Alan knows he is asleep, dreaming in the darkness of the room. But his mind is alert and awake, telling his eyes to open. They don’t, and so, he sees a different world in his dreams: the world with the floating cities, the one that flashes every now and then when he is awake, causing him great confusion as to where he really is.

Only this time, he is able to hear voices and feel emotions. To have thoughts and an innate understanding of this strange world. To be immersed so deeply into the dream that it seems to become his reality.

 

He watches on as the tan sky lights up with gold hues and blue beams. His evergreen gaze wavers slightly, glistening with an unspoken desire. Before his vision is a scene that terrifies him.

Floating cities shine against the bright sky. Waterfalls stream downwards at their sides with crystal clarity, endlessly pouring. They pass by other cities on their way down. Each of these is distinct, a mash-up of different cultures and realities. Each is from a different time and world. A colosseum and ancient marketplace on one island, impressive glass skyscrapers on another, neon cities with floating ships…and so on and so forth. A crossroad of worlds.

The cities are separated by unbreachable distances and an infinite chasm below. He knows no mortal being could hope to traverse to another land, even with the most advanced technology.

There are many of these floating lands, all positioned at various heights. And still, there is no end in sight.

Alan’s thoughts resurface for a moment. I don’t know this place, but it feels very familiar. Why?

He shifts, white robes fluttering against a faint, distant breeze.

What is this? What am I wearing?

In his eyes, the cities all look the same. But that isn’t what bothers him most: night does not fall here, and thus, there is no concept of “day”.

Whose thoughts are these?

If time did not pass here, then surely, these people can no longer be—had not been for a long, long time—considered alive? Yet, here they are, warm flesh and rosy cheeks.

The breeze turns chilly and he curls in on himself. He doesn’t, however, turn away from the innocent chatter and laughter from those below, resonating outwards into the vast sky above.

Alan panics. He feels himself slipping away, his consciousness lulled further and further into the rippling depths of this surreal world. Knowledge pours in, simple facts that he doesn’t know—but of course, he should.

It’s weird that Alan can’t feel his body anymore. He begs for the dream to stop, scared of being trapped in this strange land. But it doesn’t, and he is forced to watch, to feel, and to become.

He frowns, watching a sea of people on a nearby island sway with nervous excitement. Under the rounded roof of a floating gazebo far removed, he observes from the shade as the first group—a family of five, he notes—steps onto a round white platform at the edge of the city. They wave to the crowd that sends them off with hollers and cheers. Moments later, a gold hue envelopes them and celestial patterns whirl beneath their feet.

His eyes instinctively sweep over to a city, three islands away to the right. Another crowd of people are waiting here eagerly. He patiently watches the platform there. Soon enough, an azure blue column of light beams onto it as the same celestial patterns whirl in reverse. The family from earlier appears. Upon their successful landing, others run up to greet them in a hearty embrace, ushering them forwards.

“What are you doing there all alone, Cassiel?” a familiar voice interrupts. “With such a serious look on your face?”

Is that my name? Cassiel?

He turns to see Kamael hovering beside him, white wings beating every so often. In his friend’s hands are a ledger and a pen.

I know this person. I’ve seen him before. It’s the guy with the golden hair!

“Come down to the cities once in a while,” Kamael starts, landing softly on the marble floor. He scribbles on the ledger as he mumbles, “It’s lots of fun walking through them.”

“They’ll think they got into trouble,” he replies immediately.

“They’re used to seeing angels, Cassiel. Look, just go as a human if you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy—”

Kamael brushes him off. “You should see what they’re doing for…”

He tunes out Kamael’s words, content to just hear his friend’s soothing voice lull him to sleep.

Suddenly, a hand pats his head. He grumbles before settling into a light snore. Then, the grip tightens.

“Ow! Ow!” he cries. “Stop, Kamael! I’m awake now.”

He sees his friend grinning in irritation. Kamael tousles his hair.

With a practiced response, he straightens up and quickly brings his hands up to smooth it out.

