Odi pacem-LXIII

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DATE:20th of July, the 70th year after the Coronation

LOCATION: Concord Metropolis

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When I opened my eyes I found myself in a very unusual place. It wasn't Mike's farmhouse anymore. I was back in... Those dreams?

The glass walls stretched high above me, exposing the vast wilderness beyond—a frozen world blanketed in pristine snow, punctuated by jagged mountains clawing at a pale sky. The room was warm, bathed in the soft amber glow of the fireplace, yet the warmth didn't reach my chest. I felt like a fragile figure in a snow globe, trapped and on display.

The couch beneath me was impossibly soft, sinking under my weight as I leaned back, trying to make sense of where I was. The fire crackled, sending shadows skittering across the wooden beams overhead, their angular shapes twisting and distorting on the reflective glass walls. It was the kind of room that should feel cozy, comforting even, but instead, it felt exposed—vulnerable. The glass walls let me see everything outside, but more unsettling was how they let everything outside see me.

I sat there for a while, staring into the flames. Their dance was hypnotic, chaotic in a way that seemed almost purposeful, as if each flicker and twist carried a message I couldn't quite decipher. My eyes drifted over the room again, and an unease began to gnaw at the back of my mind. The silence wasn't natural. There was no howl of wind, no creak of settling wood. The room didn't feel alive—it felt staged, like a set piece waiting for a performance that hadn't started yet.

Something pulled me to my feet. I walked to the glass door, my breath fogging the surface as I leaned closer. Beyond the glass, the world stretched out in perfect emptiness, every snow-laden branch frozen in time. The mountains loomed, their peaks sharp and foreboding, as if daring me to try and escape this fragile sanctuary. My hand found the cold metal of the door handle, and I turned it gently.

Locked.

I tried again, this time twisting harder, rattling the frame, but it held firm. My reflection in the glass caught my eye, warped slightly by the frost clinging to the surface. For a moment, I didn't recognize the figure staring back at me—its eyes seemed hollow, the outline of its body too crisp against the swirling light of the room. I looked away, uneasy.

The fire behind me cracked, loud and sharp, like the snap of a bone breaking. I turned quickly, my heart thudding in my chest, and noticed the shadows dancing on the floor. No, not dancing—moving. They didn't match the furniture or the architecture. The shadows stretched and curled, forming grotesque, alien shapes that writhed along the floor and climbed up the glass walls like dark, sentient tendrils.

I took a step back toward the couch, my pulse quickening. The warm glow of the fire now seemed almost predatory, the light too golden, too perfect, as if it were trying to distract me from the growing wrongness of the space. And then it hit me—Emily. She wasn't here. The realization dropped into my stomach like a stone. I hadn't noticed her absence until now, but it was undeniable. Was I "free" from her?

I was alone in this house of glass and fire, the world outside frozen, the room inside alive with something I couldn't see but could feel watching me.

I resigned myself to the strange reality of this place, deciding there was no use in making things worse for myself. The air carried a subtle chill, the kind that whispered of encroaching cold rather than announcing it outright. I stretched out on the couch, its softness swallowing me like quicksand, and closed my eyes. If this was just another bizarre dream, it would pass eventually. They always did. I only had to wait it out.

But, of course, things were never that simple.

When I opened my eyes again, my gaze was drawn to the fireplace. The flames licked hungrily at the remaining logs, their light casting jagged shadows across the room. The flickering glow illuminated a small pile of neatly stacked wood nearby—enough to last a while, but not indefinitely. It didn't take much to figure out the implied task: I was supposed to feed the fire.

The sky beyond the glass walls was starting to shift, the sun creeping lower, stretching the shadows into long, crooked fingers. The mountains were losing their crisp edges, dissolving into the dimming horizon. Soon, night would consume this fragile sanctuary, leaving only the fire to hold back the darkness.

I sat up, running a hand through my hair, and eyed the dwindling pile of wood. There wouldn't be enough to keep the fire roaring all night. But I'd seen enough winters to know a dim light, however meager, was better than none at all. The glass walls reflected the growing twilight, their transparent surface slowly transforming into dark, impenetrable mirrors.

