Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

I can’t breathe, he hears the echoed chorus as he gazes out upon the grand dancehall, and his eyes are caught on every twirl of lavish fabric. His corset is too tight. Mother did not want for him to breathe. She moves towards and away from him in a space left undefined between the polished marble stairs and the door that led outside. She is so much more beautiful than even he remembers, but he can not see her face. Masked, but it is no masquerade that brought them here tonight. Her features form a blurry veil that he can never seek to look through, try as he might to squint through the glimmer of gold and softly blurred light. No different from the rest of the ballroom’s crowd, she was adorned with metals and jewels that glittered beneath the source of some golden, glowing light, and dressed in finery tailored exactly to her form. The wide hem of her dress was swept up in a swirled display of glitter – or perhaps the finest shimmer of a gemstone ground to dust.

It worsens with every breath. Each inhale only provides his structured garment with the room it needs to constrict further; every soft and shaking sigh seals his fate. He is going to die in the dress his mother made for him. Lars takes another breath and holds out his hand, before he recalls that there is no one there to take it. He folds his hands in front of him instead, his delicate fingers colder than the rings that adorned them. Gold, ruby, sapphire, citrine, emerald, aquamarine, rose quartz, amethyst, opal. Each digit wore a different stone, vibrant and brilliant as they tap nervously together.

He moves away from the bannister, away from the stairs leading upward to large rooms filled with shadow. His heels, pure white, click against the polished floor. He is no smaller, no taller, than the rest of them. Lars is aware of this inconsistency in measure. Surely his mother would have still towered over him, had he seen her in the waking world, with her golden hair pulled and pinned and curled to perfection. It was the only thing that reminded him that this was, in fact, a dream. He could not reconcile with her ghost, though she is unaware of her status outside of this fanciful room. His silver eyes glance over her before she disappears behind the curtain of another twirling gown.

Someone is calling him, somewhere. Pale fingers tap faster upon one another while he weaves his way through the crowd. No one stops to notice him, content as they were behind their fans and conversations, but for the long-lasting trill at the top of each passing break. Then, and only then, did each veiled guest turn to him in a slow and sudden stare, wordless and soulless and dead. And then the moment passed, and the world continued on, unaware (or at least uncaring) of his movements from room to room. So he passes, as well, without concern for their attentions. He has other things to think about; more to get off of his chest before the pressure disallows his shaking breaths.

Beneath the dark, starry sky, his gown absorbs the silver moonlight. Reflected in iridescent glimmers, its fabric seems akin to a collection of soft, crushed snow, held together by no basis in reality but by the desires of his mind’s elaborate construction. With waved hair of white, and gold and pearl adornments on his neck and ears and wrists, the only hint of color shines through the opalescent glint upon his gown and the rings upon his fingers… or so it seems. With every step, and every motion of his dress, there is a path left behind of shadowed greens and purples; a dusted sheen of crushed fluorite. No one would dance with him, and so it was left a path beneath his feet, rather than the glimmering haze that would surely be stirred from his heels in a proper swirling spin. He feels something tug at his heart but he is too short of breath to dwell.

More crowd in, stepping down from the grand marble stairs. Lars looks over them despite knowing that he will not see a single face… until… his pale gaze is drawn to another source of light. One that shines independently of the golden glow, over a face unmarred to him. His brows are drawn together in a convergence of his confusions. Not enough time had passed for another break to reach its peak. No other faces had displayed themselves to him. He wonders if his mind has allowed him temporary respite from his lonely walk amidst the waltz. A partner? Yet he took not the shape of his lover, but of something closer to the men and women that spun around him, something he did not recognize.

Anything would do, if it would only help him breathe.

Lars turns away from the glass door he had wandered too close to. He would not step outside onto the balcony yet. The shadowed gardens beneath would await his delayed fall, or they could send their winding tendrils up the cracking stone pillars and pull him down. His fingers ball into nervous fists as his eyes fall to the floor, but he steps between dancers with ease. Restless, insistent, he taps his soft fingertips against his slender waist and feels the structure of his corset underneath his gown. Had his mother sent this for him? Halo and wings and all? He thinks it might have been poetic if he could only remember what for.

“I can see you,” says the dreamer, in a soft voice that holds the accent of a nonexistent place. He means the figure’s face, youthful and sharp. Lars stops a few feet before him and bows in a practiced, graceful gesture. His colorful rings catch the many lights as he holds out his hand in between them.

A deep and gentle voice washes over him and momentarily drowns out all other sounds. It held the inflection of an accent that feels almost familiar to him, yet he knows that he has never heard this voice before, so melodious and clear over the steady echo of instruments and murmurs and heels shuffling over the smooth floor. The figure takes his hand, and he wills his fingers to stay still within his grasp. Lars fills his lungs with what air he can achieve, and his pale gaze observes as the icy blue eyes before him warm into a lavender shade. The citrine upon his finger is kissed and his head tilts, however slightly, to the side.

