These Dreams

[Silver Eagle]

Spare a little candle
Save some light for me
Figures up ahead
Moving in the trees

Another day, another failure, another broad realisation that everything around her and more was falling apart. All she had built, all that she strived for had begun crumbling away like dust, then mortar, then whole walls and rooms and buildings and towers. Her heart sank, her body ached, she could not even spread her wings, those charred black feathers so badly burnt and weighed down with ash and soot. Only weeks ago, he wingspan was a mile wide, glorious and golden, the glistening prize around her waist, her darling man on her arm, her protégé showing eternal promise and dreams of mounting the lion’s head of Frontier upon her mantelpiece as her prize. And now she was merely a whisper, staring out into the thunder and lightning, her belt tattered and torn, her man crushed amongst cinders, her faithful artist a smear upon the canvas and her dream on the verge of becoming the cruellest of nightmares. As she stared out into the storm, she knew they were after her. Her fears, her doubts, her inadequacies. She looked behind her, her beautiful face etched in self-doubt as the shrouded figures stalked her at the tower of the spiralling tower. Figures clad in the Gaelic flag, figures dressed in silk, figures drenched in cyanide, figures with the heads of wild cats with eyes of green and blue. She had to take a chance. She had to take the fall.

White skin in linen
Perfume on my wrist
And the full moon that hangs over
These dreams in the mist

Plummeting from the tower, Magdalena Lasiewicz perceived the moment stretching. Air roared past her ears. Shadows poured from her flesh, no doubt trailing after her fall like the tail of a comet. Above her sounded the despondent, furious wail and the crack of breaking stone. The tower was falling to pieces, smashing the ruined city on the cavern floor. Blue lightning and a baleful green beam split the air beside her—ill-aimed spells. She clutched her cloak in one of her hands as she begged for her wings to bring flight. The shadows leaking from her flesh coalesced, enshrouded them. The floor of the collapsing city rushed up to meet her. The moment was stretched to its limit; it was ending. Magdalena had to act or die alone.

Darkness on the edge
Shadows where I stand
I search for the time
On a watch with no hands

She felt the darkness around her the same way she felt the air—a tangible sensation on her skin. Its touch was as light and seductive as that of a lover, and how she missed her broken lover, left there helpless in Mother Russia’s womb. She always felt the darkness now. Opening her mind, she attuned herself to the correspondence between the Earth and the ruin before her, the link that lived in every shadow. She reached for it, took it in her mental grasp and willed them all to move from one plane to the other. At the same time, she consciously dispelled the inertia of their fall. Sound fell away. Darkness swallowed her. In the span of a heartbeat she moved between worlds, finding herself lying face down on the cold, damp stone. The ruins were gone. She was alone in the dark, but alive.

I want to see you clearly
Come closer than this
But all I remember
Are the dreams in the mist

Her breath came in ragged gasps. The slow drip of water sounded from somewhere. The air smelled dank, pungent with some vague foulness. Lady Magdalena remained still for a moment as stabs of pain shot through her body—the regenerative properties of her flesh closing the wounds the fall had inflicted on her. She sat up, and as she did she remembered it all, or thought she did. Unless she had dreamed it. … Was she dreaming now? She rolled over with a groan, still breathing hard. She had become so accustomed to her ability to see perfectly in darkness. The chamber was as dark as a devil’s heart, thick with the black air. She found the torch she sought within her pack, striking it on the chamber floor and the alchemical substance on its tip flared to life. She held it aloft and lit the cavern—dimly. The darkness gave ground only grudgingly. She blinked in the sudden illumination, but Magdalena felt a part of her boil away in the light. She refused to cover her eyes despite the sting. Ethereal figures danced around her, making her shudder and quake at their every movement. The ghost of her lover being crushed by an thunderous giant’s boot upon the ruins, his eyes rolling into the back of his head before melting away, leaving only empty sockets. The behemoth glared at her in insane pleasure, one eye emerald and the other as blue as the ocean.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away

She shook the image from her mind, trying to remain strong. A large natural cavern opened around her. Loose stone covered the uneven floor, irregularly shaped holes in the walls opened onto tunnels that led into darkness. An oily black substance clung in patches to the stone, shimmering in the light like polished basalt. Water dripped from the dotted ceiling to fall into a dark pool in the centre of the chamber. The pool was as black as jet, a lake of hydrocyanic acid. The air felt heavy and still, threatening, even at the sight of finest silk trimming the walls. For the hundredth time, ‘The Black Swan’ rebuked herself for not acting in the face of adversity, the artist now visible in front of her, skin ripped from her wrists as she was ferociously clubbed by the wildlings who held her in place, one with a mask of terror and the other the green face of jealousy, an ‘S’ carved onto his bare chest. Both of them with an eye of dazzling emerald and an eye of bluest sea.