The idea of staring into those reflective voids for hours made my skin crawl. I'd take the cold if it meant keeping some semblance of light in this strange, hollow place.

I made up my mind. When the sun finally disappeared, I'd burn whatever wood was left. The fire would hold the darkness at bay, even if only for a while. A little freezing wouldn't kill me.

Or so I hoped.

When the last sliver of daylight vanished behind the jagged peaks, I moved quickly, my body guided by a sense of practiced urgency. I knelt before the fireplace and added new logs to the glowing embers, coaxing them to catch with what little heat remained. The first tendrils of flame began to lick at the dry wood, spreading and growing into a cautious, golden bloom.

And then the stillness of the cabin broke.

Not even an hour had passed before the sounds began—a low, guttural howling that carried across the glass walls like a shiver made audible. It wasn't the familiar call of wolves or wild dogs. This was something far worse, something twisted. The howls had an unmistakable human quality, sharp and ragged, as though pulled from the throats of anguished women.

Banshees.

The word struck like a hammer in my mind, dredging up every tale I'd ever heard growing up in Ventia. The old stories spoke of their mournful cries, warnings of death and despair, but it wasn't the sound alone that made my blood run cold. Legends held that banshees were bound to the darkness, unable to cross thresholds where light prevailed.

I hadn't predicted them, not exactly. But it was obvious—inevitable, really—that something would come crawling out of the void. After all, these dreams never left me in peace. I'd been through too many of them to expect anything less.

The fire crackled, its glow stretching out to touch the cabin's walls, casting soft, flickering light against the glass. Outside, the blackness pressed in, heavy and all-consuming, transforming the windows into dark mirrors that reflected the room back at me. But it was in the spaces beyond those reflections, deep in the abyss, that I swore I could see movement—a ripple of shadow, a faint distortion.

The howling grew louder, more desperate, as if clawing at the edges of reality itself. I sat back on the couch, my muscles relaxed and sighed. I wanted a restful sleep.

The glow of the fire held back the oppressive darkness outside. I sat with an air of indifference, knowing I had calculated everything to a precision that bordered on arrogance. The pile of logs was supposed to run out in the middle of the night if continuously used to feed the fire, but I already resolved that issue. They were more than enough, even if the howls outside grew more feral as the hours passed. They didn't concern me.

Besides, I had the golden necklace—the one from the casino job—resting heavily around my neck. It wasn't just a trinket of wealth; Ventian lore had long established that gold could repel banshees. This necklace, bold and ostentatious, was more than enough to ensure my safety.

I leaned back, arms crossed, as the banshees wailed their frustration in the distance. The thought struck me then—what was the point of this charade? Whoever had orchestrated this little nightmare had overplayed their hand. The rules of this dream were too predictable, too mundane to scare me.

Even if the firewood ran out, even if by some impossible circumstance the necklace failed, I knew they wouldn't kill me. They couldn't. I can't die in these dreams. That much I've learned, time and time again. Pain? Sure, they could dish that out in abundance, but pain is transient. Pain is nothing.

It made me wonder, though. Was this meant to be a punishment for the things I'd done? Some abstract karmic retribution? My former wife's words echoed faintly, unbidden, from the depths of memory—a bitter accusation of guilt, of sins left unpaid.

I smirked bitterly, the crackling fire casting long shadows across the glass walls. Does she—that memory of her—think she understands me? Really? What a laughable notion.

I thought about her final moments, the look in her eyes as I begrudgingly snapped her neck, a cold necessity at the time. But that was another life, another version of myself entirely. She thinks she knows me? The me sitting here, staring into the fire, feeling nothing but faint irritation at the banshees' futile howling? That me?

What a joke.

The fire popped loudly, and I flicked my gaze toward the darkness beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, the shadows moved, restless and hungry. Yet I felt nothing. Not fear. Not guilt. Not even curiosity.

Let them come. Let them try.

