressed. You’ll want to look your best for the photographer.”
“I will, sir,” Rhene replied.
“Very good, then,” Matthon said. “I’ll let you get some rest. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Sure enough, at dinner, the dining hall fell silent when Dreamless Matthon stepped up to the podium to speak.
“Good evening, soldiers,” he said, speaking into the microphone, though his voice carried well enough without it. “It is my pleasure to announce that tomorrow at nine in the morning, there will be a promotion ceremony in the Great Hall. I expect everyone to be present in their uniforms, and I wish to advise that anyone who was interviewed for this position should seat themselves at the very front of the Hall. There will be seats allocated to you, so I do ask you sit in those set aside for you.”
Dreamless Matthon paused before the podium, glancing down for a moment, as if for a second he held some hesitation over that which he was about to speak.
“Now on a rather serious matter, it may come as no surprise to you that the Oen’Aerei are indeed growing in power. Many of you, I’m sure, have seen the news reports of recent. Of the girl who died at the University. There a very few details that have been released as of yet, but I am almost certain the Oen’Aerei are involved. Whether directly, or indirectly, I do not think it matters.”
Around the room, Dreamless soldiers nodded, enraptured by Matthon as he spoke.