The voice nudged Fiachra gently, kind as a mother's hand on his shoulder and soft as the starlight on a moonless night.

His limbs were heavy, his mind weary, and peaceful slumber held tightly to him, pulling him back down to the warm comfort of sleep.

"No," his dreams whispered. "It is not time to wake, for there is much yet to fear in the waking world. Rest, sleep, be at peace."

But the voice came again, still gentle and kind, but pushing him ever closer to the land of the waking.

His dreams called to him, beckoned him back into their grasp, but their whispers faltered and faded as the voice that called for him to wake grew ever clearer, ever louder.

And sleep loosened its grasp ever so slightly, enough that Fiachra could slip from its seductively warm embrace and open his eyes to the dim light of a room that he did not know.

A man rushed forward, wrapping him up in a tight embrace, and the prince wondered for a moment if he was still dreaming. But the man's arms were rough and warm, and hugged him so tightly that it crushed the breath from his chest.

Fiachra blinked the sleep from his eyes as he tried to hold onto the words that had woken him. But the words faded away, unraveling into silken strands that slipped between his fingers even as he struggled to keep hold.

The world was bright and blurry and hazy before him. He tried to raise his arms to push away the man who held him, but his limbs were sluggish and weak and the man's grasp held him firmly.

The only sound in the room was of the man who embraced him, sobbing and whispering his name, over and over again. "Fiachra, Fiachra... My Fiachra..." Even in his sleep-addled mind, the voice was unmistakably his brother's.

Odhran, don't cry, the prince tried to say, but the words crumbled to dust in his parched throat. Everything is fine, Odhran. There's nothing to cry about, why are you... Has something happened?

Reality, which had dripped gently as Fiachra woke from his slumber, crashed down on him in a wave.

Have you done something to Riane?

His limbs still heavy, the prince struggled and twisted away from his brother's grasp. "Odhran," he croaked, forcing the words from his throat. "What has happened, why are you..."

Odhran's grip loosened, his arms falling down to his sides. Fiachra pulled back, desperately seeking an answer in his brother's face.

In front of him was a man who should have been, but was not, the elder brother he loved. Time had ravaged Odhran since Fiachra had last seen him, though he should have only slept for an evening. His brother's hair had faded from jet black to a harsh gray; deep lines crossed his brow and spread from the corners of his eyes as though age had taken a knife and cut jagged furrows of worry and the weight of a kingdom across his face.

"Odhran?" Fiachra asked, blinking his eyes again and again as if the illusion would be destroyed the next time he opened his eyes. "No, I'm dreaming."

The soft blanket that covered him trapped him, suffocated his movements and sapped his strength. The prince fought its weight, untangling his arms and legs as he sought to escape the strange dream in which he had awoken.

The voice that had called him to sleep had faded away, and in its place, panic rose, tightening his throat and blurring his thoughts.

Fiachra batted away not-Odhran's arms, yelling out to block the pleas that sounded so much like his brother but could not possibly be. He swung his leaden legs over the side of the bed, preparing to flee, though he did not know whence. Hands grasped his foot as it swung to the ground, and Fiachra closed his eyes, kicking again and again as he tried to escape the thing's grasp.

"Oi, stop it, you're going to hurt her! Stop, I said!"

The hands grasped firmly onto his leg, and though Fiachra fought to dislodge himself, the dream had robbed him of his strength.

"She helped you, you know! You might be more careful!"

Waves of panic crashed against Fiachra's body, but the hand on his leg anchored him in place, holding him firm as the waves softened and lessened and his heartbeat slowly faded from his ears.

When he opened his eyes and looked down, Fiachra found that it was not a demon that had captured him at all, but a young man with bright green eyes and a shock of brown hair who sat on the floor. With one hand, he held Fiachra's leg; with the other, he cradled the head of the girl who was sprawled across his lap, shielding her from Fiachra's flailing leg.

"Sorry," Fiachra whispered, blinking again. "Is she okay?"

Odhran's sobs--or were they not Odhran's?--ceased, but the prince would not turn to look at him. He knew what he would see: a mask that looked like his eldest brother's, cracked and damaged by some unknown force.

"She's just sleeping," the young man replied, though his voice wavered as though he was not sure of the answer. "She woke you up."

