Chapter Forty-Nine: The Dreamless Dream

Homesickness surged first, a tide tugging at her heart, as Lilith dreamed herself back to her old world, that blue planet under a pale moon.

The Little White Dragon faced the parents she hadn’t seen in years, hope rising like dawn; she wanted to dive into her mother’s arms like a bird to its nest.

She reached for warmth like sunlight on winter skin, but met a scream like shattering glass and a father’s stick raised like a storm-dark mast.

“You monster!” her once-gentle father roared, his voice like thunder; she had never seen him as a tempest, and panic rushed through her like icy rain.

Fear froze her first, a spell like frost locking her feet; the word “monster” fell like a heavy seal, pinning her soul like iron to stone.

She couldn’t take a step, small and soft as a curled leaf; she cradled her head, whispering to herself like wind lost in reeds.

“I’m not a monster,” Lilith breathed, a pale lantern in fog; but no one heard, and the broom swung down like a cudgel from a war camp.

Whap-whap—each blow cracked like dry branches; she fell to the floor, the Little White Dragon clutching her head like a wounded fledgling in sleet.

So much pain, she thought, a quiet echo in a cavern; she folded in on herself, a snowfall of weakness burying her small warmth.

Save me, someone, she wept, the plea like a paper boat in black water; she lay helpless, praying for a sudden hand to lift her from the nightmare.

Anyone at all, please, she asked the dark like a starless sky; the wish flew empty, and the dream held her like a locked cage.

She knew it was a dream, but not her dream; she was only a passerby, a leaf carried downstream, forced to bear whatever the current brought.

They named her a monster and sent her to a cold institute, white walls like glaciers, white coats moving like gulls in winter wind.

They bound the Little White Dragon like a dangerous beast, ropes coiling like frozen snakes, scales of fear brushing her skin with ice.

Daily, they drew her blood, scarlet beads like thawing berries; they tried to peel tissue from her wings, a clumsy knife on snow-silk.

They scraped her horns too, her dragon’s pride and intimate secret, a sacred crescent like moonlight; each touch was shame like ash blown in her eyes.

Only a true partner should touch there, a promise like spring rain; instead, rough hands pried, and humiliation welled like mud around a lily.

She thought of resisting, a spark like flint; the ropes tightened at once, serpents constricting, a noose of winter pressing until breath went thin as smoke.

She didn’t dare move anymore; she endured, obedient as a frostbound deer; her beautiful eyes went misty, lost like lakes under fog.

Even within the dream, she drifted, blank as snow; just being here sent fear gnawing like wolves at the soft center of her heart.

“Nidhogg, where are you?” Lilith murmured, a swallow calling into dusk; hope trembled like a candle cupped in shaking hands.

She wanted the Black Dragon now, wanted to tumble into Nidhogg’s arms like a child into blankets, crying out everything like rain on a roof.

She wanted to lay across Nidhogg’s chest, feel a gentle hand on her head like warm wind, hear praise like soft bells in a temple.

But she didn’t dare wish too hard; this hateful dream might forge another false Nidhogg, another mirage like heat wavering on sand.

Her fragile heart couldn’t bear another lie; the Little White Dragon closed her eyes, sinking into darkness like a stone seeking the riverbed.

If she fell asleep inside the dream, would she wake, or slip deeper, layers like rings within a cold tree?

She didn’t know; so she tried, closing her eyes like shutters; and before an answer rose, a warm embrace gathered her up like sunrise.

It was Nidhogg.

“Are you real, or just this damn dream again?” the Little White Dragon asked softly, feeling truth like a thread; still, she hugged the Black Dragon like a lifeline.

She buried her head in Nidhogg’s chest, voice muffled like snow; “Okay, I know you’re fake. How else would you suddenly be here?”

“I’m not the real Nidhogg,” the Black Dragon tilted her head, smiling gentle as autumn light. “But I’m not the dream’s toy either.”

“I belong to you,” she said, tender and steady as tide. “I’m your will made visible, a mirror of your heart like moon on water.”

“So you’re my fantasy?” Lilith held her waist, arms linked like ivy; “How sad, that I need my own illusions just to see you.”

“Since you’re from me, don’t go,” she breathed, a hush like silk. “Let me hold you right, let me breathe where you’re warm.”

“I’d love to,” Nidhogg answered, hugging Lilith, letting the small dragon nestle like a kitten; then her tone turned serious, a bell struck clear.

“Wake soon,” she urged, voice firm as mountain; “your body’s leaking Star Energy, starlight spilling like frost, and you’re lying out on a frozen snowfield.”

“Even you need ice-and-snow magic to keep your warmth, a hearth in blizzard; if you don’t wake, you’ll burn through your Star Energy.”

“I don’t want to find you outside as a little popsicle,” she added, half a smile, humor like embers under ash.

“I can’t get out,” Lilith pleaded, tears bright as dew; she pointed at the ropes, thick as braided winter vines, ever ready to choke her throat.

She wasn’t made to endure strangling; she couldn’t stand this cruel squeeze, a vise like iron frost grinding at her neck.

“Use your abilities,” the Black Dragon reminded, a compass in storm; “your magic, the sky’s stars, and your sword—aren’t they yours to call?”

“Oh.” The Little White Dragon remembered, memory sparking like flares; one simple spell could sever the ropes like cutting silk in moonlight.

She didn’t choose to cut them; instead, she asked a different question, words like pebbles dropped into a deep well.

“If I die in the dream, do I wake up, or get trapped inside?” Lilith asked, calm as a blade laid flat on snow.

“You’ll wake,” Nidhogg replied, a hand hovering like a blessing, “but the feeling—”

Lilith didn’t wait. She shaped a sharp ice spike, cold purity like a spear of winter, and drove it hard into her own chest.

The Little White Dragon fell, her heart pierced like a red flower under frost; her thoughts blurred, the Black Dragon’s outline fading like dusk.

She would wake. Lilith knew it, sure as stars returning at night.