A Dream Within a Dream ✧

Now that the weather was nicer and summer was in full swing, Skipper was trying to get out more. A little odd for a vampire, sure–pretty Sibyl of him–but he liked the sun! Sure it burned in more ways than one, but it’d be a lie to say he didn’t miss parts of his youth growing up in South and Central America where bright skies and warm water were abundantly found.

Luckily the park was a fantastic compromise. Trees provided ample shade and the sky was full of little clouds, it was late in the day with the promise of evening creeping up and he’d found a soft patch of grass beneath a tree to drop down on and stretch his legs.

He had his mom to thank for it, really. She’d made a point of it–to get out and go to the markets and the festivals and the beaches, wide-brimmed sunhats and sunscreen and colorful glasses in tow. This is our world now, starlight. Let’s share it with them.

Skipper breathed in, slowly.

My mother’s name is Striding. She dyed her hair to match mine when I was young. The last color was red. Her eyes were gold. She was warm and brown and liked to wear blue.

He breathed out.

I remember her, even when I can’t remember her face.

In, out. It was good. It was enough. Skipper felt something cold stir the corner of his mind. Yes? he prompted the demon vacuumed into his soul.

Elegy opened all of his cold, deadlit eyes behind the veil of Skipper’s thoughts: I HAVE BEEN THINKING.

Skipper looked down at the grass next to his hip and picked up one of the sketchbooks he’d saved from the pile littering his art station back home. He had so many, older ones from before he’d come to Maroa and newer once he’d picked up since. Some were filled already but others weren’t. He’d asked Logan to point out the one he should work on next. 

Skipper gazed down at the black-bound journal in his hands; it was weathered on the edges, faintly stained. Small. It was one of his old ones and one of the last of them that was still blank. He wasn’t sure why he’d never filled it. That Logan had suggested it felt like a sign–something old, something new.

IF SOMEONE WHO HAD KNOWN HER WERE TO DREAM WITH YOU, YOU COULD SEE HER FACE AGAIN.

Skipper unclipped the brush pen he’d attached to the front of the journal. That’s true.

I KNOW IT IS NOT PERFECT. I KNOW YOU WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO KEEP IT IN YOUR HEART ONCE THE DREAM ENDED. STILL. The demon’s deadwind voice tapered like a chill.

Skipper smiled softly to himself: You think about things like this?

Elegy’s coils slid over each other, ice on ice. WHEN NOT OTHER THINGS.

Such as?

DEATH, NATURALLY. PIZZA ROLLS.

You’ve been thinking a lot about that lately.

LIFE AS WELL.

Skipper tugged his sunhat up and cracked open the journal. He then paused, pen-in-hand, and blinked down at it. Oh? 

Finally, he reached the blessed corridor of shade provided by an avenue of oak trees. He lifted his head and slowed a little. The breeze ruffling through them was so soft, so complex as it moved and danced among the branches. Vampiru hadn’t had trees like this. The light was too dim, too red. Even as the dappled sun threatened to burn any exposed skin, the Vespillo couldn’t help but admire the vibrant green of dancing leaves.

In contrast, a flash of fluttering red drew his attention. Vivek came to a slow halt. On the shady grass just off the path sat a young man, red curls bouncing as he bent over the pages of a journal. A sad smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Such a joyful explosion of curls always reminded him of…

He glanced up beneath his hair and hoped it was subtle enough to go unnoticed. That effort began to slip when he caught sight of the dark, sun-veiled individual hovering in the shade of so many old oaks.

He blinked, realizing he’d sat up.

YOU ARE STARING.

It looks like...

No. That was impossible. His grandpa was dead.

Yet... the sight arrested a strong sense of familiarity, blurred at the edges like so many old childhood memories, of a similar figure with wizened hands and kind eyes tapered by the wrinkles of a long life even by Vampiru standards, like a memento of an old world in a soft face.

Skipper slowly raised a hand as though to wave. Maybe the gentleman hadn’t noticed him; maybe he was wrong? if that was the case this would only be awkward... nothing new.