Is it cloak 'n dagger
Could it be spring or fall
I walk without a cut
Through a stained glass wall

She pushed the recriminations out of her mind as unproductive nonsense. She needed to focus on the present; she needed to focus on the future. She could not wallow in the past. She stood on a sword’s edge and she knew it. A blood red door marked with the face of a lion lay before her, the dual handles shaped in the form of the letter D. With a new found and steely determination she pushed on.

Weaker in my eyesight
The candle in my grip
And words that have no form
Are falling from my lips

She found herself in the centre of a smooth-walled, hemispherical chamber. There were no windows and the stone, while smooth, was not masonry, so Magdalena assumed she was underground. The dry air smelled faintly of medicines or perhaps alchemical preparations, the smell making her nose tingle. A thick carpet covered the floor, and two glowing globes sat at the other side of the room, one a dim green and the other a faint blue, which provided the only light, casting only enough illumination to raise shadows in the room. The Fair Lady could see little. Irregularly-shaped mounds dotted the floor and it took Lady a moment’s study to recognize them as cushions and furniture. In better light, the place must have looked like a harem room. She saw no means of egress, no doors or archways of any kind, even the one that she had entered via. That made her uncomfortable, and she let her hands fall to the hips. She strode slowly, her eyes scanning every item in the room. “It’s better to be cautious than dead,” she whispered to herself, gently, balancing on the balls of her feet.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away

The Frenchwoman felt something, a presence, fill the space. She could find no other way to characterize it. Something darker, almost alive but not quite. She could not help herself, she felt drawn to it as if it was part of her, like it was the blood running through her veins. She turned around to see a circular hole in the wall where none had been before. Floating a hand’s-breadth off the floor before it was a humanoid creature that she could not distinguish. The instant Lady laid eyes on it, memories from her past flooded her. The good times. Then the bad.

There's something out there
I can't resist
I need to hide away from the pain
There's something out there
I can't resist

Agony wracked Lady’s head. She screamed, clutching her skull in her palms, and she fell to her knees. She felt as if five long fingers had burrowed knuckle-deep into her brain. There, they began to sift through what they found. She had never before felt more violated. She resisted the intrusion and fought—but it was futile. Its will was inexorable, the pain unbearable, her eyes feeling as though they would pop out of her skull. She forced her blurry gaze upward and stared into all seeing eyes, falling into them. Her body shook, convulsed, but she held it’s gaze as she bit open her tongue. Screams, spit, and blood poured from her mouth. She felt her consciousness being cracked open like a walnut. She could do nothing but suffer and scream.

The sweetest song is silence
That I've ever heard
Funny how your feet
In dreams never touch the earth

Mental fingers peeled away the layers of her brain, baring memories, hopes, fears, ambitions. She screamed again, again. Magdalena tried again to speak, and failed. Her heart hammered in her ample chest. She tried to dismiss from her mind the events that had occurred, tried to tuck them into some distant corner of her consciousness, but it burrowed like a gnome through the dirt of her life as her life force leaked from her nose. Surely her skull must explode. Surely.

In a wood full of princes
Freedom is a kiss
But the prince hides his face
From dreams in the mist

Another wave assaulted Lady’s mind, pinioning her, burying her under its weight. She fell flat on the floor. Her vision went dark; something warm dripped from her ears. She was falling, falling. Lady Magdalena tried to mouth words, but her lips would not form the words so she thought them instead: “I want her dead! I want her dead!” A booted foot slammed into The Black Swan’s ribs. Her bones intact but her breath went out in a whoosh. “Kill her!”

