Darcy’s Inferno

[Eilonwy Solstice]

That night I was to travel the Dreamstream, I thought it appropriate to wear a white, linen robe to bed with gold and silver lining, not to try to pass myself off as an angel or something similar, but to signify to the broken mind that I could be trusted . . . to the extent I was allowed, anyway. Coupled with the shivered shards of paranoia still scattered among the dregs of the broken mind, this one would be a difficult task to piece back together. I would need their help, and I wasn’t sure they were willing to give it. Still, they had asked me to come, so that would ease the task somewhat. Forging forgiveness and paving the path through to penance would be a slow, arduous task.

Still, who better to attempt it than a vampire who had found redemption? I had spent long years down the very road needing to be taken anew. I could do so again—but I needed their cooperation to bring them with me. They knew it would be hard—just not how hard; still, anything that didn’t require the sacrifice of all things gained, didn’t have the power to build the faith necessary to save all things lost.

The trip toward this particular dream pool was hazardous and bumpy at best. To my mind’s eyes, it was a panorama of black ink, ravaged by stormy cymbals arraigned in purple lighting and shaken by the grousing cairns crowned with the worn, splintered formations of teeth worn to the bone. The descent down the crimson, blood-rimmed crags that rose out from the blackness like crossed sabers was more like a fall down a cliff. But it was the only way into the shattered mind, at least until they helped me rebuild it.

A large, red-headed—Irishman—Scotsman—Dutchman—it was hard to tell, he has worn to many faces to those who know him—met me as the gatekeeper, an immense gun of some sort I knew Ron would recognize was nestled lovingly in his arms. Grinning gleefully at my presence, he winked once and brought the impossibly large weapon to bear, crosshaired at my forehead.

“Hallo, lass,” he drawled easily in a thick, unmistakable accent—no wonder he had used a voice synthesizer when dealing with clients—and stroked his weapon’s barrel meaningfully, setting the terms of our little meeting unequivocally, and the consequences if I failed to meet them. “Might you want to tell me what you’re doin’ here?”

“I am here to help Nemesis,” I stated simply, holding my hands out peacefully—not that it mattered in the river of dreams. Weapons came and went with the shift of thought. But his big gun didn’t move an inch from my forehead, as big as a tank’s barrel. I took a deep breath and let it out. “I sense much of Nemesis in you.”

He grinned even more broadly, and abruptly the gun had become smaller, small enough to holster in a pocket at his left breast. The assassin’s garb he had been wearing, black with bandoliers of ammunition hanging like vestments transforming into a mobster suit—hat, boutonnière, and all. He began telling me things he thought would be of some use for me in restructuring the fragmented mind. I paid careful heed to everything he told me and was judicious and careful in my replies to the questions he asked me. We traveled at our own pace, since time was inconsistent here and we would get to her when we did.

Our first stop was a hill that rose up out of the barren, black ground like the silhouette of a stretching giant, grasping at a sky shaded deep lavender and slowly blotted out by a crimson rain that stained the dead ground. Atop the hill and through the lancets of blood rain, a figure stood with pearled guns in hand, ready to fire. Giant scalpels tore and sliced at the infected sky in a grotesque parody of lightning, the blood rain streaming forth with each slit. Thunder sounded, but not from above; large, white balls fell from the sky alongside the blood. When the balls struck the ground, they split with a maddening howl, and out of the sundered, maggot-white orbs came babies . . . grotesque, rotting, undead babies, not even big enough to be called children.

“Die, you—you freaks!” the woman atop the hill shrieked out in fear and rage, shooting the eggs with her pearled guns. Sometimes she shot the falling eggs out of the air, where they exploded in bursts of red and pink; sometimes she shot the zombified babies crawling up toward her from the broken shells. She was weeping openly, had begun weeping the moment the eggs fell, the moment she shot them from the sky or the ground. The tears that marred her face mixed weirdly with the streaks of blood bathing her cheeks from the sheeting rain.

“DIE! I shot you! I killed you! I’m so sorry! I had to! I had to—!” Became her mantra, though the blood rain continued to fall unheeding, the babies continued to crawl unhearing, and the eggs continued to split, uncaring. There never seemed to be more than seven offenders in all. That is, if there were four eggs, there were also three babies crawling up the hill. If there was one egg, there were six babies. The cracked eggs wilted and disappeared into the ground once the babies left the shells, and the woman was a fast enough shot the stream seemed unending. Finally, one baby got through her deadly barrage, biting her on the leg. She shot that one, but another groped her ankle from behind. She shot. Then another. She shot. Then another. Then another. She shot. Then another. Then another. Then another. She shot.

