Art’s long limbs were thrown across the small hotel bed. His eyes raced behind his lids, and his long, black hair stuck out in every direction, matted with sweat. There was an oppressive air in the room, and a red hue emanated from his entire body.
Behind his lids, Art was running. He heard pounding footsteps in line with his and roars of men screaming, fighting, dying. He could smell blood mixing with mud, hear the horses’ hooves pounding the ground as they ran past, feel the dogs at his feet, snarling and dripping drool onto the battlefield. He was in charge. He could feel the power in his bones. He shouted for the hounds and they went ahead, bringing men to their knees swiftly, with teeth to their throats.
His sleeping mind was aware he should be afraid, and on some level, he was terrified. But in the midst of this violence, he was also thrilled. He felt complete. He felt as if he was reliving the greatest moment of his life. With a cry that rivaled thunder, he flexed not just his body, but his very soul, and released a flash of deep red light, hitting the battlefield like an earthquake. Chaos spread across the field, and his men created an uproar, cheering and picking back up the pace of the fight.
As the shaking ground steadied itself, Art noticed a flash of blue, like lightning, cross the sky. It calmed him, while at the same time creating an intense sense of longing he had never felt before. Something moved past his head, faster than an arrow.
Was that a bird?
Shaking off the thought, he glanced to his right, and saw a hound much bigger than all the others. Tall, reaching above his waist even as Art stood taller than any other man on the field, it’s powerful, long tail pointed straight out, jaw locked in place, and blue eyes staring right back at him. The crimson hound awaited his orders. He began to shout—
And let out a scream, sitting up in the unfamiliar bed. As his eyes adjusted, he slowly became aware of the red hue the room had taken on. He glanced down at himself before looking across the room. The crimson hound stood rigid and waiting, it’s blue eyes boring into Art’s own pale blue irises, awaiting command.
“Down, boy,” he whispered.
The hound dissipated. Art swallowed the water on the nightstand, threw off his covers, now too wet for comfort, and attempted to fall back to sleep. Instead, he would watch the sunrise through the small slit in the heavy curtains on the opposite side of the room, lighting the whole room red with breaking dawn.
He rose from his still-soaked hotel bed before his alarm went off and turned on the shower. For awhile, he let the warm water run over him, cleansing him of the night’s war. Art’s head hung low under the waterfall, wet, black hair falling around him like a mask. He let his tears fall freely. Last night was different.
He had many dreams of war and chaos, but this is the first one he felt a part of, rather than a mere spectator. It was confusing; he felt both empowered and horrified at the thought of himself leading an army into slaughter. Of course, it was only a dream. And the hound...he hated when it showed up without warning. It was dangerous, and he silently punished himself for being so foolish, so weak to let it overpower him.
And what was the blue? His dreams usually centered around one color—intense, blood red—with the exception of the hound’s eyes, which he had surmised were a reflection of his own. But, the blue flash and the bird were entirely new and very unusual.
However, he had seen weirder things in his 29 years, even in his waking life, so it wasn’t difficult for him to push the thought aside as he began his morning.
Traveling for work meant long days in uncomfortable meeting rooms, sitting through discussions of making the rich richer, and plenty of time to daydream of soft, blue lights. The day went by slowly, and Art’s thoughts never left his strange dream.
Flicking between channels in his suffocating hotel room, Art ate his room service in bed, answering emails on his phone when he wasn’t trying to decide which garbage show to watch, putting off sleep as long as he could.
His phone rang. Unfortunately, it was a number he recognized. Begrudgingly, he answered silently.
“Arête.”
“Evander. It’s just Art. What do you want?”
“Are you still in Texas?”
“Currently in San Francisco, but yeah. What’s this about?”
“Just keep an eye out. It’s nothing to worry about yet but there’s potential.”
“What? Could you be a bit more specific?”
“No. Just call me if you notice anything.”
The line went dead before he could argue.
“The hell?” he said to the empty room. Evander hadn’t called him in two years, and Art knew the fact that he was reaching out to him of all people meant something weird happened.
As he stared at his phone, he thought of his unusual dream. Could they be related? Probably not. Evander would have said so, right? He seemed to know everything before Art told him.
He considered calling Evander back, but decided it wasn’t worth it. He probably wouldn’t answer, anyway. Evander wasn’t a man of many words, but what he said got the point across. He may have only been 20 years old, but his words and aura carried a gravitas of a much older, much wiser man. For now, he would take him at his word.
He slept fitfully that night, his dreams littered with blue lightning.
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