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Holy. That's the only word she finds.
The darkness in her dreams is pure, is beautiful and there is no sign of light.
It has never existed and it never will. Light, as a concept, the concept of trying to falsify, trying to fend away the dark, it doesn't exist here.
As she is marvelling at this, the absence of a concept, not just the absence of its reality, it strikes her that it cannot be completely true.
She knows what light is. The absence of the concept in its entirety would erase any indication of that concept in her mind.
Light doesn't exist around her, but she finds that its concept, its comforting lies are still there within herself. A shiver of terror and shame creeps down her spine. The dark around her is pure, is holy and she is here, destroying it all. Bringing the concept of light, of mind, of knowledge into this world of complete stillness.
Ruining it forever. Stripping it of its beauty.
She brings her knees up to her chest. Where before there was nothing but the essence of pitch black darkness, there is a floor now and she knows she is sitting. It's cold and feels polished, like marble. There is a wall behind her. It's made of rough brick and puts her in mind of the church her parents went to when she was young.
Five or six years old, told to sit in the corner at the back because she couldn't sit still, couldn't stop looking around and disturbing the others. She never minded, at least she could sit more comfortably here, wasn't scolded for not sitting up straight with both her feet on the ground.
She hates the memory, hates that she can picture the way the church looked in daylight, with the big lights hanging from the ceiling. She went to the midnight Christmas sermon once with her mother when she was a bit older. For a part of it, the church was completely dark. Then, to symbolise the light Christ brought into the world, dozens of candles were lit. Her mother gasped at the beauty of the artwork and the altar in the warm light, but she was a bit put out. She liked the way it felt to be in such a holy place in the dark. Of course, this was back then when she still shared the religion of her parents. But perhaps that moment was the first inkling that her own faith was much different.
She sighs, such a terribly human thing to do. To reminisce. To put into perspective.
She stares into the dark and she knows she is not in the church. Only this corner is here, it is hers, it's the light within her that she can't get rid of. This place, around her, where the floor and the stones that are not really there stop, this world is the holiest there is.
And she isn't enough for it. She can't take it. She has to hide from it.
Tears start to form in her eyes and she desperately wishes the corner away, wishes her body away, her mind, every thought that unwillingly tries to explain, tries to know, tries to shed light. She reaches out in front of her, trying to grab something she knows cannot be touched. Cannot be heard, cannot be seen. If Maxwell was here, he'd tell her that it's alright. We are all creatures of the light, he'd say, we are all opposing the Dark. And yet it is there for us to reach. And yet it lets us fear it.
She sobs, only once and strangled. Then she stands up, stumbles a bit, but determined to stop feeling the wall against her back. The rest of the church is not there, of course it isn't but she's still standing on something. Hard, cold, she can feel it through her shoes.
Now that she's thinking about it she can feel her familiar jacket on her shoulders, a belt around her hips.
She buries her face in her hands in shame.
She has told Maxwell about these dreams. She tells him everything.
She apologizes for it every time and he reminds her that he's there to help. That he wouldn't have founded the church if not to help other people with their faith.
Getting lost in the details of what you know is something your mind does automatically, he once said, because we feel like we need protection from what we are so afraid of.
And she is afraid. She stares out into the pitch black and tries to invite it, dwell on the fear to drown out the feeble protection her mind raises. It makes her shiver. She focuses on the sensation, stretches out her arms in front of her.
She wants to go back to the corner, to sit there and wait until it's over, until she wakes up. Until she is safe.
She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. It makes no difference.
She can feel it, her body and mind trying desperately to ward off the dark that wants to consume her completely, wants to take her. She knows it won't. Not because her light is too strong, it's not even comparable to the unfathomable power of the Dark.
No, it's because she would die. She cannot live without the light she is made of and it does not want her dead. She has done nothing to deserve this kind of mercy and there is nothing she can do in return except be afraid. It is kind to those that love it and this kindness is what gives her the holiest of terrors.
And she wakes up crying tears of fear and joy.