Though there were seven undead babies crawling up her body, biting and mewling and crying, she was weeping blindly, shooting at the army of babies—different than the ones cleaving onto her but still just as disturbing—massing up the hill, preparing to overwhelm her completely.

Finally, I raised my hands into the bloodpooled air, the crimson rain falling everywhere but on me. Extending my will and an offer of aid, I buttressed my resolve and pushed outward, with my hands and my will.

“Darcy . . .” I pleaded gently into the air, though I knew my quiet words were heard. “Stop.”

The blood ceased to fall. The eggs ceased to crack. The howling horde faded one by one into curled wisps of smoky regret and vanished. And then I was atop of the hill with her, gently taking the undead babies off her. They bit my fingers, but I held them to my breast and loved them, sorrowing for their loss. Their gumless mouths didn’t hurt, but their regret stung like hornet’s venom. However, it was pain I had felt for years, and I could take it. Finally, they faded, too.

Darcy, free for the first time in years, and having been defiantly stoic for all that time, finally broke down in unabashed tears, dropping to her knees and hacking out an explanation between broken sobs.

“I killed them . . . I had to . . . I’m so sorry . . . so sorry . . .”

“I know, Darcy,” I soothed, patting her head and caressing her hair while she buried her face in my stomach and wept as she hadn’t wept before. “I know what you’re going through. I’m here to help.”

I lifted my head, sensing the other two presences. One was good, one was evil. But they kept their distance for the time being, and so Darcy was able to release her emotions unmolested.


This first of many dreams I dreamed started last Wednesday night. It wasn’t a part of my regular dreams.

[Hannah]

So that's what Nemesis meant the other night.



Thank you so much for helping Wie. I know this can't be pleasant.

[Grace]

Thank you so much for helping Wie. I know this can't be pleasant.

It wasn't.

But yes, again, thanks Wie.

And to others. Which I will list at a point in the not too distant future.

[Ron Caliburn]

I think a lot is getting explained here.

[Grace]

Wait until you see what happens next.

I think most will understand my recent actions.

[Eilonwy Solstice]

So that's what Nemesis meant the other night.



Thank you so much for helping Wie. I know this can't be pleasant.

However, it’s also worth it, Hannah. Please remember that. Forgiveness is truly a blessing, and I hope if I have ever offended anyone here, I hope they will forgive me in turn.


I’ve had many more dreams with Darcy; this is merely one of them. However, it is one of the most important and climactic, and she agreed that I should share it; or “could,” depending on one’s point of view.

That night, my hour of meditation went longer than I originally anticipated, but the extra time was gladly spent. I didn’t wear anything in particular to bed; some shorts and a light cami, I don’t recollect what the colors were supposed to be and such a trivial detail seems unimportant to recall. Mostly because even most women with eyes would have mistaken the shade, one of those new-fangled mixtures that Ron believed didn’t exist, even if he cared what colors I wore. It had been a warm night and I wear loose-fitting clothing to bed when I want to relax.

Which is why I was surprised when I entered Darcy’s dream pool again wearing robes, only this time, they had been completely stained as though dyed in a sea of crushed grapes. Normally, in a dream, I wore what I had worn to bed.

Meaningful implications aside, I further entered the healing psyche as I had always done previously: with due caution. It was still a ravaged landscape of black ink, but this time the purple, lightning bright streaks were in between a harmonic and cacophonic hum, etching the silhouettes of elegant skyscrapers that were still under repair, but more readily recognizable.

However, there was still much work to be done. As I descended further, the black and purple coalesced into deeper, more meaningful colors. Black was still dominant, but it slowly lost its dominance to coal-crimson streaks pulsing as brightly as any living heart when excited. The ground hardened to first gravel, then cement-calloused rock. The redheaded man whom I had learned to both pity and respect—and whom I will continue to use the generic “The Irishman” as an appellation until further notice—guided me for the first little bit, though Darcy joined us before the first leg of the journey was through, warmly holding my hand and guiding me through the guilt-ridden paths as though I were blind here as well as in the waking world. Nevertheless, I appreciated the gesture.

She ignored The Irishman completely, though I knew we would have to face him sooner or later if she wanted to be fully healed.

First, we waded to our hips through the stream of blood; sometimes we forded at points up to our knees. When Darcy fell into one of the many pits that had the blood going over her head, The Irishman and I helped pull her out. By then, we were on the other side and scaling the next obstacle. A mountain with severed heads planted like tulip bulbs. A few were buried so close together they were chewing on each other’s necks; some were screaming profanities, buried in the blood-bathed earth at impossible angles; many were bleeding from every orifice including the eyes, adding to the elements that made up the ground; most were moaning in the agony of eternal torment caused by the flames spurting up like macabre sneezes from the earth, fueled by cardinal humors; and all begged continuously for mercy that wasn’t mine to give. Other dreamscapes were less and more disturbing, and Darcy guided me through each one with varying degrees of poise.

