The manor stood silent. Its vast corridors lay swallowed in darkness, and only a single candle in his chamber struggled to keep the night at bay. The flame flickered against the stone walls and painted trembling shadows across the room. But the small light offered no comfort. Eoghan lay beneath heavy blankets, yet no warmth reached him. The cold came from the hollow weight that had pressed into his chest since Shanane's absence. Sleep arrived only with resistance, dragging him down like a reluctant captive into a world where memory and fear walked together.
At first, the dream carried him into a place he had once loved. He saw the forest in its living strength, and he felt the wind carry the scent of pine and wet soil. He moved with the freedom he had known before, leaping across streams and climbing the ridges that lined the mountains. His heart swelled as if it had found its rhythm again.
What had been peace only moments ago warped into unease, as though the dream itself had chosen to turn against him. The trees began to darken until their bark seemed carved from shadow. Each trunk stretched upward as though some unseen hand pulled it higher and higher. The branches bent unnaturally, their shapes curling into forms that defied the forest's natural order. The leaves no longer rustled with the familiar rhythm of wind. Instead, they whispered in voices that pressed against his ears. The sound remained indistinct, yet the tone carried urgency, and every word bore the weight of warning.
He saw Shanane standing in the distance. Her figure was clear against the darkness, and her hair caught the moonlight with a radiance that drew him forward. Her presence gave him a sudden anchor. For a moment his heart warmed, and he felt the flood of relief that he had not felt in months.
Though, the forest dissolved into storm, the sky tore itself open and lightning slashed through the heavens in jagged arcs. Thunder rolled with the weight of a beast dragging its anger across the land. Fires burned at the edge of the trees, their light swallowed and reborn with every gust of wind. He ran toward Shanane, but every step carried him farther from her. The shadows gathered ahead of him, they moved with intent, always in his path, always denying him.
The storm deepened, each lightning strike tearing the forest open in violent illumination. With every blinding flash, Shanane appeared again. Her form stood before him, but her face twisted, reshaped into Atheramond's cruel visage, over and over, merciless and inescapable. Rage ignited in him, fierce and consuming, yet fear pressed harder, smothering his strength. The two forces collided within him until his very body felt like a battlefield torn apart by opposing armies. He willed himself to move, to scream, to drive his fury outward but his body betrayed him. His limbs remained rigid, unresponsive. His throat closed around the sound that clawed to escape. The nightmare held him in its grip, binding him more securely than any chain.
The vision bled away, leaving him stranded in the hollow quiet of his room. He woke with a start, his chest heaving. The candle had died, and darkness swallowed the room. Sweat dampened his skin, though the air around him lay still and cold. His hands clutched the sheets as if they were the only thing tethering him to the waking world. The manor stood silent again, unchanged and ordinary. Yet the nightmare clung to him, and its weight did not leave with his breath.
He rose from the bed, his legs unsteady. He touched the stone wall and followed its rough edge as he paced the chamber. The room was real, the walls were real, but the images of the storm and the twisted face remained vivid within him. The nightmare had shown him what he most feared. Every sight reminded him that Shanane was gone. Every sound reminded him that he had failed to keep her safe. Despair pressed upon him like a weight, and the pain of it forced the breath from his chest.
♦️♦️♦️♦️🪔 ♦️♦️♦️♦️
Dawn crept over the manor, brushing the walls with pale light that did little to lift the shadows still clinging to Eoghan's chest. The storm from his dreams lingered beneath his ribs, a cold weight that refused to loosen. His green eyes, usually sharp and clear, were clouded with the tremor of unrest, and his long blonde hair fell in disheveled strands across his face. He rose from his bed with careful motions, moving through the morning routine mechanically, letting the motions guide him even as his heart quivered from the horrors he had seen. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes to the gentle tug of the wind against the open window, imagining freedom he had once known but could no longer touch.
The morning sun fell in pale gold across the village streets as he descended the steps, brushing the manor's stone walls with warmth he scarcely felt. His gaze swept over the path ahead, alert and measured despite the lingering tremor within. The wind tugged again at his hair, and he let it brush his face, a whisper of comfort and a reminder of the world beyond stone and shadow. The day awaited him, full of duties and silent expectations, and he moved forward, carrying both the weight of grief and the faint pulse of determination.
He made his way to the apprentice school, a modest structure of timber and clay, where children learned the skills that would one day sustain the village. Laughter and chatter spilled from its open windows, a lively chaos that made his chest tighten with both longing and sorrow. Their energy was a raw and it reminded him of the forest paths he had once raced along, where every step carried the thrill of life and danger intertwined.
Inside, the room smelled of chalk dust, ink and the faint tang of wet earth that had clung to the children's boots. Eoghan's boots echoed against the wooden floor as he approached, and the students turned in unison, startled by his presence. Some froze, unsure how to react to the head of the village moving among them so freely, while others grinned, recognizing the man whose reputation had grown in their parents' stories.
He knelt besides a girl with wild curls. She struggled to lift a paintbrush, her strokes jagged on the canvas. The blonde man observed, noting how her posture mirrored a lack of confidence rather than inability. He offered a soft word, guiding her hand without taking control, letting her see the motion rather than forcing it. Her grin when the color finally fell on the paper properly made something inside him loosen. It was a tiny fragment of the man he had been, unbroken by grief.
Even as he observed them, a shadow of the nightmare from the night before lingered. In the corners of his mind, he saw flashes of storm and twisted faces. His heart throbbed painfully with the memory, but he forced it into the background, burying the fear beneath steady breaths and measured gestures. He could not allow himself to falter here. These children, their laughter, their curiosity; they deserved presence and care, even if he felt hollow inside.
He noticed the small struggles of the school all around him: a shelf bowed under the weight of old textbooks, threatening to spill their pages across the floor; one window hung stuck halfway open, letting in a cold draft that twisted through the room; the fire in the hearth sputtered, struggling to stay alive and the smoke curled weakly toward the ceiling. He moved among the children and their teachers, adjusting what he could, lifting what was heavy, and rearranging what was out of place. Each motion came more from instinct than conscious thought, a quiet desire to bring order and warmth to a space that so clearly needed both.
The villagers had entrusted him with leadership, and though his spirit felt fractured, he wanted to ensure these lives were touched by his diligence, not his grief. Leadership had become a tether, and he could not afford to let it slacken, no matter how heavy the weight of his grief.
When the final bell rang, signaling the end of lessons, he lingered. He walked among the children, speaking quietly, offering words of encouragement. His long hair fell over his shoulders in soft waves, catching the light in glints of gold, and for a brief moment, he felt a flicker of something he had not in months. It was connection. His green eyes scanned the faces before him, seeing potential, seeing hope, seeing the future of a village that would endure long after storms and demons had passed.
As he left, his footsteps slow and measured, the laughter faded behind him, leaving a ringing silence that was heavier than any storm. He pressed a hand to the banister of the manor steps, feeling the rough stone beneath his palm, grounding himself. His heart still trembled from visions of the woman he loved, from the shadow of loss that haunted every heartbeat. Yet in this act of care, in the small victories of a child learning, a wound being cleaned, a confidence nurtured, he found a reason to keep moving.
Even broken, he could still give. Even weary, he could still guide. And perhaps, in the quiet insistence of daily presence, the pulse of life in the village, he could begin to stitch together fragments of his spirit that the nightmare had torn apart.