Dream a Little

Wander for long enough, and it will find you, for the forest hungers just as every living thing does. There are many different tales told by many different tongues. Each carries a measure of the truth, muddied though it becomes in the telling. Many are kind enough, speaking of the healer who came for four months to tend the ill, asking only a small fee, or of the mysterious adventurer who could locate anything or anyone with a few words. Some talk of a fae being, a benign entity of a magical forest only glimpsed in passing or seen escorting the unwary out of the forest. Last are those who have only met her in passing, and these are the most known, as she does not seem ever to remain in the lives of others, and they offer rumors of witchcraft, or of a spider spirit ensnaring hapless travelers and attacking trespassers. Whoever she really is, all will tell of her woods, and of the terrible changes which have beset them. Once whimsical, they have turned quiet and dangerous, shrouded in an oppressive night. None may enter. Few have dared attempt it, and of these, all have come away bewildered and with a strange lethargy. Whatever tale has befallen them, it is as unknowable as their guardian. She herself cannot know or tell this tale in full, being, as she is, in the heart of it all. The true and full story begins once upon a time, and must be saved for another. In the midst, Mirror is far from her forest home, though nestled in a bed of moss. Dark curls wreath her face in a wild mass. They tremble and bounce at even her slightest of movements, or would if she was not still as a statue, her head bowed over three stones weathered and worn by time. She cannot make out the letters by sight alone. She does not need to. The placement feels familiar to her, and she is as comforted as she is melancholy in their presence. Only one thing breaks her reverie, and that is the fact that she cannot remember why there are three and not two. It should be two. Leaning closer to the third, she realizes why it seems so out of place. It is poorly carved from a stone much rougher than the other two. By squinting, she can just barely make out three of the words chiseled painstakingly into its dark surface: (—-———) Not My (——)Daughter. (—-) (———) (——)(—-)(———) Her heart begins to race, but as she tries to clamber to her hooves, the graveyard begins to break apart. Her parents’ tombstones crumble into the melting ground. Hebe jerks upright, gasping for air - She is in her own forest, sitting by the pond. Her face is wet. Everything is dark. The dream flutters through her mind, slipping away faster the harder she clings to it. She is Mirror, alone in her woodland prison. A dull headache settles into the center of her skull. Has she been using magic? Could it have been more than just a dream? A frustrated groan escapes her. She tries to stand, only to find her limbs tangled in vines. Struggling makes their grip tighten until the thorns dig into her skin. Even when she cries out, they hold fast until she goes at last still and limp, straining for breath. Despair and panic should be fighting for control of her mind. Exhaustion has already won, however, for she feels no hatred or anger, only a vague sense of disappointment smothered by acceptance. She is tired. The ground she is knelt upon seems very comfortable, almost soft. When they weren’t tight enough to cut, the vines could almost be pretended as a blanket wrapped around her; she could cajole herself to believe the place to be… cozy. After all, she seems to be trapped for the moment, until she can loosen the bindings of the forest. What harm could come of it, really? She may as well pass the time with a nap. Perhaps this time she will dream of going home to her mother and father.