We had to hold Darcy tightly to us when we passed what I would term “The Field of the Broken Ones;” a flat plain of congealed blood, peopled by naked corpses walking slowly about with mindless abandon, body parts so twisted that chins met shoulder blades, knees bent the other way, men walked on elbows, women scraped their heads across the rough stones of the ground and . . . worse.

Ultimately, The Irishman faded into the background of dead, walking bodies. I lowered my head and sighed.

“Darcy,” I said gently, not quite comfortable with the reminder but knowing there was no other way. “You’re going to have to face him eventually.”

“I know,” she replied starkly. “I just wish . . . you would demand more, or make the choice for me or something.”

“We all have to make our own choices,” I replied, perceiving the Evil presence I had sensed earlier now drawing nearer. The Good had left some time ago, manipulated to move elsewhere. “But I’ll be here to help you when you’re ready,” I was more comfortable with this reminder.

“I know,” she repeated, though with greater strength. She brought up a large gun that should have been impossible to hold and aim so easily with one hand . . . but she was that good with weapons.

“Well, let’s get it over with,” Darcy added with nonchalance layered over the nervousness I could sense.

Together, we faced the figures that circled us like baying sabertooths. They were impossibly big.

“Look at all of what I did for you,” the first of the commanding figures accused. “And look how you betrayed me in return!” They each had the same face. They were each armed with deadly weapons.

“I know, Da,” she bowed her head, though I sensed she was itching to stick the barrel of her gun between his eyes and pull the trigger. “I’m sorry. You did a lot for me. I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”

The apparition didn’t know what to do in the wake of this confession. Finally, he shrunk down to size, muttered his own apology for what he had done . . . and hadn’t done, and left.

“It was your fault they killed your mother!” another father railed maliciously. “She died because of you. If you hadn’t been born, they never would have had to kill her.”

This one was more difficult for her, but Darcy prevailed against this one, too. “I’m so sorry she died, Da. I feel horrible about that, too. If I could bring her back somehow, even if I had to die to do it . . .” she shuddered, but remained strong. “I would.”

This father too, was taken aback by Darcy’s answer. Falling back in size, he mumbled something about apportioning the blame equally, loving Darcy’s mother, and his own failings toward her. Then he too, retreated into a growing mist.

Others followed suit. One by one, Darcy faced them all. Some with my help and encouragement, many more on her own power. With each amendment made, the pit surrounding us lost some of its hellfire and gained a little more natural light.

Finally, there was only one father left. He was bigger than the others, more savage, and to my mind, tasted different than the rest . . . more bitter. The ground had grown more natural. The hell had darkened into a deep cavern, upward in slope. In spite of this, he was arrogant and mean, getting right in her face in a way the others hadn’t.

“You,” he sneered. “You’re not a mercenary. You’re just a scared little girl, turning on the spit of your own incompetence and riding on the skirts of braver men and far greater women—”

“You’re right,” Darcy began. “I need all the help I can get . . .”

“I wasn’t finished, you little piece of filth,” he growled.

Darcy took a step back in alarmed confusion, but I gently took her hand, holding her in place.

“No, Darcy, you have to take this one on in a different way,” I smiled.

“H-how?” she asked, stammering. She had done extremely well this evening, but it had been very difficult, and she was at the breaking point. “How do I f-face h-him?”

My arm stayed his bristling wrath, kept them separate. I maneuvered us so we had a bit more room. “You have to face this one the way you’ve wanted to face all the others,” I explained with my smile widening. I thrust out my arms and the form of her father was thrown back by the force of my will, tumbling yards away.

“You have to kick its butt,” I snapped into my personal taekwondo stance. “We’re going to kick its butt.”

In growing apprehension, Darcy leveled her gun, armor sprouting to cover her in dreamskin.

“You . . .” the form of Darcy’s father began shifting shape, anger and rage washing off in waves.

“When will you people learn,” I growled and mentally pushed away the tumbling cascade of terror and madness It had sent forth to paralyze us, “that even when I can see, I don’t rely on physical sight?”

Snarling savagely, Not Ron surged to Its feet.

[Grace]

Thank you again, for so much Wie. I don't think I'll ever be able to repay this debt I owe you but I will try.

I don't expect forgiveness from most the board members here yet you offered it freely. I can't imagine anyone holding a grudge against you.

There is a long road ahead and I don't know where it will take me. I know I will stumble and fall at times. I know because of my abrupt and honest manner, I will offend people from time to time.

Still, for better or worse, I am here for the long haul.

[Hannah]

I am thoroughly in favour of any plan of action that involved kicking the nightmare's butt.

