The Dream

This story is a fairytale of sorts.

I know because I’m living it— in our world right now. But unlike most modern fairytales with a princess and a prince falling madly in love and living happily ever after in some dream-like world, my tale is something much older and darker. And like most traditional tales, it ends in tragedy.

There is no “happily ever after.”

Not in my world.

I have been trapped in a never-ending nightmare.

My name is Faye Archer.

Welcome to my nightmare.

It all started long, long ago…in a dream I can't quite remember.

[Wales, 6th Century A.D.]

      The sharp edges of the cave are slick. Light filters through the rocks in small streams. As I weave around tall pillars of rock, my body moves in and out of the darkness, the trail ahead of me illuminated softly in the light of the full moon. 

      He is waiting for me, as promised. I knew he would be. He always is. Every single time. 

      He waits standing next to a large stone slab, a table carved from one of the pillars of the cave. As I approach, he removes his blood-red cloak, revealing his naked flesh, marked with the blue-inked serpent tattoos, spiraling along each arm, weaving into a complex network of knot work across his well-defined back. He turns, and shining in the faint light is a silver torque joined with a simple chain holding three linked charms--the full moon, crescent moon, and dark moon--the crest of the priesthood of the triple-faced goddess. The triple-faced goddess is our Sacred Mother, goddess of magic, motherhood, and rebirth. I can see every blessed inch of him, and I feel my body trembling with excitement as my soul hums with purpose, my body aching with anticipated pleasure.    

      I am ready to be a sacrifice to my goddess. I dedicate my body, my womb, to her will.

      Unclasping the crescent moon broach at my breast, I lay down on the table, a pool of linen fanning out around me, covering the table and revealing my bare body, tan and round, to the man above me. He approaches with a stag head covering his features, his body ready to worship my soft curves, honoring me with his hard strength. I am crowned and adorned with roses, hawthorn, and hemlock braided within my long, red curls. 

I can smell the sweet oils that had been rubbed into my skin massaging my own tattoos, newly healed. As I look up at his torque, I can see my violet eyes reflected, glowing in the night of the cave. Tonight I am not a mortal, but the goddess herself, and he is her consort, the Green man, the Stag, the god of all things masculine and virile. I cannot see his face, but I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin as he approaches me, spreading my legs to better see my offering.      

      Just as before, I close my eyes. My senses are enhanced as I feel his hands gently guide themselves from the curves of my full breasts to the roundness of my hips, his fingers finding my fertile valley. 

      Just as before, I can feel the tip of his manhood find the edges of me, hesitating briefly before he inches deeper, and deeper into my core. My body rocks against the linen-covered stone, my back arching as he rides me. Neither of us speaks, for this is a place for the gods, a sacred rite of renewal. The only sounds are those of our breathing, and the increasing rhythm of our flesh pressing into each other as we crash into the stone.  

      I can feel the pressure building as I near my climax. Time stops. Stars flash behind my eyes and…

      Just like before, the world shatters around me. 

      I feel a piercing pain through my gut into my womb. The offering is ruined as I scream, opening my eyes to see another standing above us, a sword-piercing god and goddess alike. As the sword is pulled from our bodies, the stag-headed priest falls to the ground and blood starts to flow from my own wound. As I back away, I hold one hand up defensively as the other uses my linen shift to press into my wound as I back away. I look down to my lover of the evening and even though I do not know him. In this dream, I can feel a terrible loss as I see the light fade from his eyes, the crescent tattoo on his brow fading as our blessing leaves him. His fair hair and freckled face are that of a young man who is almost too young, just barely past the first flush of adulthood.

      There is no way out of the cave that doesn’t put me in contact with the man approaching in a long velvet cloak of the deepest aubergine, a symbol of royalty and power. His movements are jerky and slow, as if he is moving against his own wishes, fighting against a power that controls him.     

      I scream. He continues to move forward as if the sound does not affect him. I can hear myself begging for my life, but the words are in no language I understand. I begin to feel a separation, as if viewing the scene from above. Not only that, but I feel a pulse of energy as it grows from within, moving its way down my hand. With one final scream, a flash of blue light shoots from my hand, knocking the man back, like a wave of lightning. I watch him as he falls to his knees, his hood falling back enough for me to see his eyes. Green like emeralds, glowing from the shadows of his black robes, the tattoo of a dark crescent moon on his brow. 

      When I try to look down, I can never see his face. 

      All I know is that I loved him. 

      And that he betrayed me.