Young Writers Society

(So, I added this in the hopes it would be less confusing. I still want to work on it to make it more enticing and get a good fishhook in there, but I'm hoping this extra bit of explanation will make it make more sense.)

England in the early 1800’s was just starting to experience the effects of the industrial revolution. The fear of magic and witches and the fey folk was nearly dead as cities began to spring up. But living in a lord’s country mansion by the sea were those who knew magic really was there.

The Faerie Queen Rhiannon had visited the lord, Johann Carpenter, and presented him with two human children. He was told the elder, the boy, was to be called Ilevial, friend of faeries. His baby sister was Issalia, the Dreamweaver. Then Rhiannon was gone like a ghost into the night, and good-hearted Johann adopted the pair of children to raise alongside his own son, Percival.

This was how an ordinary family in nineteenth century England was tossed suddenly into magic and mystique and mystery. As Issalia grew, she was often visited by the fey folk and trained in magic, learning of the Heart Magic and Otherworld and the Abyss between. The Mists of the faeries did not cloud her eyes as it did other mortals and she could see what others could not. But the powers she possessed gave birth to something else; a Nightmare, bent on destroying the Boundaries that separated dream, magic, and reality. Issalia, her brother Ilevial, a Seer named Larksong, and a young man named Aeldan, the human prince among faeries, had to find a way to keep reality from splitting open like a seam.

But perhaps such a venture would not be possible. In a battle between light and dark, Ilevial perished and two of the most powerful faeries gave up their light so he might be reborn in future times. Issalia knew then her only option would be to enter the Heart Magic itself, but she could not succeed alone.

-

Within the Heart Magic, the birth of all wishes and dreams, Issalia sat upon the shifting floor. Her hands moving deftly, she desperately tried to bind the Rift with Dream Thread. All the colors of the rainbow surrounded her, swirled amongst the white and black, glowing like neon threads in the air.

“Issalia, isn't it going to close?” Aeldan asked, kneeling in front of her, his voice urgent. “The Rift just seems to be growing!”

Issalia closed her eyes, the dream thread slipping from her fingers, its bright silver sheen dimming as it left her grasp. Tears started in the woman's eyes. “I can't,” she whispered. “I can't hold on to it anymore! The harder I try, the faster it slides away!” There was a terrible clanging sound from all around them as the Soul King tried to break into the Heart Magic. Larksong stepped forward, one hand clasping a gleaming sword and her eyes scared.

“What do you mean—you’re the Dreamweaver!” she exclaimed, her black hair fluttering in the wafting energy from the Dream Thread.

A voice, familiar—like Issalia’s musical tones—but terrible and cold, vibrated through the air, pounding against their ears. The Heart Magic seemed dark, and it was empty except for Issalia, Larksong, and Aeldan. If Aeldan was to loose sight of Issalia, he might be lost within its grasp forever. He moved a little closer to her as she froze, her eyes widening.

“Dreamweaver, you must stop trying to separate dreams and reality,” the voice said, it's tones syrupy and full of persuasive magics. “Everyone wishes for their dreams to come true. If dreams were interwoven with reality rather than sealed away, everyone...everyone would be happy. Isn't that what you want? For everyone to be happy?”

Larksong spun around, searching for the source of the voice. Aeldan seized Issalia's arms, sensing the hesitation within her. “Issalia, you can't listen to her! Remember the nightmare's—they'd come to life too! Just like she did!”

Now the voice was disdainful. “Oh, yes, just fill her head with lies, Faerie Prince. After all, it is known by everyone that Faerie Kind are naturally deceivers and seducers, as are their consorts. You can't trust him, Dreamweaver...and why should you? You have the Ultimate Power—control over dreams. You could bring eternal peace and beauty and vitality to the world. Nothing would have to end unless it wants to end, and even then, you could stop it. You could create beautiful, surreal things, just like you see in your dreams...isn't that what you want? You could even live with your Faerie Prince.”

“Issalia, snap out of it! Remember the nature of things—how things must be! Your dreams are real enough already without you bringing them into existence! Issalia, please...say she's not getting to you, say you aren't actually listening to this!” Aeldan was desperate. If his nightmares came true, the entire world would be destroyed. If Issalia did this, all would be chaos. She was looking into his eyes, the green depths of her own somehow distant and blank, as though she was reviewing something in her head Aeldan couldn't see. He bowed his head, biting back tears of despair. No. I must have faith in her. Issalia's convictions are so strong...she will do the right thing here.

Larksong had closed her eyes, a single tear escaping in her desolation. She knew there would be no returning from this alive. Issalia, please, she prayed. Please stay strong for us.

Issalia’s presence snapped back into her eyes suddenly and she stood, almost knocking Aeldan aside, a fiery expression blazing upon her face. “Hear me now, Nightmare!” she called imperiously. “You—you are nothing. You are merely a dark being given power by me, through the stupid mistake of a stupid little girl. You couldn't exist without me, and you are not going to turn around and tell me what to do now! This Rift is Sealed!”

Even as she said it, even though she was no longer holding the Dream Thread, the barrier tightened suddenly, realigning reality and dreams to their proper place. Aeldan collapsed, nearly laughing with relief and Larksong let out a long, slow breath, dropping her sword to the ground. And yet...something about it was fragile...not permanent. And the Nightmare hadn't disappeared. With a roar of fury, the solidified darkness stabbed its tendril into the Heart Magic.

