1 To Sleep, Perchance...

The dark of night is never the same, each night never like the last and never like the next. If it were, we would take comfort in preparation. Instead fear is ever present in the never knowing, and nothing in this world embraces anymore.

Tonight was bright with silver light from the cream moon high in the night sky. Dangerous. No shadows to hide in, only light to expose everything. It was beautiful once, this silver light, but not anymore. They see better in the light, and what's to hide you while you sleep? They walk always, sometimes creep, sometimes run. Never sleeping, never resting, always driven like a ceaseless wind.

On nights like this Althea had to take precautions unlike those of a still, black night that naturally conceals. Every brightness in her would shine in this light, even the shine of her dark hair would shimmer as a beacon to those who hunt. And these nights were never restful. In fact, none of them were anymore. Not for her.

Althea decided that tonight in the Woods the best place to sleep would be high in the Ash. The Immortuos had tracked her to the stream at the edge of the woods, caught her scent and drove her all day relentlessly. But in water she had an advantage, and lost them for a time. But they were clever, Immortuos were not mindless, and they knew as they could not sense her on the Plain side of the river, she must be in the woods. And while the woods had their own disadvantages at night, so did everywhere else. In the Ash would be best. High in the leaves hidden in the only shadows that night. But sleep in a tree, even one as wide and thick as this Ash, was not restful for you cannot move once precariously balanced.

Althea secured her bow to her back and began to climb. Though the years of constant open living far from comforts and shelter had its toll, her hands remained soft and nimble. She always was in awe of this as she watched how well they grasped every hold of the tree and pulled her up. That was her mother, her grandmother, and their mothers, all Healers with the graceful hands. Nothing in life could change that.

This tree was old, not quite ancient, but it had endured. Within a three-fold fork Althea secured herself within an acceptable balance well hidden in the trees. As she tried to fall asleep, she watched the woods beneath her. She saw small packs of Immortuos here and there moving without grace through the columns of trees. Right choice to be high above them tonight, for nothing could hide on the floor in this light. Had it been fall or winter, things would have been different. The leaves wouldn't hide her, and the Immortuos could pile upon each other high up the tree.

Althea knew that strategizing further her situation tonight would not get her to sleep, not get her the rest she needed. So she let her mind go into that precious place that held the pictures and sounds of the time before. When the land's Magic was beautiful and full of sweet surprises and wonder. A life of plenty, of color, when others sang in joy, not the mournings of loss. Enchantments not lost, spells not forgotten, the rites commonplace. She recalled with bitter sweetness a time when a home cradled and protected, when it wrapped a family with security and living memory.

Now a home was confinement and a trap. Four walls meant nowhere to escape, no way out when the Immortuos came. Or worse, the Purple Mist.

She was teetering precariously in the relm between asleep and awake. A place where the head swims and all life seems to exist magically as in the days before and frighteningly as the days at hand. Her eyes closed, she could feel the hand on her cheek. Soft like hers, but stronger. It traced her face from top to bottom slowly, lovingly. She almost smiled. As the hand reached her chin and found its way to her throat, it suddenly clamped hard.

Mine!