I wrote this short story last year for a contest on the now-defunct fanlib-dot-com website. Out of over one hundred entries, it was chosen as one of the top five finalists. I won an Ipod nano and an autographed copy of the novel Wake, which is what the contest was sponsoring.

The rules originally stated that I'm not supposed to post this story any site other than fanlib, as the publishing company sponsoring the contest technically owns the rights to the story. However, since they've shut the site down, I figure they're not holding up their end of the bargain. So, I'm posting my story here, because I'm proud of it and want people to read it. And since I very highly doubt the publisher will actually do anything with it themselves (seeing as it's been nearly a year now since the site shut down), I'm taking it upon myself to get it out there. And tough crap to them if they have issues.

Dream Walker
by S. Houser

I slip into her dreams easily, as I have many times before. Such a frail creature she is, but her dreams are vivid and bright. I've always found humans to be imaginative creatures; perhaps it is because their lives are so very brief. The girl is still quite young, barely past her childhood. She is the most imaginative mortal I've come upon for many an age. Of course that is to be expected. She is, after all, dying. All mortals die in time, and their dreams flicker and fade with each passing day as the weight of their mortality dulls memory and minds. Her dreams shine as brightly as ever, although Death has already made its claim upon her soul.

She has come again to the place she loves best; the forest from her childhood. I have visited this place with her many a time these past few years, relishing in the rare peace it brings me. More and more often she dreams of this forest, a refuge from suffering in her true life as it is a refuge from the tediousness of mine.

I regret that it must end.

She sits upon a log carpeted with gray moss, and a patch of sunlight streams through the canopy of trees and gilds her hair with a halo of fire. A small child sits nearby and weaves shining, golden-hued leaves into small, colorful rings. It is her younger self she watches, her memories she dreams. She never interacts, only sits and watches and sometimes she cries. At times an old woman joins the child. It is when the old woman comes that she cries the hardest. Her tears are beautiful and cause the blue of her eyes to glitter like precious sapphires. Tears fascinate me, for faerie cannot cry. But her tears pierce my heart like an iron nail and I must flee to escape the pain of them.

She is not crying today, and the irony is bitter. She holds no knowledge of what is coming, and I long to delay the realization, to deny my part in it. I know better, of course. It was my own foolish, wagging tongue that gifted me with my eternal punishment. I flit from dream to mortal dream like some hellish wraith, and after countless centuries I've nearly forgotten what I used to be; grown almost comfortable with what I have become.

Never before has this existence felt like such a curse.

The memory-scent of autumn leaves and dying foliage is sharp, and I breathe deeply of its fragrance. A bird chirrups above my head and takes flight with the frantic rustle of wing-beats, and I pause to marvel as I always do. It is not often that a dream has scent or sound. Most carry only the blank images of memory and emotion. Who can blame me for being so fascinated by this girl?

She has noticed me.

She turns and stares, startled to see me in her world. I am equally startled, for rarely does a mortal detect my existence in their dreams, and she has never noticed me before. Perhaps she is not as unaware as I had assumed. I drift closer, offering a cautious smile so as not to frighten her, and her expression softens; a touch of awe enters her eyes and I can imagine what she is seeing, thinking. A creature straight from mortal myth; untamed hair and feral eyes, wild and graceful and lovely. It is the nature of her kind to fear me, but she is not yet afraid, only curious. “Who are you?” she questions. “What are you doing here?”

I ponder for a moment. “I am the Dream Walker.” It is not my true name, of course. No sane faerie ever reveals his true name, lest he be bound in eternal service to the one who speaks it. Names hold Power, and even one's own kin cannot be trusted with such a revelation.

If my young, stupid, arrogant self had only realized this sooner, I would not be here now, regretting.

“I'm Dawn,” the girl tells me, and I hide a smile. How fitting a name, with her sapphire eyes and copper hair; the sky and the sun.

“You dream of this forest often,” I say. “It is a precious memory.”

“I lived with my grandmother until I was thirteen, before she passed away,” Dawn replies softly. “This forest was her backyard, but it’s all paved over now. I remember, she always knew where the foxes denned, and she taught me how to sit still while the deer foraged, so I wouldn't scare them off.” She gestures to the child happily humming to herself, the pile of leafy rings growing steadily beside her. “She taught me how to make crowns for the faerie with autumn leaves. That was my favorite lesson, even though I'd never seen an actual faerie.” Her eyes dart to mine, then away again. “Until now,” she adds with charming shyness. “I guess they're a bit small for you, aren't they?”

I laugh delightedly. “For me, yes, but not for others,” I assure her. “My kin come in all shapes and sizes, and it is a thoughtful gift, really. Mortals no longer gift us as they used to, you see. Most no longer remember the faerie, except in their stories.”

“I suppose this’ll be the last time I'll see this forest,” she sighs, her eyes traveling and lingering on every spot they touch.