“Were you even listening?” Kamael asks, smiling through gritted teeth.

“I was!”

“Yeah right.”

His jade green eyes meet Kamael’s cerulean and they watch each other for a moment.

There’s something familiar about those eyes. What was it again?

“The humans have a word for this attitude of yours, Cassiel. What was it again? Stiff. That’s what you are.” Kamael snickers.

There’s a crack at the corner of his vision. A sudden itch urges him to tear it, widening the crevice.

He rolls his eyes fondly. “Oh, shut up.”

He wills himself to rip it apart. His body doesn’t move. Move.

“What are you really doing here, Cassiel?” Kamael’s voice continues to ask. “Why did you come to The—”

Move.

“The—”

MOVE.

“P-Promised—”

Tiny pinpricks of light dot his vision. He feels his body on some conscious level again. He is asleep. This is a dream. His name is Cassiel—

“L-L-Land—”

—Alan. His name is Alan. His name is Alan. His name is Alan.

 

Alan awakens in cold sweat, gasping for air. He inhales, desperately gripping the blankets.

“Alan? What’s wrong?” Oscar’s sleepy voice mutters.

Alan, still reeling from his nightmare—no, it wasn’t a nightmare—looks around for something to ground him. The moonlight slips through the curtains and casts a square of light against the ornate closet on the other side. The table is there. It’s in its familiar place. On the nightstand by Oscar’s side, the candle sits, waxy droplets hardened against its thick stem.

And Oscar is right beside him, fully awake now, staring at him with those wide, blue eyes. Those cerulean eyes. That same shade as—

“…Kamael,” he quietly lets slip before he realizes. His breath hitches. No, that’s Oscar! I’m Alan. I’m Alan. I’m Alan—

“Did you have a nightmare?” his brother asks sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Oscar opens his arms and the blankets too. He pats the space beside him.

Embarrassed, Alan feels heat rising to his cheeks. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Uh, yeah. You still are. You’re nine. Come here.”

When he doesn’t move, Oscar hooks his arms around his waist. Alan squeaks before covering his mouth. Oh God, that’s embarrassing. I wanna die.

Oscar bundles him in blankets, hugging Alan against his chest. “Think you can sleep now?”

“Sure,” Alan mutters. “Don’t choke me while you sleep. You’re a mean hugger.”

“I can’t guarantee that.”

Slowly, as his brother’s breathing evens out, so too does Alan’s. In and out. In and out. The moonlight wanes at the corner of his eyes.

Soon, he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Alan awakes alone, cocooned in the blankets. After the strange dream, he had a relatively peaceful sleep.

For the first time he can remember, he wakes up not hungry. In fact, he feels like he has more energy than he ever did in his life up till now.

Cassiel. Kamael. He rolls the unfamiliar names around on his tongue. The Promised Land. Heaven? No, I’m not dead yet. I think.

If Alan closes his eyes, he can still see the floating cities against the tan sky. It’s almost like somebody carved out those pieces of land, took the fragments, and shoved them up there. Just for fun. The hallowing wind that blew from the infinite chasm below chills him to his bones, eerily similar to the feeling of the morning cold.

Where was that? He clenches his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. And why did it feel so familiar?

Alan shakes his head and wrinkles his nose. His feet pad against the cold wooden floorboards as he hastily gets dressed.

There’s a notebook open on the table. Curiously, Alan peers at it to find Oscar’s handwriting scrawled in the corner of the page beneath neatly written notes.

You stole all the blankets! Grr. And an angry face.

“Sucks to be you,” Alan singsongs, sticking out his tongue.

When he heads into the bathroom, he sees silky gold locks instead of brown in the mirror.

He screams.

And then the moment passes. His hair is spiky honey brown again.

Alan stares.

It takes him some long agonizing minutes to move again. When he does, his small trembling hands quickly turn on the tap. Icy water grounds him, steadies him in the present.

He doesn’t dare to look at his reflection again.