At some point frantic banging at the door started echoing through the cabin, jarring me from my musings. I looked toward the sound, already guessing what I'd find. Standing up, I walked to the glass nearest the entrance, and sure enough, it was Emily. She was shivering, her movements unsteady, as she fumbled against the door, desperate for refuge.

Her attire struck me first—baggy, short-sleeved pajamas, utterly inadequate for the freezing conditions outside. She looked like she'd been dragged through the storm itself, her hair matted with ice and snow clinging to her skin. I knocked lightly on the glass to get her attention and pointed at the handle. She tried it from her side, and to my mild surprise, the mechanism worked.

Emily stumbled in, her limbs trembling and her breathing ragged. Her skin was pale, nearly translucent from the cold, and she could barely keep her balance. I caught her before she could collapse, carrying her to the fire. She was like a block of ice in my arms, and her body trembled uncontrollably as I set her down on the rug by the hearth.

Without hesitation, I began unfastening her clothes. They were soaked through, frozen stiff in some places, and clung to her skin like a second icy layer. She tensed under my touch, her eyes wide and face flushed with embarrassment. She muttered something about stopping, but I shook my head.

"There's no point in keeping these on," I said firmly. "They won't dry, and neither will you. You'll just freeze."

Reluctantly, she removed the drenched fabric herself, revealing nothing underneath. Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of red, her gaze darting away from mine. Emily looked utterly humiliated, but was I supposed to care? It wasn't the first time I'd seen a woman undressed, and it wasn't as though I saw her as anything more than… well, Emily.

Still, I couldn't help but notice something familiar. Her form—soft curves and delicate features—felt eerily reminiscent of Alice. Her hair, her eyes, her face, though different, carried echoes of someone I knew too well. I wondered if this was a reflection of my own mind, shaping her image from fragments of memory. Or maybe it was her own doing, some subconscious fabrication as she manifested herself in this dream.

But now wasn't the time to ponder such questions. Emily was shivering violently, her lips quivering as she struggled to speak. I moved closer, wrapping an arm around her to pull her near the fire. Her skin was like ice against mine, her trembling frame rigid and tense.

"Relax," I murmured, pulling a blanket over her. Her body began to soften against mine, and though she avoided my gaze, she didn't resist.

The flames danced, their warmth gradually seeping into her frozen body. I could feel her breathing slow, her shivers subsiding, but she still clung to me as if I were the only tether keeping her grounded.

She didn't say anything, and neither did I. The storm outside raged on, but for the moment, we were safe.

Emily spoke softly, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "We haven't been here in a while, have we?" Her tone was distant, tinged with nostalgia, as though this cabin—or this moment—held some forgotten significance for her.

I didn't respond immediately, staring into the flames as they consumed the logs with steady determination. Finally, I said, "The ghosts of my past memories are cowards. We were supposed to have our final fight, but here I am, and they're nowhere to be found."

Her lips curved into a faint, melancholic smile. "You always talk like that... like nothing touches you." She shivered slightly, leaning closer into the warmth. "I woke up in a field of snow. I don't know how I got there. The cold—it was unbearable. It took everything I had not to collapse. My legs felt like they were going to give out with every step. My hands... I couldn't even feel them anymore." feeling cold must have been a new experience for her.

She trailed off, her words fading into the heavy silence. I pulled her closer, my arms tightening around her frame as if I could shield her from the lingering chill of her memory. "It's alright," I said quietly, almost mechanically.

Her heart pounded against my chest, a frantic rhythm that betrayed her inner turmoil. It radiated heat, a stark contrast to her icy skin. She seemed so alive, so full of energy and raw emotion. And yet, here I was, holding her, feeling like a shadow in comparison. Mundane. Ordinary.

What exactly was my normal? I've been dragged into countless strange scenarios, each filled with danger, fear, and madness. Was I supposed to care? Should this dream be any different? It wasn't. It couldn't be.

Emily's breathing steadied, her trembling subsiding as my warmth wrapped around her. But her presence, her emotions, her vulnerability—none of it pierced the thick layer of apathy that insulated me from this world.