Can you…

No longer taken for but a construct of his dreaming mind, the figure straightens to his full height. He is tall, and Lars thinks that should have been the first giveaway, now. Taller than himself, and his mother, and the lover that he might have expected to visit him here in place of this pale, winged man.

...see?

The man steps closer. Lars has the instinct to step away, but he remains as he is, and stares up at the regal intruder. He merged perfectly with the scenery; the golden, glimmering landscape of the dreamer’s sleeping mind seemed to suit him just as well. Silver-lined clouds above the wide hall pass on and leave no shadows in their wake, allowing the stars themselves residence in the pale irises tilted upwards. A soft hum vibrates within his chest, and when he breathes in again, the air smells faintly of lavender. He says nothing in response; he thinks the answer is clear enough by the way he focuses his attentions on the man.

His other hand is taken, his rose quartz ring graced with another kiss. Lars does not know how the stranger has reached his dream… how any but the soul of his husband has the ability, but he is too intrigued to worry. He has wandered the halls for too long on his own; he has taken too many short breaths in the absence. There is no room left within his cage, no empty wall on which to shackle his concerns, and so he allows them to dissipate and fade to golden, shimmering dust.

One corner of his mouth lifts as he feels the odd sensation of breath upon his hand. All around them, the gathering continues, as if neither dreamer existed where they stood at the end of the marble stairs. Lars knows the proper etiquette, he knows to contain his surprise when a flash of pink tongue touches against his rose quartz ring, but his plush lips are pulled into a smile nonetheless. A laugh, soft and short, accompanies this shift. What a curious intruder, Lars thinks, to reveal themselves as such and still act in such a fashion. The gesture relieves him of his bindings, if only for a moment, and allows a greater intake of breath.

The tall man in white says that he can not dance. Lars’ smile dampens, but the curious glimmer remains, housed within the silver-toned stars of his eyes. “Of course,” he answers quietly, and his hand is set upon the stranger’s arm. It has been so long since he has danced, but a walk, he thinks, will do.

His eyes fall to the floor and he can see the reflections of the night sky above. Soft white hair shields his delicate features from view as he states, “that only depends on who you might ask. We have many names.”

Lars wonders what sort of soul might have wandered through his sleeping mind and found the ability to shift so suitably. He hums again as his fingertips tap gently against the man’s arm, and pale eyes are lifted again to look over his face.

“You can call us Lars, if you would like. What shall I call you?”

L o r d C h a r o n covers the dreamer’s restless fingers with a gloved hand, and the movements beneath come to a pause. Subtle direction is all that he needs; he looks away from the tall, winged figure and looks beyond him instead. A mirror catches his glance, a vision of darkness within its reflection, hidden within the soft iridescent gleam of his gown. Lars’ fingers settle down over the man’s arm and he feels the silken white fabric of his shirt; the sensation against his soft fingertips grounds him again. A reflection, behind them, twists itself into shapes unachievable by mortal limbs and watches their departure from the hall.

The air outside is cool, but not uncomfortably so. Enough to encourage the dreamer slightly closer to his guide, though he does not lift his pale eyes in expectation of being seen again by Lord Charon. Lars gazes out upon the gardens below, the wriggling shapes and ancient structures overgrown with vines and flowers and weeds alike. There is nothing left but the golden bannister surrounding them, and a part of him knows that he only needs to climb over the curved, polished barrier. A separation between the amalgamation of his resting thoughts and those that would overtake his mind as soon as he awoke. He thinks that he should go, before the break reaches its peak. But the company is kind, and he can not help but miss sharing words with someone else’s soul.

The man looks to him directly. Lars has made his decision in the meantime. Before he is afforded a question, before he is informed of his second option, he has considered and chosen his answer. Delicate fingers tap once, twice. Lord Charon approves of his dream… perhaps for how well he settled into it. Lars’ other hand is drawn in towards his waist, and his thumb rubs over his emerald ring. A brilliant stone, reflective of many fine-tailored suits within the dancehall.

“Outside of myself,” repeats the pale dreamer, as he sets his second hand over Lord Charon’s arm. He does not know the answer, so he leaves it alone. Lately he has found that he does not know the answers to many things at all, but such has always held true, another part of him reminds. A small shake of his head jostles his hair and shakes golden stardust from the strands.

“I’ve never strayed far. You would guide us?”

He is not sure why. He knows nothing of the other's intentions; of why he had stepped within his dream.

Lars looks to the taller figure then, over the bright halo above, down to the eyes filled from lash to lash with icy blue. A sound from within, beyond the glass balcony door; shadows scorn their hidden placements and turn in expectation. The glittering, golden world contained within the grandiose hall suddenly watches them, as he reaches his next break with a soul beside him to witness its passing. He hears the sound of their whistling, drawn in breaths, and knows that they await his exhalation.

He smiles up at the other dreamer. The curve of his lips is subtle, and yet different from his quiet amusement from before. Skewed, albeit very slightly so. Lars bows his head and then again meets the intruder’s cold gaze. He takes a final breath and knows that once it leaves his lungs, his bindings will have constricted too tightly to do so again.

“I would love to, Lord Charon. Please, lead the way.”