(no subject)
Apr. 12th, 2011 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pterosaur[Open to anyone. This is the drowning-dream.]
You’re flying over a dark, heaving sea on long, golden-purple wings.
The sky is gray. You can’t see the sun or any shore, and it’s getting darker, and you’re tiring. There are no thermals here. The air is unnaturally still, no friendly breezes to help you along. You’re beating your wings in a ragged pattern - once, twice, then a few seconds of gliding before you dip too low and flap again.
One, two, glide. One, two, glide. Your wings ache, from the rounded tips to your pectoral muscles, even the membranes hurt; even your legs, tugged by the membranes. You can’t remember the last time you rested. One, two, glide. One, two, glide.
You need to land. You need to rest so badly, but you can’t do it here. You force your weary wings to change the pattern - one two one two one two - and rise, painfully, angling upwards so you can see farther.
Dark seas and a dark sky, with nothing you can use to orient yourself. There are no individual clouds. No islands. No hopeful lines on the horizon. No other fliers.
You kept moving, hoping you’re going the right way. There are no landmarks and the sea heaves endlessly, but you have to believe that you’re not just flapping in place. You want to just glide, trading the height you’ve gained for a little distance without flapping, a little rest, but too soon you find yourself low again. If you fall into the water...
One, two, glide. One, two, glide.
Once, you look down into the dark water. This is a mistake. Normally you can see through the reflection on the surface; you can look through it and see some ways, though how far depends on how clear the water is, and you can see fish and seaweed and particles suspended in it. Even the clearest water has something in it, normally.
This isn’t normal water. You can see through it perfectly, and it is completely empty. There's no bottom. It goes on forever, without end. You tear your gaze away, back to the horizon, and try to feed the energy from fear into tired muscles. One, two, glide. One, two, glide.
So tired. One... two...
Your neck dips enough to let the tip of your beak strike the water and be tugged by a short, powerful wave. You jerk it up again, tasting the faint tingle of salt, and force yourself to fly a little higher. There has to be land, soon. Even a sandbar will do. You have to get away from the deep water.
One! Two! Glide... One! Two! Glide... Everything hurts now. The air sacs feeding your lungs aren't working properly anymore. Open-beaked you gasp for breath, tears starting to form in your eyes. You can't stop now! Not over this water! One! Two! Glide...
And then your beautiful wings became small brown arms, and your body dwindles into a fragile fleshy thing which can't fly. You fall, and hit the water with a splash.
You hardly feel anything, but you're aware that it's cold. Brine burns your nose and washes down your throat, stinging your eyes. The waves strike you, again and again, and you fight to keep your head clear, but you feel so heavy. It’s like that time at the beach, except they aren’t washing you towards shore. They’re washing you down into the sea that has no bottom, just miles and miles of nothing but water and darkness and malevolence. You can’t do a thing to stop it. You can only slow it down.
"Help me!" you gasp. A wave slaps your face, pulls down on your sodden hair. You spit the brine and try madly to tread water. "Help!"
It feels like you cry out and struggle for a long time, but you were tired before hitting the water, and you only tire further. Trying to float doesn’t work; the water pulls inexorably downwards, no matter what you do. All you can do is stall until someone comes. Anyone.
No one comes.
Finally, you stop struggling and the water closes over your head. You stare up at the sky, getting darker and more distant by the second, until there is nothing left to see.
You’re flying over a dark, heaving sea on long, golden-purple wings.
The sky is gray. You can’t see the sun or any shore, and it’s getting darker, and you’re tiring. There are no thermals here. The air is unnaturally still, no friendly breezes to help you along. You’re beating your wings in a ragged pattern - once, twice, then a few seconds of gliding before you dip too low and flap again.
One, two, glide. One, two, glide. Your wings ache, from the rounded tips to your pectoral muscles, even the membranes hurt; even your legs, tugged by the membranes. You can’t remember the last time you rested. One, two, glide. One, two, glide.
You need to land. You need to rest so badly, but you can’t do it here. You force your weary wings to change the pattern - one two one two one two - and rise, painfully, angling upwards so you can see farther.
