In My Dreams Tonight

Future Past

Aoima opened her eyes and saw a long winding corridor before her, a carefully decorated rug spanning the length, tapestries and pieces of artwork hanging along the wall. She couldn’t recall this place per se, but in her gut, she knew it was Ios, a grand location in her homeland that reeked of wealth and taste. The sandstone, the style of the building, the engravings that illuminated the taste of the occupier…
A pang of grief at being separated from her birthplace arose in her chest as she stepped forwards gently, the lulling calm of the obvious dream world washing over her, not quite reaching her pounding heart. Her last dream of Ios had been less then pleasant, the horrific memory of Reginald over her, overpowering her, threatening to possess her.
She suddenly became more aware, suddenly: in her hands she carried a tray, silver and engraved, over laden with food and drink. It weighed down upon her arms, the sweet scent of the food wafting upwards. Light was mysteriously not present here, dark and subdued, but she knew where she was going, something drew her towards a certain room along this corridor. She began to walk slowly forwards, her clothes simplistic and plain, feet barely making any noise on the plush floor covering. Walking slowly along the corridor, she placed the tray down as she carefully unlocked the door to the bedroom, replacing the ring of keys upon her belt as she walk inside. She didn’t know why it all felt so familiar, yet so alien: it felt as if she had gone through this motions at least a hundred times, yet she couldn’t recall ever being in this house.
It was a beautiful day outside, sunlight streaming in through the unclean windows as Aoima quietly entered the room, her hand reaching to stroke the hair from the face of the child that lay in the cot sleeping. The boys’ eyes opened suddenly, pupils focussing on her slowly as he sat up. No more than 4 years old, his skin was pale, hair a dirty blonde colour, body beginning to lose the chubbiness that characterised a toddler. His hands reached limply up to her, barely acknowledging her, merely demanding her attention.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realised that is was her child, a surge of feeling that she couldn’t explain rationally making sudden sense to her. Unable to hold back, she reached downwards and picked him up, kissing his forehead and stood up, going to open the curtains and illuminating the simplistic room. With a jolt, she recognised it as the prison she had been kept in before she had fled.
With a distinctly sour taste on her tongue, Aoima lay the child down, changing his clothing and napkin with a practised ease she didn’t realise she had, settling him upright upon her lap as she reached for the soft hair brush. She smiled at him gently and began to brush his hair, gently pulling the knots out of his wispy locks. Her heart seemed to overflow with compassion and love towards this small child, despite not really recognising him.
“Did you sleep well, Aoifan? Did you dream last night?” The small boy turned to look at her blankly, a thousand yard stare passing through her, long eyelashes fluttering as he blinked and turned to continue doing up his buttons. Contemplating his appearance, she recognised the shape of his mouth and his button nose as her own: his eyes remarkably similar to Reginald’s. Her blood turned cold, hand frozen on the brush as he watched her dolefully. “Well, I’m glad you feel better today.” She embraced her son closely and hugged him, a smile stretching widely, almost painfully. The dream had taken a horrid turn all of a sudden; she did not like the implication of this child.
Aoifan paused for a few moments, his arms bending stiffly as he attempted to return the warmth, not quite understanding the emotions portrayed. Something wasn’t quite right with him, his face devoid of emotion, skin oddly chilly for such a lovely day.
“I can’t stay here very long, sweetheart, I have to go and speak to your father in a few minutes…” Her voice seemed forced; vaguely remembering that mentioning Reginald seemed to have an unpredictable affect upon his progeny. This time, Aoifan merely turned around and stared out the window, picking up one of his toys and clasping it closely to him. “Come on, Aoifan: you need to eat up.” He looked blankly at her, before realising what he held and snuggling close to her breast. Exhaling, it slowly dawned upon her that the child might not yet weaned onto solid food, and carefully, she undid the buttons upon her dress, pressing the child close to her, reluctance fighting an odd need to do this for her child. Disgust and discomfort were soon overruled by a strong maternal instinct that rose from her solar plexus like a glorious light as she watched the child settle close to her heart, suckling gently. There was something distinctly odd about seeing those eyes so close to her bare naked skin, so very like his father’s; it made her skin crawl.
“Milady, your husband requests your presence in the study.” A voice announced behind her, the door opening and closing quickly as the butler vanished as soon as he had appeared. She sighed, her spirits sinking even lower as she realised the inevitable conclusion of this dream.
Eventually Aoifan withdrew, clambering down from her lap to climb upon the window seat, gazing out the window at the gardens outside. She placed one of the plates with toast and jam upon the table next to him, along with the small glass of water, leaving the rest on the sideboard out of his reach. “I’ll be along when I’m finished with your father.”
Aoima didn’t know where this knowledge came from, she didn’t understand the words, or who the child was – she just knew it was true. Her voice came from her, and she couldn’t resist the urge to say what it was she was speaking aloud. Opening the door and locking it behind her, Aoima began to walk along a familiar trodden path, a sense of foreboding in her stomach as she approached the thick oak door at the end. Knocking on the door, she waited for a response: upon hearing it, she walked in, head bowed.