I stared into the fire, its flickering light reflecting in her half-closed eyes. This was just another moment in another dream, a fleeting illusion that would soon dissolve into nothingness. Nothing ever truly changed.

Perhaps erasing the vestige of that woman—my former wife—would set me free from these dreams. Once and for all, I'd finally sever the threads tying me to these cursed remnants of the past.

When I felt Emily warming up and regaining her composure, I picked her up carefully, her body still trembling slightly, and placed her on the couch. I wrapped her in the blanket and adjusted her wet clothes, spreading them out to dry near the fire.

It was strange. Eight hours, at least, must have passed since this dream began, yet I felt no hunger, no thirst. It was as though my body had ceased to function as it normally would. Another cruel reminder that none of this was real.

I returned to Emily, standing beside the couch as her breathing steadied. Without warning, she reached out and grabbed my hand, her touch gentle but firm. "Do you miss Alice?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible over the faint crackle of the fire.

I hesitated but answered truthfully. "Not really."

Emily's gaze didn't waver, but her grip on my hand tightened slightly, as though she was searching for something deeper in my answer.

"It's true," I continued, my voice calm but distant. "She meant more to me than the others. The women I slept with over the years... they were nothing. But love? Could I really call what we had love?"

The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room as I spoke. "We used each other. She wanted to forget her mentor's death, and I..." I paused, the memory surfacing unbidden. "I needed her to integrate myself as a normal man. To pretend I was something I'm not. But that time... when I cried in her arms..."

The memory lingered, heavy and uninvited, before being ripped away by the sharp, grating sound of metal against glass.

I turned sharply toward the noise, my pulse quickening despite myself. Outside, a figure loomed in the darkness, her silhouette illuminated faintly by the firelight reflecting off the glass walls. She was a woman dressed in a long, dark trench coat, her hand gripping a massive scythe that gleamed ominously.

But it wasn't just her weapon or her stance that caught my attention—it was her face. Her mouth curled into a sinister grin, revealing elongated fangs that glinted like ivory blades.

It wasn't a hero. No savior or dream-born memory.

"Oh," I muttered under my breath, recognition dawning. "It's the vampire."

I straightened, letting go of Emily's hand as she shrank back into the blanket, her wide eyes flickering between me and the shadow outside. The fire hissed, its warmth suddenly feeling fragile, as if the vampire's presence alone was enough to sap its energy.

I wasn't afraid. No, fear didn't come easily anymore. But annoyance? Frustration at yet another obstacle in this endless labyrinth of dreams? That I could feel.

I stepped closer to the glass, my breath fogging it faintly as I studied her face. Her grin was sharp, almost feral, brimming with malice and hunger. The cut on her neck was deep, gaping wide and leaking blood that soaked her trench coat and dripped steadily onto the wooden porch. A puddle had already formed beneath her, dark and viscous, glistening faintly under the dim light of the moon.

If my theory held true—that these were merely memories of the people I had killed—then the vampire was no exception. She was pulled from the moment just before her death, caught forever in the split second before the final blow.

This meant one thing: I only needed to hit her once.

I smirked and raised my middle finger at her. Her grin faltered, replaced by an animalistic snarl. She lunged forward and began pounding against the glass with ferocity, her scythe scratching long, jagged lines into its surface. Each blow resonated through the cabin, sharp and hollow, like the sound of a cracked bell.

There was a reason for my taunting. I wanted her angry. No, I needed her enraged. The dream was nearing its end, and I wasn't going to let it conclude without one final act of defiance. I wanted to kill her again, to remind her—and myself—of exactly how this played out.

But there was a problem: I couldn't leave the cabin.

I glanced around, scanning for anything that could serve as a weapon. My eyes landed on the poker by the fireplace.

Not silver. But it didn't need to be.

This wasn't reality; this was a battlefield of wills, a place where the mind held sway over everything else. Here, belief was stronger than material.

Could I lose to someone like her? Not a chance.

Sure, there were foes in this dreamscape that might overpower me—my father, or the twisted version of him that my memories conjured. But this vampire?

