Prologue – Nobody
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"And I don't want your pity / I just want somebody near me / Guess I'm a coward / I just want to feel alright"

 

When Sybil dreams, she dreams of long, tender kisses on lazy mornings, of days spent walking hand-in-hand through ticklish grass, and evenings filled with hot food, chilled wine and tinkling laughter. In those dreams, when it comes time to retire for an evening, the last thing Sybil feels is the embrace of her lover, the last thing she tastes is their shared passion, the sound of her lover’s slow rhythmic breathing lulls Sybil to sleep, the scent of her hair clings to Sybil’s nightclothes—assuming she deigns to wear any at all; sadly, some nights are simply too cold—and in those dreams, when morning light creeps in, breathing its soft heat upon her skin, the first thing Sybil’s eyes are treated to is the face of the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen.

 

Sybil dreams of the one person she knows would never fear her, would never leave her. And that, perhaps, is the most comforting thing of all about her dreams. In summer, in winter, Sybil is with her. They are together through the bright electric spark of love in its infancy, and they linger in the dim, ever-persistent glow of intimacy more familiar. The dreams bring Sybil through untold years, and to far off places, but Sybil knows that no matter when or where they take her, she will always be there. She is the one constant in every dream, the only constant Sybil needs. 

 

They don’t come every night. They may be frequent for a time, then vanish for days, weeks, even months. But always, long before she abandons any hope of being whisked off to that world again, a night comes when Sybil closes her eyes, then finds herself by her lover’s side in some other place or time. Sometimes Sybil wishes to disappear into the fantasy, to let sleep take her somewhere she might never return from. But most days, after being whisked off to that life she longs for, Sybil awakens with a drive unlike any other. For she knows, somehow deep in her heart, that these are not mere dreams. No, that woman she sees, the love they share could be real. And knowing that, Sybil finds all the motivation she needs not to wallow in her wakefulness, when it inevitably comes. Knowing that, she sleeps easy, and when her dreams do come, she sees not the echo of a life she could never have, but the promise of a future still in the making, and she is happy. 

 

* * *

 

Sybil lay awake for some time, hoping against hope she might somehow lull herself back to sleep, back to the dream. She wasn’t making any headway. She considered whether or not there was a point to remaining in bed, whether it might still be possible to find the sleep she longed to return to. The dreams had been so wonderful, they always were. Sybil could almost still taste her lover’s lips on her own. But no amount of wishful thinking could bring her back to that place. Regardless, she had work to do, magical theory to craft, reagents to track down. Sybil saw no sense clinging to the aftertaste of that wonderful place her mind brought her into when, instead, she could be forging the path to making it a reality. 

 

When her mind was made up, Sybil had no trouble acting, it was, perhaps, one of her best features. So long as she could overcome indecision, she could set her mind to anything with unwavering dedication and efficiency. That didn’t mean the work was easy. That girl, whoever she was, wherever she was, made no attempt to make herself easier to find. And Sybil had few leads to work with, only the feelings, the memories of her dream, reflections of reflections. Taking that afterimage and making it something concrete enough to locate was proving more difficult than she’d initially hoped. 

 

Still, Sybil was not so easily discouraged; day by day she worked her magic in search of a more complete picture, reaching tendrils into the ether, taut wires slicing through the fabric of reality to seek that other place where she was. Every morning that followed dreams of her, Sybil would note down what she'd seen, what had happened, where she'd been. The dream was vague this time: mostly feelings and disconnected fantasies, flowing into one another with no rhyme or reason. Still she jotted them down, wrote of their shared passions, the warmth of her skin in the night air, the taste of garden fresh tomatoes lingering on her lips and tongue when they kissed. On its own, the dream wasn’t much to go off of. All of them put together, though, began to form some vague inkling of a picture. That reflection of a reflection became less distorted, less warped, and more just blurry, viewed through a dirty and cracked lens instead of a kaleidoscope of refracting images.