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away

She was going to die prone on the floor, helpless as a babe, silk seemingly slivering up to her like a serpent, coiling around her wrists and holding her to the ground. Distantly, she wondered if someone was watching, laughing. The pain in Lady’s mind intensified. She was too far gone to scream anymore. She dug her fingers into the carpet so hard that she tore three fingernails from their beds. The final thing she saw was a pair of eyes, one emerald green, one blue as the ocean, and the brunette figure with the face of a starling forced a cyanide capsule in her mouth, clamping it shut.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away

---

Many people would feel daunted by such a task, to step into this den of ferocious lions, dressed as tantalizing meat dripping in the most divine sauce to ever grace the taste buds. It is such a risk to enter such a place with your weaknesses laid bare for all to see, to lay upon a silver platter with knife and fork in hand, urging, pleading, begging to be devoured whole by those who salivate at the prospect. And yet this is what is asked of you in these deadly tournaments. To lay it all on the line, to bare your very soul, to leave everything you have and step forth naked into the Garden of Eden, all eyes watching as you reach out for the apple of wisdom to take a bite, to stuff it in your mouth like you’re a pig on a spit.

It doesn’t sound so delightful when put in such a way, though the language colourful and the imagery vast and vivid. The mere thought could freeze you in your place, make you shiver in your boots, make you fall under the power of the hail and snow. Yet it is required. For if you are not willing to risk it all to acquire so much more, what is the point in it all?

This is the second time I stand side by side with my dear, sweet artist in the Dynamic Duos tournament. A chance for the pair of us to advance once more in the most holy of quests, to reach the final of the Dynamic Duos tournament and claim supreme victory in one of the most, if not THE most decorated tag team tournament in the world. Doesn’t it bring a tingle up your spine? Oh, the possibilities.

And yet, nothing is certain in this mad, wild world. Odds may lean in the favour of one side or the other, tilting to and fro precariously until the very end, nobody quite sure which side the weight will finally lean. Thus, why a team like Silk and Cyanide have been labelled as the supreme rulers of the upset. Pulling unexpected, shocking victories over teams that many were certain to advance to at least the final, maybe win it all. The Dark Horses of this esteemed contest.

And it is our task to divert the path of these untamed and unbroken horses from the finishing line of the premier steeple chase to the glue factory, to find a more suitable use for them.

Many may have underestimated their abilities. Maybe their past opponents overestimated their own. I must admit, I have had those labels used on myself, once upon a time. They call me the Black Swan, after all, the shocking statistic that left the world in awe and adulation at my achievements. I made my way to the top of the mountain, desiring no crown as I warred my way like a warrior goddess with a flaming sword in my hands, desiring no crown or wealth, no kingdom nor servants. I battled through beast and spirit, through monster and ghost, through animal and vision until there was nothing but ruin beneath me. It was ever so beautiful. And now, I will do it again, so my name will live on through the ages. And Sophie’s name will live on as well, right next to mine as we accomplish our goal together.

We are a portrait of possibilities, a bright canvas with lush lashings of luxurious colour, masterful strokes of artistic brilliance and an imagery so powerful, so life changing it would bring tears to the eyes of even the most hardened individual. In comparison, though supposedly well-oiled like a machine, you are mainly a machine. Parts break and need repairs, wheels and cogs rust and need to be thrown away. Eventually a newer model comes along and you are rendered irreverent and out of date. Machines change and are thrown away. Great art lives forever more.

Silk and Cyanide are what they are, cloth you can find from any market street stall, yet to be sown and stitched into a majestic garment fit for the highest in society. Nothing but a rag, tattered, torn and yet to be worked on by a master craftsman. They are a painfully bitter pill that no one wishes to take until the most dire of circumstances, something hidden from the mind until desperation creeps in during the final hour. They are shallow reflections on a pool of water. Dip your toes in, the reflection shakes, splash away and the image vanishes. Scratch below the surface of that cool, calm water and you will find myself and Sophie are layers upon layers, whilst Silk and Cyanide are dross.

Defile us, draw scorn on us and we are still art, still imprinted in the minds of those that behold us. Immortality in its purest form. Defile you, and all you have is a substance unable to nurture anything memorable. Replaceable. Just another failed dream, an experiment with such grandiose intentions and yet little emerges till you slip away and are forgotten. Sophie and I stand on the verge of greatness, on the verge of something more pure and beautiful than you can ever possibly dream or imagine.

I have scratched, I have clawed, I have climbed and I have soared out from the always looming shadow of my world renowned brother and now my shadow looms over you, my wings spread and now Sophie and I shall hunt, now we will attack, now we will feed. For this den of lions, waiting for fresh meat to be simply handed to them is going to change. Prepare for an aerial assault you simply will not see coming. Prepare to taste your own blood, prepare to taste your own inadequacies, prepare to taste defeat.

And most of all… prepare to taste immortality.