“Good morning, my Lord.” The room was dark, curtains drawn closed, a light faintly glowing from the candles along the far wall: one would hardly know it was a glorious spring mid-morning in the gloom. Reginald de Breos did not stand as she entered, reading some letters, the embers in the fireplace glowing gently with heat. She held back a sneer of disgust at the man she had been forced to marry, feeling icy rage course through her. Dream or not, she couldn’t wait to wake up.
“Good morning, Aoima.” He didn’t look up, a letter knife in the one hand, thick sheets of paper in the other. She couldn’t help but wonder how easy it would be to overpower him, to sink that small knife into his belly, to feel his insides fall out down her front, the pleasure she would feel at seeing the sadistic bastard finally die at her hands almost too tempting: it was only a dream, after all. “You may sit.” A sneer twisted his smile as she approached the desk, noticing the distinct lack of a chair opposite him. He moved backwards in his seat, indicating the floor space next to him. “You know what you’re supposed to do by now.”
Bile rose in her throat as she realised she would have to go close to him, close enough for that overwhelming scent of starch and sweat she associated with him to wrap itself around her. Gently falling to her knees, she leant forwards, leaning on her hands and began to crawl towards him, feeling humiliation rush through her, despite knowing that there was no one watching.
Upon reaching him, she carefully rose into a kneeling position, keeping her head bowed. He seemed to ignore her, whatever he was reading of far greater importance than she, taking time to read each word and consider it in its context. Distractedly, he carelessly tossed a piece of meat from his plate onto the floor a few feet from her: anger rising inside, she knew it was intended for her, and she would be expected to eat it.
Continuing to crawl, she picked it up, placing the remnant of his meal inside her mouth and returned to her place next to him: She felt his hand rest upon her hair, stroking it gently: she accepted the offering, knowing somewhere inside that this was the greatest kindness he would ever show her.
“You’re trained well…now, I suppose you have a great many questions about this place?” He looked vaguely intrigued by her, an eyebrow raised in something akin to amusement. “How are you finding your life with me?”
Her eyes widened: he knew that she was unsure of her surroundings? She made to stand up, only for the same bone-crunching grip from her last dream to force her back down, a manic grin upon Reginald’s face as she crumbled down to the floor. “There’s the spark, there’s the passion that made me want you…the wildness that made you worth the effort.” He leered downwards, holding her face in the one hand, breathing with musty breath upon her. “I’m glad our 20 years together haven’t changed you, I always enjoyed a challenge, and I always found it in you. Oh, the pleasure I had breaking you…” His other hand tugged on her hair viciously, exposing her throat to him, fingers brushing the heavy ear-piece attached to her left ear. “Such a poisoned, delicate beauty…it’s almost a waste to keep you locked away.”
He looked at her with such perverse and ill-disguised wantonness she almost gasped aloud – he had never shown such a lack of control around her, always guarded with his actual needs and desires around her, careful to keep her just out of reach: both to avoid the temptation she presented, and to punish her for her betrayal so long ago.
“So…why do you keep hassling me? Why am I here again?” Aoima asked, practically begging, terrified at the turn this dream was going to take. The leaching presence he had upon her was beginning to take effect again, her strength being sapped from her bones as his grip tightened further. His leer widened.
“Because you want me to be here: ever since that foolish Vylaeth made you share your deepest secret with him, you’ve been secretly wondering how your life would have been, had you not fled.” He spoke very matter-of-factly for a mere ghost in her dream, rationalising himself so neatly it once again unsettled her. “Intriguing, isn’t it, that you would want to be back here, being my breeding mare. What do you make of it? Are you enjoying the security and protection I have offered you?”
He stood up sharply, dragging her along with him, her strength negated in the face of his. Barely able to put up a struggle, Aoima found herself literally swept along in his tide, forcibly taken from the room and led down a long gallery lined with various paintings, many of which seemed to be of de Breos family members. It was a stiff, formal atmosphere, almost like a church in that one did not dare to raise one’s voice in the presence of these powerful ancestors. The portraits seemed to glare down upon the viewer, scowling, frozen in time unhappily. Aoima was not comfortable in this place, in the presence of so many of her husband’s repulsive relatives, each one of them looking as cruel and calculating as the man leading her forwards.
Upon reaching the end, she found herself released briefly, before yanked down into a chair, Reginald’s hand planted firmly on her shoulder, securing her in place before a large and ornate painting. Curiously, she stared up at it, her heart failing as she took it all in.
Standing quite proudly and self-assured in the centre was Reginald in full military regalia, wearing the medals and ribbons both he and his ancestors had earned, a glorious light seemingly emanating from him. His unpleasant features took on a softer appearance, he looked younger, more vital, pointed ears not sticking out in such an unattractive fashion as they did in real life. Next to him, half swooning, was her- a look of enchantment and longing in her eyes as she embraced the heroic looking man next to her, wedding dress decadent and lovely. Her hair seemed longer, bodice a little lower than the dress itself actually would: she had been turned into a portrait pin up of the perfect little wife. She breathed in vey slowly as she attempted to control her temper.
