Chapter Text
The dreams always start like this.
You’re holding something in your hands. Heavy and smooth. It’s an axe, you think. The one she pressed into your hands before you left, whispering in your ear about how stunning the Viking women were when they carried them. How powerful they were. How beautiful, how violent.
There’s a woman standing in front of you, saying something you can’t quite make out through the ringing in your ears. You think it’s something like: “Don’t fight me.”
Her face looks familiar. All sharp angles and determination. Strands of hair slipping from her braid. Something deep inside of you is screaming, but that doesn’t matter. There’s something you need to do. You adjust the grip on your axe and ready yourself to swing.
Then a hand, fisted in your shirt. A breath of relief escapes you when her arm collides with your cheekbone — a split second of clarity, white-hot horror running through you. Then you hit the ground, axe knocked from your grip, and the feeling is back. Warm, all-consuming. Her voice in your ear urging you forward.
“It’s just like ripping off a plaster, Five. Just get it over with and then it’s done. Then you can come home to me.”
Now that the woman has you on the ground, a part of you knows that the fight is over. Close combat has never been a fight you can win, not with her. But the voice in your ear is so warm and the weight on your chest feels like drowning — wrong wrong wrong — and isn’t violence the only thing you were made for?
So you’re lurching forward and digging your teeth into the closest flesh you can find. An arm, a shoulder, it doesn’t matter as long as it hurts.
The woman makes a gritted noise and something metallic fills your mouth. It tastes sweet, like victory, and you hope the blood in your teeth will make Moonchild happy. You’re on top of her now, knees settling on either side of her ribs and a hand landing on her throat, pushing, pushing, pushing.
A blur above you, and then the pressure in your ears is suddenly gone. You choke in a painful gasp of air, then draw your arms over your face in case it’s Moonchild this time, in case you’ve let her down again and now it’s going to hurt, in case in case in case—
“Wake up,” someone whispers. Low, rough. Nothing like the lilting tone you’ve come to hear again and again in your worst nightmares. “It’s me. You’re with me, in Abel. It’s over.”
The room slowly filters back into view. A bed. Sheets around you — arms too, so tight you can barely move. Weight shifted on top of you to keep you from thrashing. The pressure is crushing, but familiar, and slowly, you relax beneath it.
“That’s it,” Sara says, so approving it makes you want to throw up. “Easy.”
For a moment, the weight of her arms is enough to make you want to slip back under. But as soon as your eyes fall shut, you feel the control slipping away from you again — It’s easy to give in, Five. Let me take care of you — and then you’re jolting awake, a bolt of panic and adrenaline.
“You’re safe. You're not mind controlled,” Sara reminds you, still heavy with sleep. But you can hear the urgency in her voice, and when you meet her eyes you can see that she’s searching yours for any sign of that glazed-over look.
“I’m not mind controlled,” you say. Both of you relax, her arms now cradling instead of restraining.
For a long time, neither of you says a word. But you can feel her eyes digging into your face, searching for something.
“She’s talking to you again, isn’t she?”
You close your eyes, and then give a careful nod. Even with your notorious poker face, she’s always been able to pick apart every subtle movement in your expression — the slightest of tells. Maybe it’s the flickering way you move your eyes, or the way your jaw tenses. Either way, she always knows.
“Hypnagogic hallucinations,” Sara says, just like she's said a hundred times before. “It’s not real.”
Is that so? Moonchild responds, sounding amused. Well, let her think what she wants to think. You and I? We know the truth.
When you put your hands over your ears, Sara sighs. “You’re not the only one, you know. Maxine says more than half the people she’s seen in New Canton are hearing things.”
When you try to respond, all you can think about is saltwater filling your mouth, the hot flash of an explosion, all those people dead. How many people in New Canton have done what you have? How many of them call out for her in their sleep like you do?
“I know,” you say instead. You’ve never been good at opening up to people, and that was true before Moonchild stuck her fingers in your head and started rearranging the furniture. You’re not ready to become the spectacle in front of all of New Canton. Moonchild’s special little pet.
“There’s a meeting next week.” Sara approaches each word with a wary edge, like you’re a wild animal in a cage and if she pushes too hard you might bolt. “I’ll go with you, if you like. I’m sure Paula would too. Maybe Sam.”
Instead of thinking about New Canton and talk therapy and all your trauma spilling out, you close your eyes and think of running. Imagining the wind in your hair, the smell of wet earth and tarmac. The thrill down your spine when you escape another close call. If you were in therapy, you think they might call this a dissociation technique — a way to pretend you weren’t there so you didn’t have to make a decision.
When you open your eyes, all you can think to say is: “I can’t go.”
“Just think it over, Five. I haven’t said anything to Janine yet, but people are talking — there’s a chance they’ll take you off active duty again.”
Neither of you speak for a long time, letting the silence fill the space between you. When Sara looks at you this time, you almost stop breathing at the intensity of it. “How much longer do you think you can run from this?” she says. Her voice is still so so soft and you almost wish it was sharper — sharp enough to cut. “When is it time to stop?”
Her words make you feel heavy, so you stifle a yawn and turn around to face the wall.
"If you won't go talk to someone about it, you could at least write something in that journal I gave you."
You snort. "It's not a journal, it's a diary. I'm not writing down my feelings in that thing."
She laughs at that too, maybe a little quieter than you'd like. Then she gently rubs your back as night turns to dawn and you both pretend to sleep.