[Cybermancer]

Some interesting issues are coming to light here.

I am forced to wonder how much of this inner hell was fabricated by the nightmare and how much was ready and waiting for him to take advantage of?

[Ron Caliburn]

Having spent several months with the uninvited guest I'd have to say most of it was already there - just tweaked a bit.

[Eilonwy Solstice]

You’re welcome, Nemesis. However, you don’t owe me anything. It was an honor to work beside you. Besides, I hadn’t gone skydiving like that since Hannah somehow convinced Ron to take us. And even then, we had parachutes. This time, we didn’t. And it was actually rather . . . fun.

Sorry, I’ll get to that part as soon as I can.


Not Ron lunged like a tidal wave, Its face blurring and distorting from the one normally worn, trying to goad or frighten Darcy, I’m not sure which; in either case, Darcy and I reacted practically at the same time: I threw my arms up into the air as Darcy leaped backwards in a jump that might have been impossible for her in the waking world, the big gun in her hands morphing into two smaller weapons, one in each fist. The hill that rose under my feet was strong enough to deter the nightmare being’s lunge, and Darcy’s barrage of daggers—tearing through the air like bullets from her pearl-handled guns—sent the thing reeling away.

I sensed Its backup behind me a moment before he spoke in a voice I knew well, though the face didn’t match.

“Remember them?” he taunted, the sound carrying easily despite the seeming distance.

Then I felt two huge, rope-brawny arms vice around my chest.

“Looking sharp there, lovely,” Zeb sneered into my ear. “Like a dream. Too bad Mordecai went apostate; that means we’ll have to do to you what we did to Sarah.”

He tried to squeeze my spine asunder; fortunately, in dreams physical size does not strength equate. And while last time I had been in their turf, where all the advantage had belonged to It—and them; this time we had the advantage, though Darcy didn’t know it yet. I struggled far more than Zeb thought possible, and his grunts evidenced this.

“I’m gonna—grick—eviscerate your—hnngh!—grrr . . . YAHHHH!”

The dream personification of Ron’s old mates shrieked as his arms came away with me as I hurled myself forward, rolled, and stood again, facing him. There was no blood.

“So, where’s your dimmer half?” a disembodied voice in the air spoke, not me. I had learned not to taunt in such a way in the dream stream. So I expected the hand breaking the ground underneath me, grabbing my ankle.

But I didn’t expect it to be grey and gangrenous, a corpse’s arm.

“Wouldn’t miss this little party,” Zak’s zombified head leered as the earth crumbled away around him, revealing more of his wire-thin, decaying body.

The arms around me had altered to Zak’s appearance, growing infected as sores erupted all along their flesh. They squeezed me even harder, if that were possible. Zeb, now a mountainous zombie as well, sneered and closed in. The hands around me were still in force, and yet he had a new pair below his shoulders; his newly grown arms reached for my throat while the old ones continued to constrict me. I struggled to free myself, but Zak’s hold tripped me up.

Below, Darcy had forgotten her guns and was throwing angry daggers at her tormentor with a rapidity that was impossible, sparks crying out as he parried each one. The combatants were moving at implausible speed, going up and down at improbable angles. At the moment, they were leaping to and fro, using the rocky walls as ordinary people might use the floor.

Zak trying to pull himself aground using my legs as anchors reminded me I was not a mere spectator in this fight. Using Zak’s still trapped torso as a stepping point, I used the dream’s ethereal quality to slide free of Zeb’s rotting titanium grasp in a back flip that gave me room and freed me of all arms save for the pair locking my own limbs to my body.

“Darcy,” I called out. “We need some help!”

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that; Not Ron used my unintentional distraction to bludgeon an array of snake-fast strokes against her with the facsimile of Ron’s blade in one hand and some sort of gun-sword in the other. Darcy however, still in the influence of her own instincts, rose to the challenge, meeting each blade with one of her own. This display of unbroken determination moved me to reinvigorate my own efforts. Straining, I broke free of the massive arms; when they smote the rocky floor, they choked, writhed, and turned to dust. By this time, Zak had pulled himself free of the ground. They charged me as a pair, and I narrowly avoided their speedy rush by the list of back handsprings I pulled off even faster, one after the other.

“Hey Darcy, how about some reinforcements?” I suggested as we planted ourselves back to back.

“Yes, let us have some reinforcements,” the nightmare being sneered with Ron’s voice while wearing another face. “Reinforcements to tear apart the pagan, whoring b—es that you are!” Raising one hand in a half fist and flexing Its fingers as though trying to crush an invisible ball, It tried to alter the course of the battle.