I'm startled again. Does she truly know? “Why do you say that?”

“My grandmother claimed she saw a faerie, right before she died.” She smiles sadly. “If you're here now, I guess it means the cancer finally won. I always knew it would, someday, even though the doctors keep insisting it can be fought.” She shakes her head, looking both bitter and amused at once. “And to think, I almost started to believe them.”

Her words distress me for reasons beyond ken. Why should I care for the life of a single girl? Her dreams are the brightest I've ever beheld, but they are still just mortal dreams. She is nothing more than the space of a breath, the flutter of an eyelash; a candle flame about to be snuffed out.

And yet ... to think of this forest vanishing, the brilliance of her dreams flickering and going out forever ... It is unacceptable. Impossible. Unavoidable.

She notices my distress, and her hand comes up to touch my wrist, startling me. No mortal has ever willingly touched me, even those few who have seen me. They are too afraid, too awed, to dare. “It's okay,” she says. “It's natural, right? I’d eventually die anyway, so there's nothing for you to be sorry for.” Such irony in her words. I try to laugh, but my voice escapes as a sob. Faerie cannot weep, but we can mourn, even if we rarely choose to do so. She speaks calmly, bravely, but I feel the slightest crackle of tension in the air; the bright-hued trees shift and blur for the briefest of moments, revealing the darkness beneath, and I know that she is afraid.

All mortals fear Death, for it is the one thing, aside from dreams, that they cannot control. It stalks them, hunts them, and eventually drags them into the black unknown. No matter how much bravado they claim to possess, no matter how softly it takes them, no mortal faces Death and does not fear its presence. I know this better than anyone.

I cannot stop myself from drawing closer, from slipping my arms about her and embracing her lightly. If I could weep, I would do so, for her. Only for her. Such a dangerous thought this is. “It is unnatural for a human to live past their fated time,” I murmur, to remind myself of why such thoughts are dangerous.

“I know,” she replies.

“The world would fall to Chaos should Death cease to exist.”

“Yeah, I guess there's only enough room for so many people at a time.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, torn between duty and—I cannot name this feeling, this emotion that I've never felt in all of my long existence. Such a forbidden thing. Such a delicious, forbidden thing, and even her dreams are not as sweet. I grip her shoulders and push her away, searching her face, tortured with indecision. She faces me, expectant, waiting ...

She knows, I realize. She knows, and she has accepted what must be. Her acceptance has given her rare courage, and it steels my wavering resolve. “Perhaps,” I murmur, “there is yet room for one more. Surely the world will not fall to Chaos if only one more life remains.”

Her eyes widen slightly. Surprised. Hopeful.

It is my turn to be afraid, of the enormity of what I am about to do. It has never been done before, even by those who came before me. I cannot imagine what consequences I might bring upon myself for even considering such a thing, for simply walking away.

But her eyes are so blue. Their glitter dazzles me, and I am lost. No faerie has eyes with such depth. Mortals possess a magic all their own, and hers has enchanted me.

“I think,” I tell her softly, “that you shall dream of your forest again.”

There is a pause, a breath, a heartbeat; her expression is soft and relieved, but her voice, when she speaks, is regretful. “But I won't see you here again, will I?” As if she wants to see me again. My heart throbs with dangerous hope.

“Not for many, many dreams. When I return, I shall take you with me. Will you be afraid, then?”

“I don't know,” she answers honestly. “I guess we'll find out when it's time to go.”

I smile. All mortals fear Death, but she, perhaps, fears it less than others.

I take her hand, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to her mouth. “In payment for my kindness, dream brilliant dreams for me,” I whisper, “and I shall think of you fondly.”

I release her and turn away, daring to call up the dark, poisonous sickness lurking beneath the dream's splendor, peeling away layers of agony and suffering like the skin of a rotting fruit. Behind me, she sighs a deep, shuddering breath, a voiceless sob. She is weeping again, but these tears do not pierce my heart. They bathe it, and I bask in their warmth.

What a shock awaits those healers, when next they examine her mortal body and find it as sound and whole as it has ever been. What would they feel should they discover that the illness their medicines could not cure for years has vanished on a faerie's mere whim? I chortle gleefully and her laughter echoes my own as the forest begins to blur and fade. Her conscious mind is pulling her toward the waking realm, and then I am alone with the final vestiges of the sickness clutched in my hands. I clench my fingers with brutal satisfaction; it pops like a viscous boil and is gone.

Such a dangerous choice I've made; perhaps I shall be punished for abandoning my duty, but I find I cannot regret it. Her dreams shall fill the world with their brilliance until she has grown so old that their colors wither to hues of faded gray, and she no longer has cause to fear my presence. Then I shall return to this forest for the final time, and welcome her soul into my waiting arms.

~End~