she doesn't search for her in the dream. she doesn't search for anyone in the dream. those who happen upon her are far and few between and only two have managed to get close. the loneliness gnaws at her in ways it hasn't before.

it was this realization that had done her in: she'd come to rely on others, just as she'd always wanted to, and then she was faced with the impossibility that after all her work, she was simply right back where she started. touch. words. companionable silence. any of it seemed unbearable. all of it seemed so wasteful. 

she has failed and the reminder of her failure is with her every time she wakes up and that fog drains away, every time she remembers that she is a prisoner in her own body. how many times must she endure this same cruelty?

awake, she is happy, but she is wan. her cellmate fusses over her because she is unresponsive; she struggles to endure the hardship when she knows her perfect future is just out of arms reach. work hard enough and they will prevail. the part of her that is smothered, the part of her that screams into that voidless dream, is still there. 

it festers. it makes her callous. wordless. hopeless. 

look at what's promised to you. look what will be yours. remember, remember, remember.

she raises her head, arms still folded around her tucked knees, and says, "you're my cellmate, aren't you?"

Aurelie Lefevre

☉

red tresses, almost black now with all the dirt and grime, curl over her cellmate's shoulder. she remembers flickers of it when it was brighter, all the way to the weathered, limpid strands now. how long have they been here? how much longer must they wait until she can see king again?

her happy ending is coming. she swears she can taste it (and it tastes sweet, like rice and sugar and soft lavender dye). 

"we'll see our vision come to fruition soon," she promises. aurelie couldn't give her that. she can only gently guide her to the end. she does not know why it's so hard to remember the things she must do. her hands sometimes stop their working. her foot does not recall how to take its next step.

her eyes - she hadn't realized she'd closed them - crack back open and a sliver of fright snakes over gold. 

"to sleep? no, no, i don't like to sleep." it's a routine protest, though in the past it's been wordless. an internal scratching at the walls, buzzing in her brain, a clangorous chorus of screeching to stave off the inevitable. she must not remember. 

remembering hurts. 

her body betrays her, as it always does. it takes aurelie's hand and it follows her to the bed and when they curl together in a lover's embrace, no amount of internal wailing can stop her heavy lids from falling. 

dreams exist outside of time. it's never enough/always too much when she's here. she's here in her body and she is hugging herself as though she can cling to it forever. where it can be hers and hers alone and no one can take her away again because gods fuck she can't take it anymore she can't take any of this anymore please the lines are already so blurry and anymore and she might break she might break she might 

break.

they're not real, the slashed marks across her arms, but the dream still makes her bleed. it gives her that satisfaction, at least. she is still holding herself, tucked in a bed of overgrown grass, the rest of the arboretum empty. except then, quite suddenly, and like it had happened with elisabeth and penny, it's not.

her cellmate is here too. 

she does not lift her head. she wraps herself tighter and she says, "please, i can't help you here. you already do too much out there for me."

Aurelie Lefevre

☉

but that's the great and terrible thing, isn't it? she doesn't want aurelie to leave. she doesn't want anyone to leave her. her pride is an ugly, ever-lasting thing and as she cows, weaker and weaker, it festers, folding in on itself and growing. it puppeteers her fingertips, lengthening claws meant to strike inward. 

it takes a lot of effort now not to turn them outward at the woman who has shown her nothing but kindness and compassion since their capture. 

"If I'm going to die in this prison, I want to at least die as myself."

freya does not have the luxury. if she dies in her cell, she will die as a shadow, strangled by visions and ideals forced upon her by another god meant to make her insignificant. she grimaces but lifts her gaze. her eyes are red-rimmed and sunken, but no tears grace her cheeks. 

she's unable to cry here, for some reason.

"you want to talk about the mask," she says flatly. she grits her teeth. "i would withstand a hundred days of mockery, a thousand days of polishing stones until my hands fall off, and an eternity of scavenging in that pit if it meant i wouldn't have to look into that fucking mask again."

she shudders and then, suddenly, she dare look hopeful. "tell me it's not real. when we wake, tell me it's not real. i want - i want to be myself. i can't stand it. i don't see other dreams. i only want the future it promises and here, here, i know it's all a lie, but gods, please - 

"please, i can't lose myself again."