A muffled pounding filled the air, shortly followed by a keening low, agonized moaning growing louder and louder. Cracks began rending the stone floor like spider webs had spat on the floor. Only instead of flowers bursting forth, there were dozens of hands. Arms followed hands, then shoulders and heads, followed by the rest of their bodies. Grotesquely massacred masses crawled out of the torn and bleeding ground. The floor cauterized into scarred brickwork as they charged us with painful slowness.

“You know, I never was much a fan of Thriller,” Darcy seemed to apologize, armed once more with two streamlined, pearl-handled pistols. One kept Not Ron at bay with a torrent of flashing silver bullets; the other began sniping at members of the approaching horde.

They were almost upon us. And while we were barely holding our own with the nightmare being—It had forgotten Ron’s face for the moment—and the Compound Twins, the army of undeath nearing us would certainly be an overwhelming factor.

“Darcy,” I panted and avoided Zeb’s fist by a pulling an uneven front walkover right on top and over him, using the extra momentum to kick Zak between the teeth. “Remember, this is your dream. Control it!”

She nodded with a perplexed twist to her brow; her guns disappeared, and then she dropped to her knees. Recalling the drama often found in dreams, she slammed her fingers into the stony ground, cracks smearing along the brickwork. Patches of cracks mirroring the ones beneath her began sprouting all around. The dead walkers continued to march toward us

Suddenly, one of the advance forces of the tightening noose of dead walkers lurched, as though its left foot had been stapled to the ground. Others followed suit, stopping—if you’ll pardon me—dead in their tracks. At first, I wasn’t sure of the reasoning behind the slowing down of some of their peers, or the sudden cacophony of moans at their ankles. Then I saw the garden of severed heads sprouting up beneath the dead walkers, biting, chewing and screaming. Oblong creases began tearing open from the bleeding ground, graves releasing their dead with eruptions of hellfire. From some of the backward graves sprang forth the twisted corpses from the Field of the Broken Ones; the undead babies Darcy had finally managed to love and hold began cutting off even more of the dead.

War cries crowned the shattered air. “We’re comin’ darlin’!” The Irishman roared, followed by all the other manifestations of her father. “The calvary’s here!”

“Darcy, you didn’t,” I stared at her in amazed admiration and smashed Zeb’s nose into his brain for a third time, but he just wouldn’t go down. Zak might have been able to get through my defenses more readily had he not been too heavily laden with undead babies smearing his back in blood with their bites.

“I did!” she grinned fiercely, barely sidestepping an attack by Not Ron and planting a row of thrown daggers into his chest, providing The Irishman an opening in Not Ron’s defenses to hammer him with an uppercut that would have shamed Babe Ruth’s heavy hitting record.

Convincing the ones who had once ground at her guilt like old men chewing mouthfuls of fat to fight with us was an impressive feat.

However, the nightmare creature who had attempted Ron’s image in the past was not amused.

[Grace]

I'm glad you're telling this tale Wie, for so many reasons.

Although this is definitely my favorite part.

[Ron Caliburn]

She's good at many, many things. Putting words to screen is one she excels at.

[Eilonwy Solstice]

Procrastination is another skill I’m good at . . . but thank you both. Thanks for . . . all that you’ve done for me, Ron. Both on and off the boards. And thank you, Darcy, for staying with me during that dream. Thank you for sharing your burdens with me. Thank you for . . . doing what I couldn’t.

And the fall . . . was . . . fun. But I’m sure you know my favorite part.


“You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you, you lying b—?” It growled with insane rage. “I’ll send your sanity to hell in a hand basket for this! You, and the Apostate’s second whore! The Cleansing is too righteous for her!” A gust of frigid air smote me when It thrust a damning finger in my direction.

Boiling clouds of noxious black thickened the air that could suddenly be seen overhead. Fiery lightning in the form of gigantic scalpels stabbed the ground indiscriminately, cutting apart ally and foe alike. Darcy avoided the terrible attacks as a twinkling of an eye: she was never there when it seemed a bloodstained blade should have pinned her to the blood-weeping ground. As for my part, gymnastics always did come with natural ease; and in the dreamstream, I always had the prowess of Celeste: I aerialed, flipped, handstood, somersaulted, and rolled right before the oak-sized claymores sliced me.

Unfortunately, the only other ones who seemed able to avoid the massacre besides us were Zed, Zak, and the mophemoth. The Irishman and the other incarnations of Darcy’s father disappeared inside a massive field of tarlike smoke and blood. As if It were trying to eject them from Darcy’s dream, Not Ron used the thick meadow of smoke to drag the remains of our allies away. The others were all cut apart brutally and with macabre abandon. Hissing furiously, Darcy hid the broken bodies in the blood-infested earth in a semblance at an honorable burial.

The last of our foes charged us.