I scoffed at the thought. She was nothing. Even in life, when she had the advantage of ambush, I had killed her. Quickly, decisively.

How could I fear her now?

I picked up the poker, its weight solid and reassuring in my hand. The firelight danced along its length, making the metal glow faintly orange. I turned back to the vampire, who was still pounding at the glass, her movements growing more erratic, more desperate.

"Come on, then," I muttered, gripping the poker tightly. "Let's finish this."

The glass shattered with a sharp, piercing crash, and the cold air of the outside world rushed in, carrying with it the vampire's scent—iron and decay. Before I could properly react, she lunged through the opening, her speed startling. I jabbed with the poker, aiming straight for her chest, but she slapped it away with ease, sending it clattering to the ground.

Before I could recover, her clawed hand shot out and clamped around my neck. She didn't lift me—she couldn't, being shorter than me—but the strength of her grip was enough to cut off my air. My mistake. I'd forgotten she was still a superpowered human, even if this was a memory. Her strength was unnatural, her claws digging into my skin like steel talons.

My vision began to blur, the edges of the room fading into darkness as she tightened her grip. Her face twisted into a triumphant sneer, her blood-soaked form exuding menace.

But then, out of nowhere, Emily appeared. Still wearing her wet, ice-crusted clothes, she moved with an agility I hadn't expected. She leapt, delivering a flying kick straight to the vampire's face. The impact was enough to make her snarl and let go of me, staggering back in surprise.

Coughing, I fell to my knees, clutching my neck as I gasped for air. Emily landed beside me, her bare feet skidding slightly on the wooden floor. She looked at me briefly, her expression determined but flustered, her hair still damp and clinging to her face.

"Stay down," she said softly but firmly.

I ignored her. My hand reached for the poker, fingers wrapping around its familiar weight. The vampire was regaining her balance, her gaze flicking between Emily and me with renewed fury.

I lunged forward, swinging the poker with all the force I could muster. It connected with her stomach, the impact sending her stumbling backward. She let out a guttural growl, doubling over slightly, but she wasn't done.

I wasn't either.

The stomach wouldn't kill her, not here. If I wanted to end this, I needed to aim for the neck.

My grip tightened on the poker, and I stepped forward, my focus narrowing. Emily moved to my side, her small frame trembling slightly, whether from the cold or adrenaline, I couldn't tell.

The vampire looked up, her grin returning, blood dripping from her lips. She wasn't going to make this easy.

Emily and I exchanged a brief glance, and without a word, we knew our roles. I was to go aggressive, drawing the vampire's focus, while Emily exploited the openings created by her overextensions.

I charged, feinting low before swinging the poker in a wide arc. The vampire moved with unnatural grace, dodging and swiping at me with her clawed hands, each motion quick but imprecise. She wasn't fighting intelligently—she was furious. And Emily took advantage of that. From the side, Emily delivered sloppy but effective strikes to keep the vampire on edge, her timing just enough to make the creature stagger or lose focus.

We managed to coordinate a few exchanges, but it wasn't enough. The vampire's anger boiled over, and with a feral snarl, she lunged, slashing my elbow with her jagged nails. Pain flared as the poker clattered from my hand, hitting the floor with a hollow metallic ring.

Her gaze gleamed with malicious glee, but I noticed something else—her hypnotic powers or other tricks weren't working here. This place wasn't real, and her form was a memory, limited to what I remembered of her. She was dangerous, but predictable.

I jumped back, narrowly avoiding another slash aimed at my throat. Emily tried to take advantage of the opening, lunging in with a swift kick to the vampire's side. But her inexperience in these dreamlike sensations betrayed her. The vampire twisted with impossible speed and slashed Emily across the chest.

Emily crumpled to the ground with a cry of pain, clutching at the gash. Her eyes widened in shock, and her breathing became uneven. I sighed, annoyed. Of course, she wasn't used to this. She hadn't yet learned to compartmentalize pain the way I had.

"Stay down," I muttered, stepping between her and the vampire.

