Page 2 of Whisper of Nightmares

The guilt.

The grief.

The scars that have worn into her soul like the screams that echo in her mind, not all of them her own.

But it’s not until much later in the night, somewhere between waking and sleep, when another fragment of the dream returns to her. One she has never remembered before.

A figure in the shadows.

A man standing beyond the violet flames.

Watching.

Chapter 2

The Alewife’s Daughter

When the rooster crows, Euphemia gives up on trying to fall back asleep. With market day on the horizon, she decides to make her way into the tavern kitchen early. Smoke still clings to the blackened rafters above the stone hearth. Burlap sacks and dried herbs decorate the far wall. And two wooden tuns of ale await her in the corner.

Euphemia throws open the window shutters, letting in the early morning light⁠—

When she sees him again. Outside. A dark silhouette by the tree.

Blood pumps furiously in her chest.

Alarm wails in her bones.

She should wake her mother. Her sisters. The town crier⁠—

Only, Euphemia blinks and the strange figure is gone.

Euphemia growls to herself. This is it then. This is the day she finally succumbs to the madness. Squeezing her eyes shut, she feverishly rubs her temples. This cannot happen. Whatever malady is subjecting her to these recurrent dreaming-memories, she refuses to let them drown her. There is simply too much left to do. Not today.

Forcing a fragile smile to her alabaster face, Euphemia ties an apron around her waist. The crisp bite of autumn whips through the window, the breeze carrying a promise of winter and the painful memories that will come with it. But it also wafts over the apron, the faint scent of apples and cinnamon lifting closer to Euphemia’s nose, reminding her of the cider she pressed last week. The pleasant smell calms her and makes her feel a little more clear-headed.

Euphemia turns her attention back to the casks in the corner and makes her way toward them.

Before they sell the brews later at market, she wants to make sure the flavors are correct.

Euphemia places the back of her unscarred hand on either wooden barrel, testing whether they’ve cooled enough overnight. It’s more out of habit than anything. They’ve been sitting long enough by now that there is no real worry that they would still be warm. But it’s how her father taught her to do things, and so she goes through the motions. Removing the cloth covering. Inhaling the scent of fermented yeast. Tasting the ale inside. All the while, searching for abnormalities.

But this is the house ale. The same brew she makes week after week. The one that reminds her of simple nights in the tavern. Evenings when neighbors congregate at the Saint’s Hearth to relax after a day’s worth of hard labor.

But the house ale is also the brew she adds mugwort to, a weed that grows plentiful in these parts, which gives the brew a hearty flavor. The earthy undertones hit her in her fragile state, and her thoughts are sent careening back to that place she does not like to venture.

A moon-crested meadow.

The sulfuric stench of ash.

A beast of flame and ruin lunging from the shadows.

Most days she would rip herself away from the painful past. But today she chooses to linger.

Euphemia presses into the pain like a welcomed blade to the throat. She searches for the man she saw last night. Is he here somewhere? Has he always been, but she’s simply been too distracted to notice him?

She strains against the blurred edges of her memory in search of him. Looking for a silhouette. A shadow. An anomaly. Anything.

There is no seeing past the flaming nightmare though.