Darcy resumed her fight angrily against Not Ron, kicking, thrusting, spinning, and stabbing at high speed with two daggers in each angry fist. I dodged Zak’s charge and tattooed his back as hard as I could with a roundhouse kick. Zeb was harder to avoid; I ducked a wide, heavy swing of his viper’s fist, realizing too late it had been a feint. The double palm strike sent me sailing.

My senses warned me of the changing atmosphere just in time to escape. Clawing the broken stonework granted me the momentum required to keep my perch. But for a moment, nothing was underneath me as we suddenly found ourselves fighting atop a tower of infinite height, my arm sunk to the wrist the only anchor keeping me from plummeting to my death. I barely avoided the next besiegement of blood-ridden scalpels, lunging back to—relatively safe—ground and back to my feet, dodging a broken path of sundered stone and shrieking scalpel blade to return back to back with Darcy.

“F—” Darcy censored herself just in time. “Dang it . . . Wie, this is not how I imagined this! Just wanted to let you know!”

I didn’t answer; we were struggling as it was, there was no need to talk. We were barely staving off the morphemoth’s attacks, though Its frustration began mounting: Its power was waning with each successive second we lived. And with each successive second we lived, the Tower shook, the foundations weakening impossibly with each score of the gigantic hellblades against the massive, arena like rooftop. Sooner than I would have liked, there were more ribbed scarring than there were brickwork; like a broken layer of a thousand sediments, the ground of the rooftop no longer even held together in proper, linear planes: it was too shredded by that, leaving jagged, empty wounds we were left to scale and circumvent.

“Ha!” Darcy exulted when Not Ron had us cornered between It and the blood-deepening sky; rows of monstrous bayonets hung suspended in the air, ready to dissect us. But her forearm wrapping around my belly, Darcy dove off the Tower just in time to avoid being skewered, the Tower falling to pieces.

We were falling for our lives.

And falling impossibly fast, far faster than terminal velocity would have allowed. The Tower, being infinite in size and tuned to Darcy, hadn’t fallen completely apart. Rather, simply an immense section of the top. We used this and the nonsensical laws of dream physics to our advantage, running a circumference around the large pieces of the collapsed portion of the Tower to avoid the morphemoth and the twins, who had leaped off after us. This time I took the lead, grabbing Darcy’s hand and sprinting in a downward spiral fast enough that even when our foes were falling on the same side of the erect portion of the Tower, there was still a great distance between us.

Not that that would have mattered as much in the Dreamstream, but it was still a start.

Gravity had been included in the utter toss out of physics. The Tower was the biggest object we could see, yet we continued to fall “down,” morphemoth and the twins following. Nevertheless, I managed to erect just enough sense between us that we no longer needed to run in the effort to maintain the distance between us and our pursuers. We . . . “adhered” . . . to the side of the gargantuan Tower while we fell at incredible speed. The extremities of my robe—sleeves, hem, and skirt—snapped and blew just as if I were falling in the waking world, but the “effect” was ruined by little inconsistencies: no matter what angle I “fell” by, I returned to the side of the Tower and oddly enough, felt constantly modest, too. Our shoes and feet should have disintegrated with the friction of constantly grating against the Tower’s side, but the only effect was to have great plumes of dirt streaking up in our enemies’ faces with each touch of our feet against the “ground” of the Tower; they had to sprint at a constant speed to maintain distance with us, yet we freely fell at no cost to our energy.

In short, welcome to the dreamstream.

[Cybermancer]

I am reminded of something a colleague of mine would often say.

Perception is reality.

So it is in our dreams.

It may sound odd to say so but I have been heartened in reading this account. There is both guilt and remorse here. The possibility for Darcy to change her ways exists. Despite this trip into the lower levels of her own personally created hell, it is not too late to begin the journey to redemption.

The recent quiet I have observed on the boards from both Nemesis and Mr. Caliburn has me concerned. It would be a shame if either of them had their lives cut short before finding the peace each is, I believe, seeking.

As an interesting aside, the name Darcy means "Dark" in Irish and "Fortress" in French. "Steph" which is apparently an alias used by Nemesis, is a derrivitive of Stephanie and means "Crown", "Crowned" or "Garland". So one could read the title of this thread to be "Dark Crown's Inferno". Or perhaps more simply, "Dark Inferno".

Here's hoping she sees the light and joins the side of angels.

[Eilonwy Solstice]

Interesting you noticed—and mentioned that, Cybermancer. Though I’ve always wondered about “angels.” According to Christian mythology, demons and devils were angels once, too. However, Nemesis is beginning to find her own “side,” and the reasons for following it.


