Another Nightmare

Mere rags were her only clothing. Skin that had once been creamy and pale, was now dirty and covered with weeping sores, lash marks, and open cuts. Dull auburn locks, once brilliant in hue, hung in limp hanks to her waist. She had not even been allowed shoes. The rocks upon which she stepped cut into the tender soles of her feet, drawing blood. Strangely, she felt no pain, for she had gone beyond that. Stripped of everything, and everyone, she was just a hollowed shell of the once proud woman she used to be; and now, she was about to die.

She looked in the distance to the block that had seen so many before her. The large wooden cube was stained with the blood of thousands, maybe more, and she was to be the next sacrifice. The executioner stood beside it, wearing his typical, black head covering, and bearing the enormous axe in both beefy hands. Idly she wondered; did he feel remorse? Did he have nightmares of the ones he had sent into eternity? Did he even care? Somehow, she did not think so. She doubted that the thing beneath the mask was even human. How could he be to take on the task he had? He seemed to relish the lives he held in his palms. Of course, his own life was held in the palm of another, as well.

The guards flanking her pushed her roughly ahead while the surrounding crowd taunted and jeered. Their faces resembled the foulest of evil that any mind could conjure.

“Yer gonna bleed good, dearie!”

“Ain’t so high and mighty now, are ya, bitch?!”

“They shoulda let us have a go ‘tween those purdy thighs before they took ya!”

The insults, names, and taunts fell on deaf ears. She was as numb to them as she was the pain. All of her tears had been spent; all of her screams silenced. Nothing existed now. Her children, her darling, wonderful children, even stood close by. Garnett cried softly into Uhtred’s shoulder, while Uhtred stood stoic and tall, a testament to his Father by not showing any emotion. Nefertise was wailing loudly, falling to her knees, begging the God above to show mercy. Ilgnuit, the beautiful son of her heart was knelt beside Nefertise, holding her to his chest, weeping with her. Yet, none could save her. She knew this. They could try, but they would meet their end, just as she was about to meet her own. She stopped to drink in the sight of them, but was only allowed a second, for she was pushed forward once more. She came to that dreaded block and was shoved to her knees, yet not made to lay her head down just yet. That puzzled her until she saw the familiar figure come into view. Blackened, red rimmed eyes lifted to the visage of her husband, wishing she could see the love that used to exist; but it was no longer there. He was no longer her Wyld, the man who had held her tenderly in his arms, declaring his love for her. This man was a stranger, bearing eyes that no mortal could ever possess.

She did not try to plead, for she had done so a thousand times already. Each time he had laughed wickedly, then laughed more as he ordered the flesh beaten from her back. She did not tell him she loved him, for he would merely scoff. The only words she dared utter were the inevitable. Even the crowd went silent in an effort to hear.
“My son…?” she croaked, tone barely rising above a whisper as it was forced out of her swollen throat.
He looked down at her with those cold, black eyes and gave a smile that chilled the depths of her soul. Then, the sound of feminine laughter drifted to her ears. It was soft, husky, and full of life.
“Don’t you mean -my- son, dear Mother?”
Synaria, the wife of her dear ilgnuit, and daughter of her heart, glided up to stand beside Wyld. In her arms was a tiny, cloth wrapped bundle. She knew it was her son, for his cries tore at her heart. She tried to get up and go to him, snatch him from the arms of the other woman, but strong hands held her in place.
“He is -mine-,” she grated pitifully.
Wyld merely laughed and slid an arm around Synaria’s waist, pulling her close to his side. Possessively, he nuzzled her dark cheek, then drew his serpent’s tongue up it’s tender curve in a grotesque parody of a lick.
“He is -our- son. You have been replaced, whore. You never were fit to be Queen, or bear my children. This beautiful creature-” He looked to Synaria with complete adoration. “This is the mother of my son.”
Unable to look away, she watched as her husband ripped open the front of Synaria’s bodice, baring her lovely, firm breasts for all to see. Right above her left nipple was a brand, burned into her flesh, in the shape of a “W”. Before her very eyes, more of the same brands began to appear on the young woman’s flesh; her neck, her cheek, her left breast. Yet still, she cradled that crying bundle in her arms, cooing to it. Rage, unlike any she had ever felt filled her chest, and suddenly, she broke free of the restraining hands. She lunged at the King and Synaria, only to be pulled back by a strong arm around her waist. In shock, she spun her head back to see her captor. It was the same, shadowy figure she had seen in the temple, and though she could not see it’s face, she knew it was laughing at her.
“Stupid woman,” it hissed. “The kingdom is mine, the children are mine, the blood is mine. Everything that exists is mine, and I will have it. You are just a stair in my case.” He was shoving her back down to her knees and forcing her head on the block. Unfortunately, it was to see her husband and Synaria once more. Only, guards were surrounding them both with swords raised. Even as the drums of doom sounded, and the executioner lifted her axe, she saw the glint of those swords as they lowered, stabbing repeatedly into both Wyld and Syn. A scream so deafening that it shattered the palace windows bubbled from her throat. The sound was so heart wrenching, that the angels in the skies even took pause. She watched Syn fall first, then her husband beside her. Yet, he was still alive, and reaching his bloodied hand out toward his wife. His eyes, so black and vacant moments before, were now the deep, forest green she knew so well.
“I have always loved you,” she whispered through the death rattling his chest. “My only love…..”
She began to scream again, even as the executioner’s axe lowered with a mighty….

Danele flew up in the bed, covered in perspiration, and screaming hysterically. Though her eyes were wide opened, she saw nothing but the horrific scene of her nightmare. Immediately, Wyld was flying up, yanked out of a deep sleep that had come beside his wife. His strong arms were surrounding her, and he calling her name, panic lacing his tone. It took several times, but finally, he was able to rouse her into awareness. She stopped screaming, only to fall against his chest, cradling her swollen belly, and weeping as if her very soul had touched utter darkness. She knew he would want to know her dream this time, but she could not tell him; not yet. All she knew was they were growing more frequent, and that frightened her more than anything else; for with her dreams came events, be they good, or bad. The dreams that had plagued her lately only foretold death, blood, and ashes. It was almost more than she could bear…