“So what happened…I came to the Fane, you and I were married…” She said casually, not allowing the hatred she felt to spill over into her words. Perceptive as ever, Reginald chuckled, grip tightening enough to bruise, yanking her up again to view another painting further down the gallery.
“You weren’t happy about it, you were very resistant to me at first…but you mellowed after a few years of being kept on a tight rein.” He leered, walking past a few smaller images that showed the two of them in various pursuits of the wealthy, though she was always depicted in the weaker, female role, allowing him to loom over her despite her impressive height.
“I’ve spent years in that prison?” She stopped in her tracks at this, turning to look at him in disgust. That damn smile of his only seemed to widen.
“You were stimulated in suitable ways, I’m not cruel.” He said, the sick humour lacing his tone informing her that the exact opposite was true. “I took you to parties when it was necessary, you saw your parents when they made sufficient protest to see you.” He continue to chivvy her along, her strength amounting to very little as they continued their struggle past the hideous lies painted on canvas along the walls.
“What about the rest of the time?” She continued, her horror continuing to mount, fear growing in her stomach as they approached the end. Aoima did not know what it was he intended to show her, but it wouldn’t be pleasant, whatever it was.
“We spent time together, as all loving couples are inclined to.” Falsely optimistic, he was clearly experiencing a great deal of pleasure at her expense, revelling in her misery and fear as he used brute strength to force her along.
“There is nothing loving about our relationship, Reginald, and there never has been.”
“Come now, my dear harlot, I was the best you could ever hope to marry.” He stopped, grasped both her shoulders and shook her hard, jolting her neck and causing pain to explode along her spine. Her head nodded pointlessly as he shook her like he would a doll. “You were spoilt and ruined, your modesty in tatters, and you insisted upon waving your promiscuity proudly before you as a standard. You were a whore your parents could not wait to offload onto someone else, even me.” He stopped, looking deep into her wide eyes, appraising her. Trembling in fear, she was frozen to the spot as he leaned forwards to whisper something into her ear. “You were so desperate for someone to touch you after abstaining for so long you begged me…and I didn’t hold back. You crawled over the floor slowly towards me, crying softly for my touch. I made you bleed and beg and moan until I grew tired of your presence.” His silky voice hissed into her ear, the subtle enjoyment he had over making her squirm as clear as day as he began to laugh, continuing his crusade along the room. “You fell pregnant very quickly…being young and fertile, the perfect combination with my breeding. After you gave birth to Kearney, we were not intimate for another 10 years or so: besides, there were plenty more beautiful, wholesome women living and working on the estate to entertain me.” Fighting against him was helpless, her frustration at being unable to react overcoming her. “There will never be a moment in our marriage when you will not regret dallying with the valet…I would have made you the happiest, most content woman in the Ios had you only been loyal to me.”
“You sick fuck.” She cried out in anger. Once again he stopped in his tracks, eyes flashing as he glared down upon her. Shaking, she was surprised when the hand that touched her was caressing, touching her cheek gently.
“Your language, my dear, leaves a lot to be desired.” His fist struck her across the face, blood pouring out of her split lip. He pulled her close to him, eyes narrow as his breathe quickened, clearly aroused by the blood and the violence. She cried out as his fingers smeared the blood over her lips, bringing the red vicious liquid to his mouth, sucking it from his digits. He licked his lips clean and smiled again, leaning in to her face as he spoke. “You still taste as good as the night we consummated our marriage…its true what they say about women whom are with child.”
“You mean….” Her breath caught in her throat, and his hand rose to grasp her hair, turning her to face the final painting in the series, a well-arranged image comprised of herself surrounded by four children of varying ages, a number of hunting dogs and Reginald, surveying them, his living estate, a hand casually resting on her shoulder, the background that of the lands his family had possession of. With her head bowed and a child to her breast, the painted Aoima was the picture of a good spouse, delicate and gentle as the children around her, all of whom seemed to resemble their father more than her. She moaned aloud, falling to her knees before the hideous reality of what might have been, the weight of it all causing her to crumple physically to her knees. She couldn’t take it, even in her dreams, this was too cruel, too painful to appreciate.
Reginald walked around her slowly in clipped, measured steps, jolting her back to the dream-like reality of the portrait gallery and the sick dream she was currently forced to inhabit.
“What were you expecting, Aoima? I told you, you are my breeding mare. Too many people questioned why you were not yet pregnant, and so I decided it was time to claim my marital right.” Once again, he forced her to stand up, his hands running over her body and grasping at the inexistent bulge in her stomach. “Four children, and one on the way…your parents will be so proud of you…”
“No!” She sat up, wrenching herself finally out of the dream and back to reality