 

And so, like painting a landscape from memory, she was slowly able to build something, a connection to that other place. At least, so she hoped. It had been hard work. Even with the clues she’d pieced together, she had only a small fraction of the larger whole she sought. So, quite often, Sybil would send her magic out, feeling her way through the limitless expanse of reality, and come back empty handed. She’d been working at it for months, barely eating, ignoring requests for magical aid by those unafraid to seek her out. Oftentimes the only thing Sybil did regularly besides work was sleep, in the hopes of finding herself immersed in one of those dreams she needed so terribly. On hard days, days when the progress was slow, when her efforts were met only with failure, she would struggle to resist the urge to withdraw completely into the fantasy. 

 

This day was no such day, however. Sybil had been getting closer and closer, she knew that. The dreams were getting more frequent, and, with the exception of her most recent, often so very vivid. Sometimes they were so incredibly real that Sybil might fill pages of her journal simply describing the sound of her lover’s voice when she laughed. That level of detail was unnecessary, Sybil knew, but it felt good to do so, it made that nameless woman feel more real, and closer than ever.

 

The sound of hooves and creak of a wagon wheel outside her window drew Sybil from her thoughts, and, with a start, she leapt from her chair in excitement. She’d been expecting the last shipment of reagents for days. The roots she needed were rare, and especially hard to come by in the spring, but when she managed to find a trader who dealt in them, Sybil wasted no time paying him handsomely for a shipment. 

 

She barely even registered her conversation with the man; Sybil was practically vibrating in excitement. So much so that the usual distant, cold demeanor she showed any stranger who visited her cottage had completely evaporated in the rays of her anticipation. The parcel was small and light, but well sealed. Not wishing to expose the root to the air, she quickly examined the parcel’s contents with a quick divining spell. A little small, definitely only good for one casting, but otherwise functional. Sybil would just have to make sure she got it right the first time. If she didn’t, well, she didn’t want to think about what that would mean. About how long she would need to wait before everything she needed could be gathered once more.

 

It was almost ready, though. She needed a few more dreams just for good measure, hopefully that wouldn’t take much longer than a week. And once her connection to that other place where her lover dwelled was complete, Sybil would be ready. Sybil would bring her into her own world. It would likely be difficult at first, explaining everything. But this was fate; Sybil was meant to be with this woman, was she not? Creeping doubt ran its icy fingers along the edge of Sybil’s thoughts. If this woman, her lover, rejected her, left her, what else would there be for Sybil? A family long gone, a country that feared her and her power, even her teacher had left when the timing was convenient. But no, she was not like all those others. 

 

The sweet girl with the short messy bangs and loving eyes. The girl who, in Sybil’s dreams, would always greet her with a joyful smile and devoted kiss, standing on her tiptoes to reach Sybil’s lips. The girl who, in some visions would be soft putty in Sybil’s hands, all curves and yielding flesh, but in other dreams would somehow be so strong and protective, encompassing and enveloping Sybil from behind with strong arms and soothing caresses. The girl Sybil had led so many different lives with in twilit hours, nestled between the warm embrace of her bed, and gentle touch of sleep. That girl would not, could not leave her. Whomever she was, that was not who she was. Not who she would be. Sybil needed to believe that, so she did.

 

Sighing, Sybil settled into another long day of work. She was so close; she’d failed so many times, lived so many empty days yearning for the woman’s touch, but now, she was within reach. As she pored over notes, studied ancient texts on the craft of magical spells, Sybil could not help but fight a smile playing across her lips. It was an unfamiliar feeling; at least, it was unfamiliar in the waking, physical world. Those muscles had not been put to much use; it wasn’t long until they began to actually ache. In her dreams, though, Sybil was always smiling. And so, as she scanned line after line of dense magical theory, with a dopey grin plastered on her face, Sybil couldn’t help look forward to many, many more aches like the one she felt then and there.

 

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