Dreams of a Memory

He remembered. He'd had this dream before.

She had come to him, eyes of ivory strong in their determination. They always had been. It was one of the many reasons he loved her so dearly. He gripped her hands, and she squeezed back.

"..It is time. I am to go before them, and plead the truth."

His emerald eyes grew from soft to worried. "I donnae trust them...they're his people." She nodded once, but her strong smile stayed. "The people must know the true Queen. The time of me hiding amongst the shadows is over. I must go forth."

This dream would always play out the same. He would plead with her, and she would refuse.

But...why did the hands he held feel smaller?

A great warmth enveloped him, begging at his fingertips and crawling to his toes. He breathed in through his nostrils, closing his eyes.

The vision before him began to change. Her braided hair of russet red fell from its confines, spilling into beautiful waves of brown. Her ivory brown eyes softened to bright, warm hues of chocolate, eyes that begged to be his home.

Her smile was no longer confident, but warm and caring. She was smaller now. She looked up at him no longer dutifully, but with a great trust. A trust that he did not deserve.

"I must show them the truth, for all of us." Her hands were gentle on his now, not strong in their grip. Her name slowly faded from his mind. What was it again?

"Be careful." he whispered, dipping his head and kissing her. It was so...warm. Each movement of their lips breathed a true sincerity, not one-sided as it had been every other time.

Then she was gone, slipping her hands from his. He watched her go, that strong brave woman that would preach the truth to all the people awaiting her in the courtyard.

For once in these dreams, he felt strangely elated, the kiss still tingling on his lips.

~*~

And as always, the elation dawned into horror.

The heels of his boots clicked the marble floor as he raced to reach the courtyard. Cheers and vile hollers made his stomach churn and his blood boil. What was happening? He knew the answer, yet this time he did not. This time was different, and he knew nothing anymore. He was an ignorant boy again.

The door between him and destiny flew open. The crowd before him was no mass of cheers due to diplomatic justice, but a poisonous mob of hatred.

He followed their eyes. Vomit nearly bubbled from his throat. She was fighting with guardsmen, struggling and screaming the truth. Her wavy locks were ripped and tattered, body shoved roughly on the stone bench awaiting her. A man tipped a bottle to his lips, alcohol dripping down his already-stained tunic.

Scotland's horror relished at the axe in his hand.

No. he was no longer Scotland. He was Iain. He was man, not nation, his eyes soaked with tears like a child. He ran, but knew he would not make it.

The repeat of this dream usually would have him numb to this feeling, but this was different. He had felt the warmth of real love and trust. She was no Queen, she was an Angel.

As the axe came down, his stomach, his entire being, churned in a horror and dread not-explainable by human words.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He was no nation; he was man. He was a man with soul crushed, dreams destroyed, and love shattered.

But this love was real, and his dread was unimaginable.

"ALISIA!"

~*~

The Scotsman's body arched violently forward, his knuckles white and he gripped the sheets around him. He was panting.

It was so real. So vividly real. And he was still crying.

"A-Alisia!" His head whipped to his right where the woman would always lay loyally. But this night, her body was missing.

His heart raced. No. No she couldn't be gone.

He clambered from the tangled sheets, stumbling out their bedroom door. "Alisia! ALISIA!"

He raced all over the house, overturning furniture and smashing pots. The dread still coursed through him like his own blood. He turned his head, racing for the one room which he had not destroyed and searched.

"Iain?"

He froze. There she was, one-too many apricots in her arms. Still in her nightclothes she was, one of the fruits protruding from her lips.

He approached her slowly at first, and he did not react until his fingertips brushed her cheeks.

She was here. Alive.

She gave a small yelp as strong arms locked around her so quickly and tightly. He was panting again, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. Yes, the warmth was here again, real and vibrant.

She could tell by how his body shook that he was terribly frightened. The Armenian asked no questions, and simply held her love back. She knew he was plagued with awful nightmares, but never had she witnessed one so extreme. Slowly, his body began to relax as she stroked his hair, his skin. Her touch was tender and comforting.

No words were said between them, but even as he carried her back to their bed, in each-other's arms is where they slept.

-

Based off of Scotland's past love for Queen Mary of Scots, who was violently beheaded by the English.