Aurelie Lefevre

☉

her gentle caretaker, with soft hands and softer murmurs - the last thing she anticipates are the bared fangs, the twist of frustration. she shrinks in on herself, cowing in the face of her exasperated exclamations, thinking how could she? how could you? how can you ask so much when you can give so little?

how can you carry on, darling?

she talks because talking must help and it doesn't really matter if freya listens. it's not about her. but still, her eyes sharpen. her jaw tightens. a trickle of understanding stills the tumultuous sea of thoughts and the sudden placid water makes her shake with apprehension. 

"you - you're seeing other futures. that means...that means others can see ours."

they see me.

they see me with king.

she slides her fingers up through her hairline, curving, burrowing, and she says, "it's not real! it's a promise with mist! it's what we want. it's all we want. and it's all we can think about. so we are made soft and pliant, and don't you understand? if we get out, it's over. they know. everyone knows now."

she laughs. she laughs and she rips her hands down the front of her face. 

"there are other phantoms here, just like us. ask them! think of them and they'll come. this dreamscape is just as much a prison as the world out there."

Aurelie Lefevre

☉

hands catch and compassion knifes through the mania, cutting the threads that hold aloft the rest of her strength. she stares down at her wrists, at the hand holding hers, and there is a burning sensation around her eyes. no tears fall. they can't fall. not here, but they leak in the real world, streaking across her dirty, slumbering body.

"we're made to suffer. we crawl and we climb, but always, always we fall," she whispers, mumbles, words run over by aurelie's calm hypotheses. how much of it, she wonders, is for her own sanity. 

find someone else. 

no, don't leave me.

"there is so little that could make me happy," she says. to manifest king would be a bastardization. to bring delta even worse. and eva? she's out there, somewhere, wandering the dreamscape and she cannot stand to have her witness this. 

still, aurelie searches her face and she looks to the side, shame hot on her face. she thinks of the last meal they'd truly shared together and then the scent is under her nose - 

mac 'n cheese with brisket, a bowl of mixed greens with champagne vinaigrette, and a seven-layer chocolate cake for dessert. she blinks and they're in an apartment - no, not there. anywhere but there. another blink. they're in a cottage; from inside, she can hear the breeze, smell the salt on the sea, but outside the windows is that same dreary, dreamlike cityscape. 

she stands, gives aurelie's hand a small squeeze of thanks, and goes to the silverware drawer. 

"out there," she says softly, "in the real world, do you work for rocket?"

Aurelie Lefevre

☉

if she had a modicum of her wits about her, she would have noticed the smile drain from her cellmate's face. she would have caught on to the stammering, to the anxiety festering under the mask she's still wearing for her councilwoman. but she doesn't. she thumbs the spoons in the drawer and thinks about the last time she was here in this cottage. 

Eva Morales, with lips blue from the freezing water rayquaza had tossed her in during a scuffle with groudon's chosen. with her small mouth and bright eyes and freya, warming to an eventual forgiveness.

i have not been home in some time.

she finally turns, eyeing aurelie, and shrugs her shoulders as she glides into her seat. the mac 'n cheese steams pleasantly. her stomach growls painfully. 

"well, for one, we're in a dream. i don't think stabbing you would work. and two, i wouldn't want to stab you." she blinks. "you say it like being part of rocket makes you - " 

she sighs. "it doesn't matter. i shouldn't have asked. but i just, i wanted to say that when we get a chance to get out, if we get a chance, it won't be about sides. i don't care. you helped me. and, i don't know you very well, but i think you might be a good person. most selfless people are."

she pushes the brisket closer to aurelie with one brow raised. "and if you're not, then all the better. it means i can actually thank you if we get out of here."

Aurelie Lefevre

☉

freya can't tell if aurelie is a glutton for punishment or if there is some measure of guilt there, wanting to feel pain. but that seems like a foul thing to do - here, in the dreams, are where most find respite from the pain. she'd be a monster to take that away from someone. 

she considers her while she takes a helping. the smell is tantalizing, mouthwater, and painfully reminds her of home. it's hard to consider putting it in her mouth, knowing that none of it is real. they'll still be starving when they're roused. they'll still be trapped. 

the cheese is hot and gooey on her tongue. more tears well on the body in the cot. 

"they are," she says finally, "but they're still human. some of them are there because the league failed them. some of them are there because they're born into it. life is complicated. i don't hold circumstance against anyone.

"people deserve second chances. that's why i direct the amnesty program."

the edges of the dream begin to warble. it won't be long before they're snatched from this brief peace. she won't remember the companionship, not really, but when this is all over she'll know her face. she'll find her. 

and she'll thank her, selfish or not. 

Aurelie Lefevre

☉