Azra

Merciful Lie

A dream is an intangible truth. In the infinite realm of sleep, the mind embraces limitless possibility, painting an illusory world. Aspiration, joy and excitement animate the brush, creating a fictitious landscape, perceived as entirely real. The tapestry unfurls, events played out like an actor upon the stage. Azra’s fine claws would brush that thin fabric, as it shimmered in the silver moonlight of the unconscious mind. It rippled at her touch, as the cloth became a window, beckoning her inside.

She had passed through the portal thousands of times, and always, she marvelled at the imaginative power that was arrayed before her. One night she saw a grand fleet of airships, soaring like fish through the sea of clouds. She brought herself before the captain, presented herself as a diplomat, a negotiator. The Blue fae welcomed her, introduced her to the puzzling artefacts and strange contraptions of his inner thoughts. He nodded and smiled, gesturing proudly to his eccentric collection. With a deep breath of focus, she dove into the maze, arranging and filing the chaotic ideas and wild expression. When the last box was stacked, the last inkling tucked away, everything would click into place, and she would bid him farewell. With the dawning light, he would not recall their meeting, that place high above the clouds, only left with the lingering exhilaration, and an organized determination for the new day.

She never lied when she introduced her role, for she negotiated that thin line between the real and imagined, the thoughts that leak from the mind and become reality. She was witness to the truth of the mind, the subconscious structure that even her subjects did not know. The rumples in the cloth, the whispers of doubt were made manifest, and she spoke to them. She would listen, as long as it took for them to say what they would, and she would soothe them, smooth the cracks with a gentle touch. The mind would never be spotless, but the imperfections could be repurposed, rehabilitated to features of awe, of beauty. Azra was the only witness to her abstract art, the only trace of her work a feeling, a whisper, a sense of deja vu lost to the wind.

Yet, the cracks of the mind can run deep. Some voices too loud, roaring over her attempts to speak. A truth the mind is beholden to, too horrible to say, a scar that worms its way in, and shatters one from the inside.

The imagination is turned upon itself, the power of creation inverted into violence. Memories are warped, morphing into monsters so much more horrible, but experienced just as real. Those who had seen too much, done too much would writhe in their beds, tortured by executioners unseen. She had watched from their eyes, the ghastly sunken eyes of dragons long-gone, clawing themselves from the earth. She heard their accusatory whispers, slicing at the mind with the death of a thousand cuts.

“Why didn’t you save us? Are you proud of what you’ve done?”

Guilt is a heavy weight to bear, an anchor around the neck. It plunges one into the abyss deeper and deeper, until nothing can reach them. The light of truth cannot shine, when steeped in the mire of despair. She tried to reach into the dark, beg them to take her hand, to escape the demons that grasped them heart and soul. Yet, the roar of damnation was too loud, and she would not be heard.

The grim sight of a body broken on the rocks was one that she would never forget.

Her power had grown since then, beyond sight, beyond simply speech, she too could create. Where the fangs of despair would rip and tear, she would mend, and replace. In the world of illusion and dreams, she was a weaver, an architect, a brilliant light that could banish the demons wherever they lurked. The battle-scarred mind is paved over with soft grass, the monsters of memory locked away in a prison of light. In its place, she would weave a different tale, of peace, tranquility, gentleness. A lie that would become truth with the coming light. As long as she breathed, the horrors of nightmare would be denied their prey.

Still, she kept those motes of memory, segments of cloth torn from the tapestry. Carefully, she categorized them, to the last detail, preserved just as they were when she had snipped them from the thread. She kept them, even as she watched them live the life gifted to them, oblivious of what they had lost. She would smile and nod, acting just as they would expect her to. With a gentle hand, she would guide them on their new, flourishing life.

Occasionally, a sad smile would grace her face, watching them from afar. Perhaps one day, when the past was far away, they would be ready for the truth, but until then, it would be better to live that sweetened lie.