The sky had darkened to a bloody, twilight gloom, the stars rising up in a constant sneer directed at us. Yet we fell and continued to fall, and when Zak lunged ahead of the other two with claws and a snout sprouting out of his zombie flesh to slash at us, Darcy met his rush with her blades and drove him back, where he drew back up beside his other cronies, running down the face of the Tower in an effort to keep up with us, panting and struggling. Zeb was the next one to strike, leaping downward, a skulled mace dashing to meet me. I parried with my wrists, sparks cascading as his bony weapon was derailed from its path toward my face. Then he too, drew back up, disappointed.

Darcy was the third to attack, some bizarre mixture of gun and blade held in her fist. She pulled the trigger near the hilt and a deluge of bullets scattered into our enemies. The sound of our surroundings had vanished. The rain of bullets echoed even after they had ended to start a slow cadence of guitar strings . . . asynchronous to the events happening. The hammering of a raucous drum beat flourished into being with the intensity of a wooden beam snapping under the pressure of a blue whale’s weight. The adrenaline-spiked song started slow and picked up speed as it followed the suit of our fall.

“Darcy . . .?” I questioned wonderingly when I found that sound had returned . . . so long as it was accompanied by the overlaying theme blaring forth.

“Not a chance, Wie,” she leered . . . er, grinned at me. “I need this song right now, okay?”

“Okay,” I shrugged, maybe might have wondered about her sanity had I had time to do so. “So long as the marching skeletons are on our side . . .”

Darcy’s eyes lit with excitement, would have danced to the torturous, addictive beat had she been able to do so without sacrificing her defenses. Besides, her excitement would only fuel her power.

We feinted back and forth with our enemies, attacked, lunged, parried, dodged, and engaged our foes, all in time with the ever-present beat, pounding like the dull pain underneath a healing scab. When there was a slight lull in the bizarre battle, I even turned around to see where we might be falling toward. My robes and hair still billowed out in the “proper” direction. But there was no sign of any ground in sight. We were falling endlessly.

“Darcy, we need to end this,” I panted, kicking Zak in the face twice with one leg, a third with the other. With each strike, blood or sparks spurted like water from a hose; while it might have looked gory and impressive, it was only superficial.

“Oh. Okay. Umm . . .”Darcy looked around, trying to find the time to focus her attention while fending off the morphemoth’s barreling attacks . . . he had almost gotten to her with a few clever expletives and snide remarks directed at me about my blindness and . . . other things. “Hey, Wie, they’re not dead, dead, right?” she asked, speaking of our allies.

“No,” I affirmed, catching the morphemoth in a flank and, together with Darcy, driving It back again.

“Okay,” she looked around at the flowing rivers of blood gushing through the twilit air. “When I say, ‘now,’ jump, okay?”

“Okay . . .” I agreed.

Grey clouds with bloody streaks began passing us as we fell. Zak batted one aside in annoyance, and streamers of the fluffy stuff clung to him in tatters. More and more began to show up, like demented sheep of various sizes in a screaming background. Darcy sidled next to me, taking my right hand in hers, her left arm curling around my waist in a pose that was downright sisterly.

“Now!”

I jumped.

And the Tower—the entire, Infinite Tower—crumbled into shreds of the blood soaked clouds. Suddenly, we were all falling again, with clouds everywhere. Darcy and I passed right through them as we might have ordinary clouds, but bits and pieces clung to our enemies tenaciously. Below us, the limitless sky had suddenly turned into a huge, black void, related to chasms of indescribable depths in the waking world.

“Happy landings, freaks,” Darcy sneered through blood-flecked lips as the morphemoth and twins shattered through an entire flock of the crimson clouds and came away looking downright downy with blood curling around them like strips of red cotton; the battle had been a long and painful one. Yet still the song trumpeted forth, and I found it very appropriate.

Before any of them could answer, the wads of cotton began taking shape, into figure clutching at the falling fiends. Each aspect of Darcy’s father took shape and pinned our three foes in whatever fashion they could: clutching legs, arms, choking, punching, and anything and everything else. Our three enemies, suddenly weighed down far more than we could ever be in her dreams, and as mere dream personas, were unable to give a successful answer tour our screaming song: they plummeted well past us and into the chasm below.

Darcy groaned roughly. Dream state or not, she had taken a massive beating. I was about to do what I could to help when there was a scandalous tearing sound, interrupted by Darcy rolling her shoulders. From her back ripped out wings . . . massive, black though filthy with blood, with feathers pointing in every direction. Flapping blood and dead feathers away, Darcy’s wings lifted us both into a horizon where the sun was just beginning to rise, melting away the horror and rank battle.

The final words of the song continued on, singing obliviously for all to hear.

