Dreams are perhaps the most magical moments within a human life, particularly because the odd nature of our dreams is fairly unique! They are both elusive and nonsensical all at once. But imagine if your dreams could be ordered. Perhaps there is more to our sleeptime theatre shows than we think?

Icara awoke with a start in a plush bed. Fineries were draped on every inch of her grand room. There was a subtle sweet scent in the air, carried by a row of flowers lined along the window to her left. She turned to the colored plants and sighed heavily, watching the morning light reflect some water off their petals. After letting her mind drift for a little while, she rolled back the sleeve of her night gown and found a clear sheen of alabaster skin.

“Another dream. I can’t be surprised about this anymore either...” she spoke to herself, falling back on the bed.

Where she fell, a wet spot grew over her right arm. She turned to face it with a casual glare, the spot soaked with blood already. Further from the mattress was another Icara, dressed in the clothes she wore with Lilith. The sword in her hand was broken in the same place Daylon did it, but there was now blood dripping from the blade. Icara stared at her copy for a bit until she lifted up to a seated position, matching its stare.

“Reoccurring dreams, facing a copy of myself, this all just makes his theory sound more credible, doesn’t it? What utter nonsense. This is just a nightmare, I’ll get killed and wake up, or it’ll struggle back to this like always...”

“Killed?” The copy asked, cocking its head to one side. “This is just a manifestation of your own split soul. You heard what Koshchei said, you’re not even a real human. All you are is a copy, wearing a mask of skin and memories.”

She felt a chill run down her spine as the copy spoke. Its voice was younger than Icara’s, like a child, but had a strange depth to it. The peaceful atmosphere became warped and foreign. Nothing changed on the surface, but it was readily apparent that something was wrong. The copy strode towards the bed and Icara leapt off of it in turn. Landing on her backside, she crawled back from it.

“W-What is this?” She stuttered out, feeling herself grow dizzy and nauseous.

“It isn’t a dream, if that’s what you’re wondering. Given the opportunity, the mind can generate its own illusions. You might be sleeping, Icara, but this is more of a drug induced hallucination. All that you were is fractured now, irreparable damage that has left you torn between us. What do you think is the difference between us?”

She thought for a moment, but a sudden pain hurt her arm. Lifting it up, the scars of her slavery opened into fresh wounds and oozed blood. Places where the Karkh’ala had drained her for seasoning on their food. Oddly, the blood soothed her stomach some. The pain summoned new courage from Icara and she stood upright.

“Obviously I am weakness, and you are strength. Everything I remember about myself that was unable or unwilling to fight, the times when I was a victim, that’s what I am.” Icara answered, raising one of the bleeding arms.

“Are we really so simple that this duality can be explained like that? We should be happy to have ourselves at peace. Sure that might mean getting married off for a land deal, or doing nothing with grander aspirations, but at the very least more people should be alive than if we did nothing. Is your weakness really unappealing to you?”

She gazed at the flood, pooled in her own blood. There was a puddle that grew from her own wounds and another; the one made by the copy’s sword. Both of the ponds swirled together in an unnatural way, but didn’t mix.

“It’s not that I don’t want it, but it’s still a weakness on my part. How can I be expected to view the world from a larger perspective when I’d be so inept. Strength is born of need for it, the fact I grew so strong was only a sign of how horrible my life has been. If being that powerful means I have to suffer, is it really worth having?”

“Maybe I am suffering, and you are peace?” The copy replied, taking a step to her right.

Icara mirrored her copy and they circled to the other side. Both stared in confusion at the other when it hit them.

“Can we both be the real Icara? Is that even possible?”

“It has to be, otherwise neither of us are her. You can’t honestly have a sense of identity that’s rigid, so it’s possible we’re just both extremes of her, our, personality. The same parchment, with ink on both sides.”

“But how can that be? Having a varying sense of self isn’t the same as a completely fractured one!”

“Do you have a better explanation for how this is happening?”

“It’s a dream, is that really so complicated to get behind?”

Both of the clones looked at each other in silence, forgetting themselves who was speaking either point. The sound of blood dripping into the puddles at their feet grew louder and more incessant. Icara closed her eyes tight and grit her teeth as the infuriating cacophony shook her out of focus.