The creature snarled, lunging again. I sidestepped and dodged several more slashes, waiting for an opening. When she overextended on a downward swing, I delivered a hard punch to her temple. It landed clean, but her reaction was underwhelming. She laughed—a deep, guttural laugh that grated against my nerves.

Her amusement ended when I stepped in close, jamming my hand forward and stabbing her neck with my bare fingers. The force caused her to stagger, writhing in pain as her bloodied hands reached for her throat. She let out a strangled growl, her nails digging into my arm with a grip so tight it felt like they might pierce the bone.

Before I could pull away, she swung her other arm in a wild, instinctive strike, landing a brutal backhanded punch to my cheek. The impact sent me flying backward, crashing into the couch and tumbling to the ground beside it.

I wiped the blood from my lips and glared at her, slowly getting to my feet. The vampire was panting now, her movements slightly erratic from the damage. Emily groaned from the floor, clutching her chest wound, but I could tell she was still conscious.

This wasn't over yet.

Before I could recover, her clawed hand plunged through my abdomen with eerie precision. A hot, searing pain bloomed as blood poured from the wound.

Her face twisted with rage, and for the first time, she spoke.

"Who were *you* to kill me?" Her voice dripped with venom, every syllable soaked in hatred.

I kept my silence, my teeth gritted against the pain.

She sneered, her other hand dragging her nails across my face, leaving burning trails in their wake. "I am Zatana! And I was killed by *this*? A pathetic man? A walking corpse?"

I spat blood and gave her a grim smirk. "You couldn't have been that great if I was the one to end your life."

Her eyes widened with fury, and she slashed her nails across my cheek, splitting it open.

"You *dare*! I will kill you!"

Her voice echoed with unbridled wrath, and I braced for the next strike. I wasn't worried about dying—I couldn't, not in this place—but her relentless fury left no room for comfort.

But then, something unexpected happened.

Zatana's triumphant sneer faltered, her eyes widening as her breath became labored. A gurgling noise escaped her throat, thick and wet. Blood pooled in her mouth as her neck bent unnaturally.

And then, through the jagged hole in her throat, I saw the metal poker.

Turning my head, I caught sight of Emily, her hands trembling as she held the weapon that pierced the vampire from behind. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.

The vampire's strength gave out, and we both collapsed. I clutched my stomach, the wound searing with pain as I sat against the couch. Zatana's corpse crumpled to the ground, the poker still embedded in her neck.

Emily looked between me and the lifeless body, her breathing shallow and ragged. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, her face turning green as she stumbled to the side and began to retch violently.

Her breath hitched as tears started streaming down her face, her body trembling like a leaf in a storm. "I… I didn't want to kill her. I didn't realize. I just… I just didn't want you to die…"

Her words were soaked in panic and regret. It was pointless to remind her that I couldn't die here, that her efforts, though brave, were unnecessary.

Instead, I forced myself to sit beside her, ignoring the burning pain in my abdomen. I reached out and gently caressed her wet shoulder, feeling the coldness of her skin.

"It's alright," I murmured softly, pulling her into a hug.

She broke down completely, her sobs muffled against my chest. "I didn't mean to… I didn't want to…"

I tightened my embrace, holding her as she cried, her fragile frame shaking in my arms. For a moment, the dream's surreal chaos faded, replaced by a quiet, bitter stillness.

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And the next thing I know, I woke up. It was the middle of the night and I was still in the bed lined with stars.

I raise myself and look outside, seeing the TV closed. It appears that Mike also went to sleep.

I message Emily about how she was doing. Considering her operating speed this five minute gap at most could even be hours from where we were in the dream.

She replied with a delay that she was alright. I sure hope my product isn't damaged.

I reak of sweat from running so much yesterday. I should have taken a shower. Does this farm even have running water?

I walk outside, the floor creaking under my feet.

The bathroom was simple, but it did have a bathtub. Checking the water, it didn't seem too dirty. The pipes should be alright.

Whatever, it was all that I had. I undress from the pajamas and take a long shower.

The water was cold.

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