Marc balanced the pen between his fingers with uncanny precision. There it perched, perfectly still, as lightless eyes watched Elliott speak with an expression that never wavered.

“I’m sure your mother says as much, not that I disagree. But—now humor me—let’s take this a step further.”

The other man suddenly leaned forward like a cobra.

“You have spent so long playing dangerous little games that you forget that’s what they are. You slip across the game board, forgiven time after time, repeatedly, needlessly, largely avoiding consequence. You’d love to stay there, wouldn’t you? Playing these little games? Pretending you don’t treat other people like pawns? Pretending you don’t bend the rules just enough to keep this game going, knowing one day it has to end? Your life may be a joke, Elliott, but when all you’ve done catches up with you and the game ends, will all these ‘connections’ you supposedly cherish be laughing?”

Elliott’s eyelids, which had been sitting heavy, widened a bit at Marcus’s sudden movement forward. He simply watched as he disparaged him.

It was disheartening for the Gaillot to feel his forehead crease, and warmth from anger spread across his chest. It only felt like more proof that Marcus was right. He couldn’t even manage his emotions the way he could when he was permanently shifted. 

…But, did that matter anymore? 

Because of course he’d love to stay there. He’d love to leave this behind and live what he thought was a fantasy with people who don’t care how long he can hold a shift. What Marcus was calling a game was everything Elliott thought he couldn’t have, but was now in his reach. A second chance.

Right?

“Oh, and you can be dear friends, as long as you don’t think about how that puts them in danger. Because, surely, none of your dearest ones are compromised in any way? Sensitive? Vulnerable--”

The distant disdain in Marc’s eyes had sharpened like blades as he spoke.

The pen clicked back into place.

“By not babying you, Elliott.” The man’s face–human, by all accounts (and judging by the blunted ears and dark brown hair, though who knew with Glamours; there was something unsettling nevertheless)–was set into an intent line.

“I came in part to make sure you don’t make any further mistakes. If you were half the Gaillot you could be, you’d have me convinced for the better. Because you aren’t, now I have to treat you like a child.”

The picture this was painting for Elliott was not one he was pleased with, but it was familiar all the same. 

“I’m sure your mother says as much, not that I disagree. But—now humor me—let’s take this a step further.”

The other man suddenly leaned forward like a cobra.

“Hm.”

The pen punctuated the page and Marc’s eyes slid back up to Elliott’s. The affable countenance remained.

“… For someone who is so well-versed in the arts of deceit, you’re not that good at it. Your Family, which cares for you, and myself, who is here to help you, get terrible little muddled fibs and your tongue lashes freely to those you call friends but bends truths in front of their faces when it conveniences you. 

“Are you a liar, Elliott? And if you are, are you a true Gaillot about it, or simply a pathetic coward?”

The friendly façade from Elliott did not dissipate at Marc’s statements. He already saw…something coming from the regulator ally. But this angle? He could only think he must have been coached by his family before the meeting. 

But why?

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit as he spoke, tone consistent with his earlier answers. As if the mood of the conversation hadn’t changed at all. As if his words didn’t hurt one bit. 

“By not babying you, Elliott.” The man’s face--human, by all accounts (and judging by the blunted ears and dark brown hair, though who knew with Glamours; there was something unsettling nevertheless)--was set into an intent line.

Marc’s smile stuck. “That’s good.”

He flipped open a small notebook and wrote something down before adding, “And does anyone outside your Family know you can still recall Vampiru, or that you imbibe?”

The pen punctuated the page and Marc’s eyes slid back up to Elliott’s. The affable countenance remained.

“... For someone who is so well-versed in the arts of deceit, you’re not that good at it. Your Family, which cares for you, and myself, who is here to help you, get terrible little muddled fibs and your tongue lashes freely to those you call friends but bends truths in front of their faces when it conveniences you. 

Marc simply smiled. “Slipped into routine, hm? Any issues with supply?”