The dream crumbled away and Icara blinked her eyes a few time, shaking the confusion from her head. Cold beads of sweat were rolling over her skin, many of which shook free as she rocketed upright. She was on a loose linen mattress inside of a dark room with brick walls and only iron bars in front of her. Rust covered huge splotches of the gate and she couldn’t see very much past it.

She swung her legs over the bedside and rubbed her forehead, what she saw in her dream still scarily clear to her. Blinking so her eyes could adjust to the darkness, she realized she was in a cell. In a panic, she reach for where her throat had been cut and found a bandage. Her heart relaxed a little, but more questions filled her head. The image of Koshchei came to her mind and anger coursed through her again, making her shoot to the gate. She gripped the bars tight, flinching a little as the rust scraped the surface of her skin. Letting go, the orange-black splotches on her hands made her groan in disgust.

“Everything feels like a blur...” Icara muttered to herself, wiping the rust off onto her clothes.

The bed creaked a little as she flopped back onto it and folded her arms. Even the air seemed putrid now, mold growing around the brickwork. Casting her eyes outside of the cell, she tried to peer for any other signs of people. There was obviously the little torches down the hall that showed some sort of guard keeping watch. From her vantage though, there didn’t see any kind of other cell.

She idly rubbed the bandage on her neck while she searched over her surroundings. The wrapping was soft and high-quality, not the type of thing she was used to. When she swallowed, the wound would flex and little and sting, but she could easily bear it. The more irritating part of it all is that it gave her a solid case for being alive. Given the last of what she remembered, that meant she was probably a prisoner of Koshchei’s.

It took most of her willpower to not growl like an animal at the idea. The instant she didn’t, a sharp pain went through her stomach and she doubled forward in her seat. Her breath quickly turned ragged for a few seconds. After gathering herself, she felt one of her cheeks and let out a confused sigh. She considered the wound might be infected, or that whatever poison Koshchei had used was reacting poorly with her body, but the sickness felt too sudden to be from those. It faded quickly and she stood upright again, balling up her fists to test the alertness of her muscles.

“Where’s the guard? I demand to see someone!” Icara shouted, her voice echoing a little in the tight space.

Only her own voice answered her back. Fury filled her veins and she lifted her leg, bashing the gate with her foot once. The metal rattled and a little pebble of stone move from the blow. She tried a few more times, but not even something that small was repeated from her strikes. Frustrated over the bars’ solid structure, she paced her cell like a wild animal, eyes on the floor and her head deep in thought.

While the dream was fresh in her mind, what came before she fell asleep was still much of a blur. She could easily recall running from Daylon and breaking her weapon, but once she saw Koshchei, her vision seemed to blur. The anger welled inside of her easily, but something else was in those memories. It was impossible for her to place properly, but she remembered feeling something else when he was near her. She sat down on the bed and scratched her scalp, struggling to figure out what the emotion was.

Time passed slowly within the cell, grinding on her own confusion. She kept herself busy with looking for other things to bash against. When she finally settled down into a stupor, she couldn’t find any urge to sleep. All she did was stare at the ceiling and sigh, the energy drained from her erratic struggling. Just as she laid back down on the mattress of her cell, a subtle door creaking made her ears twitch. Not wanting to rouse attention, she pretended to ignore the footsteps coming down the hall. Only when they stopped directly by the gate did she let out a sigh and respond.

“You here to serve me a meal, or let me out?” she said, opening one eye.

“Actually, I came here to check in on you... as well as make an offer for your release.” Koshchei said, hands clasped behind his back.

That same sickening anger grew inside her, but she tempered it and sat up in bed. Her eyes affixed to the floor, she spat onto a wet splotch of brickwork.

“Just execute me, I’m not going to speak to someone like you. If you open that door, I’m strangling the life out of you myself, usurper.” Icara warned him, hatred seething through her teeth.

“The offer is to make sure you’re who you say you are, Icara. All you have to do is listen to me and I’m sure you’ll be curious enough to try it.”

“Spit it out already then! Only cowards dance around what they want.”

“I want to take you to the graves of the former king and queen of Alastair... as well as their only child, Icara Valarus.”