Dark seas and a dark sky, with nothing you can use to orient yourself. There are no individual clouds. No islands. No hopeful lines on the horizon. No other fliers.
You kept moving, hoping you’re going the right way. There are no landmarks and the sea heaves endlessly, but you have to believe that you’re not just flapping in place. You want to just glide, trading the height you’ve gained for a little distance without flapping, a little rest, but too soon you find yourself low again. If you fall into the water...
One, two, glide. One, two, glide.
Once, you look down into the dark water. This is a mistake. Normally you can see through the reflection on the surface; you can look through it and see some ways, though how far depends on how clear the water is, and you can see fish and seaweed and particles suspended in it. Even the clearest water has something in it, normally.
This isn’t normal water. You can see through it perfectly, and it is completely empty. There's no bottom. It goes on forever, without end. You tear your gaze away, back to the horizon, and try to feed the energy from fear into tired muscles. One, two, glide. One, two, glide.
So tired. One... two...
Your neck dips enough to let the tip of your beak strike the water and be tugged by a short, powerful wave. You jerk it up again, tasting the faint tingle of salt, and force yourself to fly a little higher. There has to be land, soon. Even a sandbar will do. You have to get away from the deep water.
One! Two! Glide... One! Two! Glide... Everything hurts now. The air sacs feeding your lungs aren't working properly anymore. Open-beaked you gasp for breath, tears starting to form in your eyes. You can't stop now! Not over this water! One! Two! Glide...
And then your beautiful wings became small brown arms, and your body dwindles into a fragile fleshy thing which can't fly. You fall, and hit the water with a splash.
You hardly feel anything, but you're aware that it's cold. Brine burns your nose and washes down your throat, stinging your eyes. The waves strike you, again and again, and you fight to keep your head clear, but you feel so heavy. It’s like that time at the beach, except they aren’t washing you towards shore. They’re washing you down into the sea that has no bottom, just miles and miles of nothing but water and darkness and malevolence. You can’t do a thing to stop it. You can only slow it down.
"Help me!" you gasp. A wave slaps your face, pulls down on your sodden hair. You spit the brine and try madly to tread water. "Help!"
It feels like you cry out and struggle for a long time, but you were tired before hitting the water, and you only tire further. Trying to float doesn’t work; the water pulls inexorably downwards, no matter what you do. All you can do is stall until someone comes. Anyone.
No one comes.
Finally, you stop struggling and the water closes over your head. You stare up at the sky, getting darker and more distant by the second, until there is nothing left to see.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 09:20 am (UTC)He's had dreams of dying before -- who hasn't? But this one had been oddly vivid, and it took him some time to calm, some time for the smell of ocean to recede from his nose. ]
[ He can swim, he thinks. But so tired... he has to sleep. ]
no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 10:19 am (UTC)He awakes with a sudden, gasping breath that triggers a string of coughs - it's been a while since he's had a dream like this. It takes him a few minutes to get his breathing calmed down again, and by the time he does, the memory of purple and gold wings is gone]
no subject
Date: 2011-04-13 06:40 pm (UTC)So sharp. So real. Does she have dreams of this kind, too?
It seems only too likely, and in his dazed, tired state, his gut twists unpleasantly at the thought. Wingless, human, he has nothing to fear but dreams. Above dreams of fears that are very real to her - even the fear of the wings suddenly disappearing, abandoning her.
There's nothing he can do now, deep in the night... except, as he lies back down, to picture her in his mind, and start figuring out the optimal size, shape and texture for a warm and comforting Quetz blanket.]
Second night
Date: 2011-04-13 08:48 pm (UTC)What was this? Some sort of warning? Mona ponders it for a time. Wings, flight. It had been a lovely feeling for a moment, but then everything went downhill. Maybe it was her brain sorting out this place, her reactions, what she was to do.
Mona will not sink, though, she decides. She will push, and she will find a way forward. The dream was a good thing, she thinks. It helps her to focus. She wants to fly. Maybe one day she'll figure out how to.]