fic: The Door To Dreams
Apr. 13th, 2011 03:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: The Door To Dreams
Series: Neverwhere
Character/Pairing: Richard, Ingress, Door, Marquis de Carabas.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 635
Author's note: part of the Good Enough ficverse. Thanks to Joss for the beta.
Before his brush with below, Richard's dreams were never things he remembered. As of late, he'd been dreaming a lot more, and lucid dreams at that. There were the dreams of the beast of London Below: all echoing halls and reformed darkness, and the dreams of Above which teased him with comfort, only to wake to a cold, damp ground in a cubbyhole of London Below. And then there were the dreams when he finally went home, and found him wishing to backtrack. Dreams of night where the Marquis popped out of the darkness and invited him in, for it was ever so nice.
Tonight, it was Ingress he saw. She looked at him, her dour expression unchanging. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. It was as if some invisible wall of existence separated them. She tilted her head, and he pointed to his mouth, as if to say So sorry, but my voice seems to be gone. Maybe it's magic, maybe it's laryngitis. Can you have dream laryngitis?
She reached out to touch the nothing and drew an arch there through the clouds of dark. Neither stepped through the door, but he saw her lips move to form a single word. But what it was he couldn't quite tell. Tree mont? Tree something or other....
The blackness closed in, and she disappeared from view. The night pulled back like curtains and revealed another grey view. He saw the Marquis lying on his back, his throat slit and lifeless, unblinking gaze towards the ceiling. He was drifting in sewer water, disappearing into the muck and grime. His coat was gone, and through the murky light, he could see that the Marquis had been tortured. There were several small injuries which had been inflicted so as to cause the most pain possible: the inner skin of his left arm was removed, many small flayings where his arms or legs became a red mess of cuts. Richard opened his mouth to let out a cry of his name, and this time, the veil that had kept him silent was torn away, and his voice echoed all through the sewers.
*
"Honestly, can you keep your pining and flirting down? I'm trying to sleep here," Door said.
"Did something happen?"
"You yelled my name while you were sleeping, for one," the Marquis said with a faint trace of amusement. He was propped up on his elbow, looking quite smug about the whole affair.
Richard cleared his throat. "It was more a nightmare than anything."
"Sure it was, Richard," the Marquis said.
"It was, really," Richard protested.
But neither of them answered, having already turned back in; the topic was closed, it seemed.
But Richard lay there, his body tense. He couldn't find his way back to sleep with the threat of the dreams. His dreams had been clairvoyant ever since he'd met Door. He'd dreamed night after night of the fight against the beast of London Below, and of many other things that were to come. He stole one last glance at Marquis. His broad back was away from him, making him look like little more than the pile of rags Richard had spied that first time they met. He wondered if this was a foretelling and the sly trickster would find himself embroiled in something not even he could escape. The thought left him bereft and confused, a sudden heaviness in his chest. He curled up, and pulled his coat a little closer. Sleep did not come to him until the sky was grey with approaching morning, as every time he closed his eyes, the images returned.
Series: Neverwhere
Character/Pairing: Richard, Ingress, Door, Marquis de Carabas.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 635
Author's note: part of the Good Enough ficverse. Thanks to Joss for the beta.
Before his brush with below, Richard's dreams were never things he remembered. As of late, he'd been dreaming a lot more, and lucid dreams at that. There were the dreams of the beast of London Below: all echoing halls and reformed darkness, and the dreams of Above which teased him with comfort, only to wake to a cold, damp ground in a cubbyhole of London Below. And then there were the dreams when he finally went home, and found him wishing to backtrack. Dreams of night where the Marquis popped out of the darkness and invited him in, for it was ever so nice.
Tonight, it was Ingress he saw. She looked at him, her dour expression unchanging. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. It was as if some invisible wall of existence separated them. She tilted her head, and he pointed to his mouth, as if to say So sorry, but my voice seems to be gone. Maybe it's magic, maybe it's laryngitis. Can you have dream laryngitis?
She reached out to touch the nothing and drew an arch there through the clouds of dark. Neither stepped through the door, but he saw her lips move to form a single word. But what it was he couldn't quite tell. Tree mont? Tree something or other....
The blackness closed in, and she disappeared from view. The night pulled back like curtains and revealed another grey view. He saw the Marquis lying on his back, his throat slit and lifeless, unblinking gaze towards the ceiling. He was drifting in sewer water, disappearing into the muck and grime. His coat was gone, and through the murky light, he could see that the Marquis had been tortured. There were several small injuries which had been inflicted so as to cause the most pain possible: the inner skin of his left arm was removed, many small flayings where his arms or legs became a red mess of cuts. Richard opened his mouth to let out a cry of his name, and this time, the veil that had kept him silent was torn away, and his voice echoed all through the sewers.
*
"Honestly, can you keep your pining and flirting down? I'm trying to sleep here," Door said.
"Did something happen?"
"You yelled my name while you were sleeping, for one," the Marquis said with a faint trace of amusement. He was propped up on his elbow, looking quite smug about the whole affair.
Richard cleared his throat. "It was more a nightmare than anything."
"Sure it was, Richard," the Marquis said.
"It was, really," Richard protested.
But neither of them answered, having already turned back in; the topic was closed, it seemed.
But Richard lay there, his body tense. He couldn't find his way back to sleep with the threat of the dreams. His dreams had been clairvoyant ever since he'd met Door. He'd dreamed night after night of the fight against the beast of London Below, and of many other things that were to come. He stole one last glance at Marquis. His broad back was away from him, making him look like little more than the pile of rags Richard had spied that first time they met. He wondered if this was a foretelling and the sly trickster would find himself embroiled in something not even he could escape. The thought left him bereft and confused, a sudden heaviness in his chest. He curled up, and pulled his coat a little closer. Sleep did not come to him until the sky was grey with approaching morning, as every time he closed his eyes, the images returned.