I looked at her face, the face I had pictured her having in the dreamstream since I had no idea how she appeared in the waking world. The lines of care and pain had diminished greatly, the grains of anguish and loss scabbed over and healing. The wounds would heal and break and break and heal with her coming decisions, but to me, she had regained much of her beauty, and she would only grow more beautiful. Even in the dreamstream, where I have “eyes” again, I don’t see as the sighted do. I’m far too changed for that. But to me, at that moment, Darcy looked like an assured young woman who had passed through her hells with grace and strength. Stumbling, falling, getting back up, falling, getting back up, and so on, until at last . . . flying. We both later agreed that she still had a ways to go, but she was at least strong enough again to be on her own in her own mind.

So who . . . are you . . . who . . . are you . . .!?

To me, she looked like an angel.

An Angel with Black Wings.

The song ended.

[Cybermancer]

When I was a child going to church I remember being taught that demons were fallen angels. That Lucifer was the most beautiful of them all, in fact. Occasionally I would wonder what would happen if Lucifer and the rest would just ask forgiveness?

Maybe a fallen angel or demon can find redemption, I don't know.

I do know it is possible for a human being.

The account you present here, Miss Solstice... first of all let me say that you are a brilliant wordsmith. Should I ever need a good character witness, I hope I have someone as persuasive as you in my corner. You have given us all a glimpse of something that is normally very hard to see. Especially for someone as normally elusive as Darcy.

By the end of it all, her self-image seems to have drastically altered. And an interesting self-image it is, too.

I think it's quite fortunate that you were there to help when you were, Miss Solstice. In the long run, perhaps it will be of benefit to us all in some way.

So I for one, would like to say thank you for taking the time to help one lost soul along it's journey.

[Grace]

I still have a long way to go. I'm no angel nor saint and will never claim to be. I can't even say that I'm a good person. But I'd like to become a better person.

The future is unclear to me. There are decisions ahead of me and I wonder if I have the strength to make the right choices. There are so many temptations... I'm sure that there will be times that I slip and fall. I will make mistakes.

Slowly I am realizing that I don't have to face this uncertaintity alone. I have found friends here that I never realized I had. Those who are willing to stick their necks out to help me. It's not something I would have believed possible a year ago.

Thank you so much, Wie, for opening my eyes and helping me see.

[Shang Li]

What saints did not start as sinners? They all had something in common, however, they all desired to be a "better person".

The future is not ours to know, instead it is ours to craft. That these decisions concren you is a good sign. And remember Ms. Nemesis, that we are fallible - "To err is human, fo forgive takes a spark of the divine."

You were never alone, we were always here, waiting.


I would also like to thank Ms. Solstice,her kind words and gestures have moved more than she could ever realise.


Cybermancer, yes even a demon can choose to seek enlightenment, and find it - the road for them is far more difficult since they don't start with a "good side" to feed while the darkness withers.

[Holister]

We know for a fact that even a demon can find redemption; rember that fella GRIM from a few years back. He was a monster that died like a man.

[Hannah]

Ben, don't forget Celeste and Bloodbane.


Darcy . . . You are who you are for a reason, just like you are what you are for a reason. My nightmare sought to use that to punish you. But now you have the chance to use that to finally be the you you want to be.

[Holister]

Ben, don't forget Celeste.....

Trust me kiddo, I don't think that I'll ever forget bout Cee.

[Eilonwy Solstice]

Helping others has brought me rewards I never thought possible. It also soothes the pain.

Thank you all for giving me that opportunity to help and to remind myself that I can.

[Grace]

Where were you this time, Wie?

[Hannah]

Dar,

I wish she'd been able to help us out this time too. I wish she'd just respond to the letters and emails and the phone calls more than once a month. I wish that when she responded she didn't sound so annoyed to do so. Even if things got all screwed up between her and Dad, I don't see how that made her stop being friends with us.

Hannah

[Ron Caliburn]

Yeah, problems with me aside I really expected her to be around for this one.

[Clarity]

_____Maybe we should rescue her next.

[Ron Caliburn]

I don't think she needs rescuing Clarity. I think she's just decided she doesn't want to have anything else to do with me and is stayign away from everyone else because of it.

[Clarity]

_____But Mr. Ron, that’s just silly! Why would she want that? She’s so nice and caring and loving and kind, just like Hannah. Why would she change her mind so suddenly?

[Ron Caliburn]

Claity, it's kind of complicated and most of it is pretty personal but back when Wie and I were living together I made a number of choices that ultimately caused her a lot of pain.

Because she is so nice and caring and kind, she decided not to blame me for how I had hurt her, instead she blamed herself.

Eventually constantly being hurt and constantly blaming herself drove her away.

We tried to fix it a few times, but for the last while any response to my attempts to get in touch with her has been pretty clear on the fact that I'm no longer welcome in her life.

To be honest I can't blame her. It's probably better for her not to have to deal with that pain I caused her.