The prince blinked, shaking his head as he tried to recall something important. The more he tried to remember it, the more it fled from him. "Who is she?" he asked, his voice cracked and faded against the silence of the room. "Who are you?"

"Her name's Willow. And I'm Colm, his squire." Colm lifted an arm and pointed behind Fiachra.

Fiachra turned, his gaze brushing past the man who looked like Odhran but was not him, and saw, at last, a face he knew. Yet it was not relief that came to him, but dread, for his father had slipped away into death's embrace not a month prior. And yet here his father stood, as though not a day has passed.

"Fa... Father?" the prince whispered. "No, you are dead, you are gone. This is a dream, some waking nightmare. What is happening?"

The vision of his father flinched and recoiled, drawing in a ragged breath. "Odhran," his father's ghost stammered in an unfamiliar voice, "did you not bring anything to sedate him with? He's in a panic."

"I'm not in a panic!" Fiachra half-screamed, summoning up his strength to fling one soft pillow at the man who could not have been his father. Fiachra half expected it to pass through the man, for surely he was a ghost--but the pillow bounced off the man's chest and landed on the floor with a soft thump. "You're all... This is all wrong!"

"I didn't think it would be this bad," the too-old Odhran replied. "I didn't think..."

"Get away from me," Fiachra ordered, pulling his knees up under his chin and pressing himself against the headboard in an attempt to distance himself from these strangers. He turned his attention back to Colm, who sat on the floor, wide-eyed and silent.

"I want to speak to my brothers," Fiachra said to him. "Where is King Odhran, where is Prince Aron?"

The squire's mouth opened and closed, and his eyes darted around the room as though the answer lurked somewhere in the shadows. "I... They are..." Colm stammered. "I don't..."

"I can explain everything," the too-old Odhran interjected.

"I will not speak to any man that appears in disguise as my brother or my deceased father," Fiachra replied coldly. His blood pounded in his ears, his breathing quickened as tendrils of panic wound their way around his heart. "If this is some fae trick, my brother will not exchange me for Riane's freedom. I have begged him already, threatened to kill myself if he slays her, and yet he will not give her up. His desire to prove himself right is stronger than his love for his brothers, of that you can be sure."

The fake Odhran let out a single choked sob and flung himself towards Fiachra. The prince recoiled, but the man's wrinkled hands claws at his tunic, his bedsheets, his skin.

"I have searched for her for fifteen years while you have laid sleeping," the man sobbed, tears coursing down his face. "Why would you say such things about me, when the fae witch is the one who has cursed us all?"

Fifteen years?

Fiachra shrank away from the man's grasp, desperately batting away his hands.

Who has cursed us?

"Don't touch me," he whispered. Confusion swelled in his throat, choking him even as his lungs drew in breath after breath of cool night air.

The ghost of his father stepped forward, boots crunching on the stone floor of the room. A ghost shouldn't make any sound.

"Get back!" Fiachra screamed, his voice rising in his throat as panic spun around him. "Whatever foul demon you are, whatever conjurer has called you here to torment you with the face of my father, I know you are not him! So don't touch me!"

Dong. Dong.

The echo of the castle bells rang faintly throughout the room, sounding the change of the hour.

Dong. Dong.

Fiachra's hand reached out to the small table beside his bed, scrabbling to lay a hand on something--anything--that could be used as a weapon. But what good was a candlestick, or a half-full tankard of water, against his father's living ghost or a demon that had stolen his brother's face?

Dong. Dong.

"You should have prepared more, Odhran," his father's ghost murmured. "Call Brother Silas, have him bring some poppy wine to calm him down."

Dong. Dong.

Fiachra summoned up his strength and flung the tankard at the man. "I will not be told to calm down!" he shouted, only half-hearing the sound of the clay vessel shattering on the cold stone of the floor.

Dong.

"Rest," his dreams whispered, tugging at his tunic with invisible hands, pulling him back to the sleep that had held him captive for so many long years.

Dong.

"Don't tell me to rest!" the prince screamed into the room, which spun and faded around him.

Dong.

"A new day comes," they called, beckoning Fiachra sweetly. "Come back with us, come back to peaceful slumber. There is no need to wake, not in the madness of today."

Dong.

And as one day ended and the next began, the prince surrendered once again, letting his eyes fall closed and welcoming the sweet peace of sleep.