literature

Pendryg-In Dark of Night

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 He rather -liked- October. He liked the first hints of cold in the air, the promise of oncoming cold, and the personal relief that came with it... but in spite of this... it was difficult to rest. Dragon grumbled fitfully from the foot of the bed, sighing and stretching and nearly banging into the furniture as he tried to get comfortable as well. Robert grumbled, flung a pillow at him, and rolled over. Habitually he nearly never slept under the blankets any more, but it was as hard to get accustomed to this tonight as it had been at first, when habit kept telling him he should be tucked up under the plethora of soft blankets and quilts that nearly smothered the bed, instead mostly proving additional padding between him and the mattress most nights.

 Annoyed, he pointlessly punched the bed with a dull, frustrated thump, and threw the crook of his elbow up to cover his eyes.

 He was tired, as tired as he had been since he'd come back, but also frustratingly tense. He felt like a piano wire stretched to the breaking point, waiting to snap. He jumped at shadows, he mistrusted cups of tea... and he was reasonably sure this in particular had upset several members of staff at his new factory (By the Wood he sort of wondered if he hadn't been rash in that respect. He was a Woodwife, not a factory man, and he felt... he felt beaten. Quigley had beaten him easily, humiliated him, and he'd thought he was strong.

 He rolled over again, and stared out the open window, hoping for a cold breeze to help cool the night, and contemplated putting his clothing back on and going to the Heart instead, but as tired and stretched thin as he felt, it seemed also like far too much to do so, and he caught a faint telltale snort and scratch of Dragon twitching as he pursued something in his restless sleep.

 Finally, he closed his own eyes, listening to the large dog breathing quietly, and tried to rest.

 Rest did not seem to come.

 He rolled over again, restlessly, and heard an rough dry creak from the bed, which smelled dusty, like age and dry rot. It smelled of the slowly collapsing cottage in which he had been imprisoned, and he was suddenly dizzylingly uncertain that he had ever actually left. Had he left? Had it just been a dream? He reached out for Dragon, but he couldn't feel him close, he was so vague a presence that he might as well have been worlds away, and it made him fell desperately alone.

 He sat up in the darkness, heart in his ears and went to the fireplace to poke the embers into life, not for warmth but for light, to brighten the dark corners and search for any trace of Quigley.

  "It's a dream." He assured himself, stirring angrily at the ashes and watching coals stir to life like bright red eyes opening in the hearth. "We burned the place."

 But it didn't help.

 He jumped as a sudden gust of cold wind sunk it's teeth into the building and shook it, rattling shutters and cutting through the gaps in things. Normally, he would have enjoyed the cold of it, but there was something... especially predatory about the combination of the dark and the cold. Something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and arms to soldier like attention. "It's a dream." He repeated, but his fingers curled more tightly around the fire iron. Had there been an iron before? He couldn't remember now, just the skillet, which he did not see now. "It's a dream." He repeated, backing up a step, and jerking in surprise as someone wrapped arms around him from behind, and out of the corner of his eye, the edge of Quigley's ravenous smile.

 "Is it though, Robbby-boy? Is it? And I thought you were smarter than that."


 He yelled and struggled, but Quigley's powerful arms did not release from his efforts, and only let him stumble away when another thunderous roar of wind rattled the building.

 "But you're being rude... Ignoring the guest at the door."

 "No..." He suddenly -knew- what was on the other side of that door, and backed away from it, as Quigley moved toward it, the edges of his cloak ripling like smoke, seeming to draw out what meager light was in the room, save where the dim firelight glittered off the sheen of frost and ice that was spreading from under the door. "You're not here and it can't... I said no."

 "Can't it?" Quigley purred, casually reaching out and flicking the latch open. "So why are you so afraid? But you've always been afraid, haven't you?" He suggested, as the door swung open, and snow and wind whirled into the room, ice and frost starting to form over every surface. It didn't chill him, but he felt the tiny flakes of ice bite at him like furious insects as he backed away until his shoulders were pressed against the wall.

 "You could have stopped me, you could have stopped... everything. With just... one move. But you... were afraid." Quigley continued, advancing like darkness as the fire was smothered by the cold and snow, and the Winter Fay unfolded itself into the room, beautiful and frightening, glittering and cold as it smiled. It was a mockery of kindness, an promise of a loving embrace as it pulled you down to a frozen doom and Quigley was right. He was terrified.

 "You only had to use your powers, but you didn't, because you're afraid. You don't want to be the monster, you wanted to avoid being a monster so badly you'd let literally anyone else do it, just so that you look like the good noble, the rational woodwife..." Quigleys long, silvered blade glittered like the frost as his warped hands pulled it from the cloak. "Look what happened to Phillip. Look What happened to the children you let me reach. Look what happened to Me. To LUNA."  He accused, raising the blade as the Fay reached for him with cold hands, palms up in offering. "No wonder winter took you in, you're cold, little dead-boy."

----

 He tried to scream as the blade started down, and started upright instead, shaking and soaked with sweat, Dragon whining and pressing his nose into him in concern as he looked wildly around the room.

 "....Candle." He shivered, wrapping an arm around Dragon as he shakily got out of bed. "Getting a candle."

 It took him three tries and burning his fingers twice before he managed to get the candle to light and searched the room, freezing in surprise as he saw it. A single flower resting on the window sill, petals ruffling slightly in the cool breeze from outside. It was a rose, but not one like he had ever seen before, because never in his life could he remember seeing one whose petals were the lush, rich color of black velvet.

 Dragon growled, pressing a shoulder into him, staring at the thing, and Rob shook his head.

 "Don't touch it."

 He could have passed it off as guilt and bad dreams before, but this...

 He didn't know what to make of this.
And what kind of bad dreams haunt Robert Pendryg?

First prompt of our second Prompt event for :iconwoodwives:
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