For a moment, all was chaos, the magic crumbling around them, the tendril wrapping itself around Issalia and withdrawing, taking her with it into the Abyss that protected the Magic. Time seemed to slow down as Aeldan leapt towards her with a yell of fright, stretching out his hand to reach hers as the fear on her face stabbed into him. He stumbled forward as she vanished, unbelieving. I couldn't even save you. Why...? Instantly, the walls reinstated themselves, swiftly repairing the damage that had been done so easily. Aeldan still sprawled with his hand outstretched, panic racing through him, then determination. Larksong, too, had burst forward, calling Issalia’s name in desperation.

Imäwiel's voice penetrated Aeldan's head briefly, even if only in memory. Her words....”Prince, I beg of you, don't go with her! She does not wish you to! The Dreamweaver is the only one who can exist within both worlds. Once you enter the Heart Magic, you cannot leave—to do so will be your death!” But he couldn't hesitate now. Issalia needed him. Standing up, drawing his sword, he charged at the wall of the Heart Magic, propelling himself through with ferocity. He would have a few seconds. A few seconds to place the Eternal Sleep upon the Nightmare. His blood burned like ice as he pushed his way through the magic, it trying to pull him back in.

You'll die, you'll die! it screamed.

“Prince Aeldan!” A hand seized his shoulder and dragged him back into the Heart Magic—Larksong. “You can’t—you’ll die!”

“It’s either die or be stuck here for eternity!” he snarled, shaking her off. “Ilevial is dead, Larksong, and Issalia is dying. What is left after them?”

The hurt showed plainly on her face, but she nodded. “I’ll follow you. Perhaps I can help, a little.” Aeldan turned round again, drawing his sword, and pushed against the curtains of neon Dream Thread.

Then he was through, into the awful gray that was the Abyss, running towards the darkness that bloomed before him, his sword at the ready. Larksong was at his back, but he could already feel himself fading, his body becoming suddenly insubstantial. He had to get there in time! He reached out with the sword, swinging it downwards as he saw more clearly that jellied blackness, plunging the blade into its depths and gasping the words of magic. Larksong, beside him, copied his motions exactly. “No!” Issalia cried from somewhere he couldn't see. He couldn't see anything anymore.

And then he was gone, and Larksong was gone, and there was nothing but Issalia crumpled in the Abyss, crying.

-

Light filtered through the cracks in the ceiling, the muted yellow beams revealing the dust as it settled on torn furniture, turning all colors into shades of gray. The back chamber of the cathedral had been forgotten for over a century, but the last one to set foot inside was still there, slumbering as the building wore away around it. Its breath was slow and steady, as yours would be in sleep, but its body was strange, mangled, and long, with pallid skin like something decaying in the depths of a putrid lake. Darkness cloaked it from proper view, but a single twisted, claw-like hand lay twitching in the sparse light.

Darkness had overcome the Cathedral of Imawiel. Sibiae and Nwalen had succumbed to the evil after giving up all their light to save Ilevial, brother of Issalia the Dreamweaver. The specters that had plagued the cathedral for centuries had finally conquered their prize. They leeched away the energy that abounded inside, turning what had once been a refuge and sanctuary of light and magic into a death pool. Wallowing silence filled the halls that were once full of song and joy. It was almost as though the cathedral itself had fallen into deep despair, and was now waiting, waiting for someone to save it from its tormentors.

Outside, in the forest, Imawiel was waiting for the return of the Dreamweaver. She knew that if Aeldan and Larksong had gone into the Heart Magic with Issalia they could not return. They would lose the Prince of Faeries forever. Imawiel was one of the Great Faeries, tall and wise without a naturally flippant or mischievous nature, but was solemn and caring instead...more human. She was the Prophetess of the woods, leader of this region.

As she stood waiting, Imawiel felt a sudden sharp pain inside her and doubled over, clutching her head with long green hands. All around her, a wail broke out from all Faeries, dark and light alike. A part of them had just died, the part that held them anchored and made it possible for any emotion at all in the strange Folk. Prince Aeldan, the human emissary, to whom all Faerie Kind were deeply connected, was dead. Closing her eyes, Imawiel saw the vision in her head—the endless gray of the Abyss parting to reveal Issalia, alone and crying, begging for Aeldan and Larksong to come back. Behind her was the slumbering form of the Nightmare pinned down by two swords; Aeldan’s broadsword and Larksong’s rapier. Imawiel opened her eyes again, determination burning within her as she heard Issalia's voice, as though from afar.

“I promise...I will somehow give you life again....”

~ Centuries later ~

The Faeries weren't ready when it happened. They had grown used to their total disconnection from the human race, a state of mind that to some meant greater freedom. When that fateful morning dawned full of mist stained gold by the rising sun, there was a sort of thrumming in the air that filled many with unease. Imawiel was the first to realize what it meant, and felt excitement and relief break free inside her.

Then the fateful moment, the time the Faeries had spent centuries waiting for unconsciously. They felt it, all saw the brief vision; a newborn baby boy with a doctor urgently trying to revive him. All the Faeries felt their minds connect to his ever so subtly, and when they closed their eyes they saw the silver threads that linked them to him.

We mustn't let this child die, Imawiel said, communicating through the threads. In response, a little bit of magic left each of the faeries, each bead of energy zipping along the threads towards the baby. In the hospital where his weak mother lay panting and praying for the life of her child and his father stood trembling and helpless, the magic reached the boy. He had just a little bit of orange hair in already, but his body was cold and waxy and dead—a stillborn. The doctor was about to turn and apologize, his gut feeling empty—he'd just looked away from the child—when there was a faint spark of light and the boy began to cry, letting out a long, healthy howl.