In the Garden of Nightmare
Jan. 28th, 2005 12:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_ajahShe has done this before.
The simple ritual is now a pattern - each night, Moiraine lies down to sleep concentrating on the amethyst key at her throat, and as she leaves the waking world she enters through the Waygate to the Garden. Some nights, Dream walks with her in the forest under the trees; sometimes they sit and talk beneath Avendsora's branches while trefoil leaves whisper in the gentle breeze, not far from a small glade of blue flowers that grow nowhere else in any world. At other times, other places may be visited - Moiraine has scattered grain for the delightfully spoiled Milton and his flock, she has seen the Kitten pouncing on a blade of grass and then stalking off with suddenly affronted dignity, and she has frequently explored the part of the Library that Dream created from thought as a gift for her. Still, as much as she values these things, for many reasons the peace of the Garden is perhaps the most precious to her; she does not presume, but the Aes Sedai knows that there, at least, a small corner of the Dreaming is hers to call home if she wishes.
Tonight is different, of course. Moiraine can feel him through the link in her mind, the Warder's bond to Dream - Nyarlathotep, not Morpheus, present and aware, malice and menace and obsession together. Waiting.
Dream. Oh, my lord, my love. Morpheus. Lost again to the other aspect's ascendance, but you are there somewhere deep within, I know. Sa souvraya niende misain ye. We found you before and brought you back, my dearest one. I have to try. Dream.
She shudders, arms wrapped around herself, and then Moiraine gathers her poise and lies down to sleep, focusing on the key and the entrance to the Garden.
* * * * *
She has been here before, too. It is the Garden still, but changed - this is the Garden as it looked after the Green Man fell to the Forsaken and the Blight claimed it.
A feverish heat seems to rise from the land itself. Thick vines of a darkly poisonous green writhe up trunks, tangling the branches of once-lovely trees. Heavy brush, dripping a bloody sap and bristling with thorns, strangles the open spaces and crushes the delicate wildflowers, which are wilting and fading even as she watches. The soft moss is strangely patchy, diseased-looking and unpleasant. The breeze, no longer gentle, pulls roughly at her dress and seems to mutter of secrets that might drive a person mad to hear. The sunlight is dim, now, and shadows encroach wherever she looks.
The Aes Sedai looks at the Garden around her, and then draws herself up and glides toward where the clearing must be, if it still exists. As she moves, the plants suddenly seem to squirm and part to create a space for her as she passes, leaving her untouched and unharmed.
She reaches the clearing and her gaze is drawn unerringly to the Tree of Life - which stands there still, a twisted and wrong thing. Still a Tree of Life... as the child of incest is still a child, 'though its lungs fail slowly until it suffocates. As creatures warped by poison air are still alive, if no longer what their ancestors were. As monsters are alive. These are the lives this Tree promises. Tears spring to her eyes unbidden, but she blinks them away and does not let them fall.
He is waiting there for her, leaning against the blackened trunk of Avendesora. White teeth flash as they are suddenly bared in something that resembles a smile, and Nyarlathotep straightens and moves forward to stand in front of her. Ebon claws tangle in her hair, and he looks down at her with a possessive gaze.
"You please me, Moiraine. I wondered if you would come."
He walks around her, slowly, with the grace of a murderer, tangling her hair further in his hands as he does. His voice is the texture of an oil slick; dirty, wrong, destructive...and yet with a sickly fascinating beauty. The rainbow of lost hope.
Moiraine cannot entirely repress a shiver, but her tone is calm as she looks up at him, dark eyes meeting black ones. "It has become my custom of an evening to walk in the Garden of Dream with my lord Morpheus."
The grasp of the hand in her hair tightens, pulling with a hold just short of pain. "I am Dream now, my lady. My lady."
She does not flinch, and her voice remains steady. "Then if it is so, shall we walk together, my lord?"
"Indeed."
A path appears between the trees, and his hand moves from her hair to her waist, guiding her towards it. As Moiraine begins to walk with Nyarlathotep, a flash of color catches her eye.
The glade of blue flowers blooms still, untouched by vine or blight. She does not comment on it, nor does he; and as they pass by, the delicate scent of apples rises from the blossoms to drift on the air like a whispered breath.
