Chapter 15:
Broken Dreams


"Dreams in the dusk,
Only dreams closing the day
And with the day’s close going back
To the gray things, the dark things,
The far, deep things of dreamland.

Dreams, only dreams in the dusk,
Only the old remembered pictures
Of lost days when the day’s loss
Wrote in tears the heart’s loss.

Tears and loss and broken dreams
May find your heart at dusk. "


When she retired to bed that night, Ginny picked at shards of the dream, once more. It had come like a carpal tunnel, painful to the point where she did not want to think of it. At length, she whipped out quill and parchment, dipped the latter into ink, and pressed it to the surface of the former. She wrote, then, to the one girl who understood her better than anyone else, to her old friend, Hermione.

She lay down once she had dispatched the letter, pulling a blanket up to her neck. The mattress was soft beneath her, unlike any she had known at the Burrow, and it had a warm scent, like new cloth or fresh cookies, that made thoughts less coherent, and sleep more welcome. Ginny rolled on to her side, saw the bedroom bathed in the soft yellow light of a single, faint torch-on-the-wall, and then sleep had rolled over and she was breathing regularly. For a while, her closed eyes saw blankness – and then the scene shifted, and a dream sprang up, like a blaze of fire, so hot it seemed to burn her even in her state of sleep.

She was walking down the pathway again and, this time, Atara led her into her bedroom. Her eyes were brighter than usual and she knew, in her heart, that this was because Al Keith had agreed to wed her, even though the conditions attached to their union – self-imposed exile and settlement in a new land – called for sacrifice. But to gain, certain loss is necessary, and Ginny bore herself with dignity.

“What is it that you wanted to tell me, Guinevere?” Atara queried. Best friends, the two of them had been for longer than she could remember, and Ginny was aware her happiness had to do with the fact that she had, here, a chance to share her big news with her friend.

“Al Keith and I are to wed soon, Atara!”

Atara’s eyes filled up with sudden fire. “Atara?” The Ginny-that-was-Guinevere asked. “Is all not well? ”

If Guinevere had known how hideous Atara's thoughts were then, she would have been stunned. But she did not; and Atara, sharp as steel, realized that now was not the time to unleash them. She had known this would happen and, much as she had attempted to ensure that it did not come to pass, the love between Al Keith and Guinevere had continued to rage on, a fire her advices and endeavours could not kill.

“I am only concerned!” Atara said quickly. “You are an elf-maiden, Guinevere - he, a lowly human!”

Guinevere’s eyes bulged. “I did not know you hold to such predijuices, Atara!” she said, and there was shock, pure and undiluted shock, in her tones. “I had thought you would be happy for me, you who I have long called my best friend."

“Were it that I could be!” Atara said, placing a hand on Guinever’s shoulder, and pulling the elf-maiden closer. “I would love you to wed, and bear a family, but it is your choice that surprises me. The authorities shall not ignore his ancestry, Guinevere. My heart cries, for I wish you to be happy, but know your union is impossible!”

“But it is not,” Guinevere said, happier now because she understood that her friend only felt sympathy for what she perceived a case hopeless. “We shall leave these lands, and start a fresh life, Atara, in a place where no man or woman, no elf-lord or elf-lady can persecute us.”

“Your parents shall be exiled, do they allow you to marry Al Keith!” Atara flared. Try as she might, she could not subdue her fury but, thankfully for her, Guinevere took it as a sign of wrath at the harshness of the prejudiced governors. “Do you not care for your family?”

“They shall not know!” Guinevere said. “Or so they shall pretend. It would be easy for them to feign innocence, and they shall cry when they discover that I have left, against their wishes. There is nothing the governors can do about that, my friend! They can not persecute my family because their daughter eloped against their orders, and against her better judgment.”

Such anger! Atara felt it rise, threaten to choke her in a bed of tears, but she stemmed it as best as she could. “I am sorry for you, Guinevere,” she said softly. “Who must make her parents lie, for the sake of a human.”

Guinevere gripped her shock. “Do you not care for my happiness, Atara?” she asked, tones hollow.

“That has ever been my desire, Guinevere. It only pains me that I shall not be able to give you the blessing of a sister when you leave for your new house. You know I do not like untruths, Guinevere – it shall always be my wish that you do not fall trap to a union that is based, not on beauty, but on a thatched, taterred roof of many lies. You must not misunderstand me,” she went on quickly. “I desire solely your well-being and, although I realize now that you are in love with Al Keith, he is a lowly human with no known father, and perhaps comes of poor stock.”

“You have hurt me,” Guinevere said, quietly. “But it is alright, Atara - were I in your stead, perhaps I would wish the same.”

“I apologize, best of friends!” Atara gushed. “You know how deeply I care for you.” But her words seemed to burn her tongue, lies that she found difficult to articulate. The last thing she wanted was to see Guinevere snatch, from her, the man she had loved all her life - and she would put a stop to it, or die in the attempt. By the time Guinevere departed, a serpent of a plan had already formed in her mind, coiled - furious - venomous - ready to strike at any given movment.

Guinevere, for her part, wondered if she made the right decision; and, when she came out of her reverie five minutes later, realized that she faced her own house, led there on auto-pilot, by the love of her heart and the yearning of childhood memories. For a long while, she stood there, her heart beating like a fairy of wispy smoke, fragile, delicate, ready to break -- and she wondered, then, how things would turn out for her and Al Keith; wished upon each star that faith might lead them to good joy and beauty, to the freedom of life.

The dream shifted.

There was a flash of fire, a muffled scream – Guinevere screamed as hands gripped her throat, soft, white hands that she knew better than any other, and then a dagger had been slashed across her front. Its point was silver, she remembered, sharpened against – perhaps – some sorcery, for the pain that shot up her spine seemed like black-red fire, twisted into unnatural shapes and reminiscent of the most bitter memories of her short life.

She fought to keep her attacker at bay, but it was of no use, and then the dagger came down again, and a choke of nothingness escaped her throat. She was going to die, she knew, but she did not want to die. She –

Ginny Weasley woke up in a sweat.

*

[] Reference:

+ "Dreams in the dusk -" - Carl Sandburg, Dreams in the Dusk from the volume, Chicago Poems.