The simple ritual is now a pattern - each night, Moiraine lies down to sleep concentrating on the amethyst key at her throat, and as she leaves the waking world she enters through the Waygate to the Garden. Some nights, Dream walks with her in the forest under the trees; sometimes they sit and talk beneath Avendsora's branches while trefoil leaves whisper in the gentle breeze, not far from a small glade of blue flowers that grow nowhere else in any world. At other times, other places may be visited - Moiraine has scattered grain for the delightfully spoiled Milton and his flock, she has seen the Kitten pouncing on a blade of grass and then stalking off with suddenly affronted dignity, and she has frequently explored the part of the Library that Dream created from thought as a gift for her. Still, as much as she values these things, for many reasons the peace of the Garden is perhaps the most precious to her; she does not presume, but the Aes Sedai knows that there, at least, a small corner of the Dreaming is hers to call home if she wishes.
Tonight is different, of course. Moiraine can feel him through the link in her mind, the Warder's bond to Dream - Nyarlathotep, not Morpheus, present and aware, malice and menace and obsession together. Waiting.
Dream. Oh, my lord, my love. Morpheus. Lost again to the other aspect's ascendance, but you are there somewhere deep within, I know. Sa souvraya niende misain ye. We found you before and brought you back, my dearest one. I have to try. Dream.
She shudders, arms wrapped around herself, and then Moiraine gathers her poise and lies down to sleep, focusing on the key and the entrance to the Garden.
* * * * *
She has been here before, too. It is the Garden still, but changed - this is the Garden as it looked after the Green Man fell to the Forsaken and the Blight claimed it.
A feverish heat seems to rise from the land itself. Thick vines of a darkly poisonous green writhe up trunks, tangling the branches of once-lovely trees. Heavy brush, dripping a bloody sap and bristling with thorns, strangles the open spaces and crushes the delicate wildflowers, which are wilting and fading even as she watches. The soft moss is strangely patchy, diseased-looking and unpleasant. The breeze, no longer gentle, pulls roughly at her dress and seems to mutter of secrets that might drive a person mad to hear. The sunlight is dim, now, and shadows encroach wherever she looks.
The Aes Sedai looks at the Garden around her, and then draws herself up and glides toward where the clearing must be, if it still exists. As she moves, the plants suddenly seem to squirm and part to create a space for her as she passes, leaving her untouched and unharmed.
She reaches the clearing and her gaze is drawn unerringly to the Tree of Life - which stands there still, a twisted and wrong thing. Still a Tree of Life... as the child of incest is still a child, 'though its lungs fail slowly until it suffocates. As creatures warped by poison air are still alive, if no longer what their ancestors were. As monsters are alive. These are the lives this Tree promises. Tears spring to her eyes unbidden, but she blinks them away and does not let them fall.
He is waiting there for her, leaning against the blackened trunk of Avendesora. White teeth flash as they are suddenly bared in something that resembles a smile, and Nyarlathotep straightens and moves forward to stand in front of her. Ebon claws tangle in her hair, and he looks down at her with a possessive gaze.
"You please me, Moiraine. I wondered if you would come."
He walks around her, slowly, with the grace of a murderer, tangling her hair further in his hands as he does. His voice is the texture of an oil slick; dirty, wrong, destructive...and yet with a sickly fascinating beauty. The rainbow of lost hope.
Moiraine cannot entirely repress a shiver, but her tone is calm as she looks up at him, dark eyes meeting black ones. "It has become my custom of an evening to walk in the Garden of Dream with my lord Morpheus."
The grasp of the hand in her hair tightens, pulling with a hold just short of pain. "I am Dream now, my lady. My lady."
She does not flinch, and her voice remains steady. "Then if it is so, shall we walk together, my lord?"
"Indeed."
A path appears between the trees, and his hand moves from her hair to her waist, guiding her towards it. As Moiraine begins to walk with Nyarlathotep, a flash of color catches her eye.
The glade of blue flowers blooms still, untouched by vine or blight. She does not comment on it, nor does he; and as they pass by, the delicate scent of apples rises from the blossoms to drift on the air like a whispered breath.
