DEATH HAD ALWAYS been a relative concept to me.

I had never experienced the loss of someone I knew ( though being surrounded by the same people forever does grow to be tiresome ). I had only ever witnessed death —and curiously, always in a gruesome way.

It had always been a beast or animal; its life cut short for whatever selfish reason.

For many, death was a sweet release to be looked forward to at the end of a tediously long life. Others sought to avoid it for however long they could endure.

But no one truly escapes death —in one form or another, everything decays and fades eventually: their dreams, morale, kind nature or desire.

Even one's will to go on.

Immortality was simply a gilded cage; made comfortable by one's own false sense of security.

To this day, I had not lived very long —but it felt enough. Three centuries meant nothing to those who had been made at the dawn of a world.

And I was sure that I was dying now.

It was not violent. It was a gentle lull. Yet I raged —I thrashed and twisted and clawed against the darkness, unwilling to be dragged under.

I was not afraid of death.

This was just not the way in which I wanted to go.

The blackness was like thick ink; staining my skin and clinging to my body until I became a part of it —as though it were trying to consume. The only visible light was emitting from my dusted freckles, shining defiantly. Everything else was stifled.

And I was drowning.

I had never needed to breathe, but my lungs screamed for air. Perhaps not the actual fulfilment of it, but for something familiar and secure. Air and light —they had become staple.

That was why nothing made sense here.

My screams were silenced, unheard.

The more I struggled, the more I fought; the further and faster I sank. Though I knew that giving in and succumbing to the void would only mean losing myself to it. It would take over me wholly, and I would be forever claimed. I would be dead.

The glow in my freckles then began to spread.

Soon my whole body was incandescent; the light thrashing in time with my movements. There was a flicker of hope in it —as though I were finally doing something right. And I was foolish enough to believe that.

The black ink then began to burn.

It seared at my skin, ripping into flesh and bone. Blood spilled; once again human and red. I cried out in agony, reduced to writhing stiffly, in an effort to contain the pain. But it was not enough.

I could see the singed bits of muscle, and the bone beneath it. I felt the realness of it —until I could think of nothing else. I was tempted —so tempted to plead with the Weavers to let me break apart and shatter.

To let me die.

I closed my eyes. My body stilled. I was almost there.

But then I thought of Georgia.

How would she fare if I did not return? It was such an abrupt revelation. I could not leave. She needed me for the time being, and I had promised that I would take care of her. I had to see that through.

The pain spiked tenfold.

I screamed; every fibre of my being pulling and straining. I still burned, like a dying star.

The face of the man I had seen before then formed in my mind. I felt more of myself burn away. What was he, that the thought of him took parts from me?

I do not need you.

Those words rattled through me again. He was saying that to me —telling me that I was unneeded. That he deemed me unnecessary. I did not know why, but it hurt with an understanding which I clearly felt.

I need you, a voice from within me cried out.

I did not know him, but everything within me yearned for him. No matter how much it tore me apart and destroyed me, I needed him. I continued shouting into the abyss, until it felt like my throat ripped.

Blood then filled my mouth, thick like warm mud.

The frustration built, welling up and filling my body. And in that instant —I fulminated.

My consciousness was still there somehow, spectating. Like a supernova, fragments of blue and pink and purple splintered outwards into the inky darkness.

I was there and nowhere; the shards becoming one with and getting lost in the endless darkness.

And then my own voice, loud and clear drummed through the expanse.

Wake up. Eve. You are a beginning.

My eyes opened.

I gasped for air, and it whistled in and out of my lungs. My vision was a blur of white and pink for a moment, before the walls of the back room came into focus. I stiffened, upright and disoriented.

Images of the inky void flashed in my mind, the pain throbbing dully. I glanced down at my arms —and sighed. The bandaging was gone and the skin was stitched together and healing. Wisps of thread —more importantly, not mortal blood —wafted in the gentle breeze streaming through the ajar window.

It had been a dream.

A nightmare, to be more precise —and from the details which I remembered, a compilation of everything that was on my mind. I had still not yet decoded the specifics from my previous dream, but after going through the running themes, I could conclude something.

Whoever that man was; he was coming for me.

And I had little time to prepare for what he would bring. Pain, guilt and torment. And bittersweet longing.

I rose up from the fluffy sheep rug I had been lying on. Georgia was deep in slumber beside me; her back turned as she curled up within her sleeping bag.

I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was five o'clock in the morning.

It was early, but I realised that it would be wise to begin preparing the shop for opening. Reaching for the hem of my top, I began to undress.

I could not help glancing over myself as I went. The pain in that nightmare had felt too real —but there was nothing on the surface of me to indicate harm. There was no blood; no light, and my throat was dry.

I must just be cursed with a vivid imagination.

After I had gotten changed ( I opted for my government-issued ensemble instead of the waitress costume, which I had thrown into the furthest depths of the wardrobe ) I went straight for the front counter.

I had to bottle up that nightmare before it would inevitably distract me all day.

I retrieved a glass jar and flexed my fingers. My eyes fluttered closed, and I concentrated on that black void. I reached into the deepest depths of myself for that magic; unsure if it would come to me so easily after what had happened with Kynes.

But the mist formed; tendrils of smoke curled from my hands and spiralled for the neck of the jar. The exchange was easier this time. Instead of plain grey like Georgia's, the dream that gathered there was a marbled dark blue and black. Swirled ink.

No lightning struck. No thunder rolled.

This nightmare was merely a different emotion. Not senseless rage or selfishness —but anguish.

I hurriedly bottled it before shoving in a cork.

I no longer wanted to think about it.

Another throng of customers arrived at my door about three hours later.

It did not surprise me in the same way that it had the first time, but it still rendered me uneasy.

I dithered for a good while, wondering if I were somehow dreaming again. But I was alert —and they were truly out there, peering inside and waving.

I went outside to greet them, but I was really there to seek out a familiar face. I had a very good idea of who exactly was behind this. Though I stalled dead in my tracks at the sight of an abundance of Beta-born creatures of magic amongst the Gamma-Dwellers.

They were easily spotted: beings from any other Plane wore whatever they wished; were cleaned and nourished; and ignored Earth regulations of the banning of flight higher than ten feet.

The countable four human mortals who were here today edged away cautiously, and knew better than to pick a fight. Besides —these Beta-born had had nothing to do with the human war.

"Did some of you come here from the Beta Plane?" I could not resist asking.

"Yes," a Faerie clad in bright green and yellow answered. The burst of colour was jarring in the sea of grey and black. Their red eyes glinted in the sunlight. "Some of my kin sent a letter declaring that there was a Dreamcatcher who could spin her own dreams."

So Kynes was not behind this wave. I was relieved at least, to know that she respected my wishes that much.

I stiffened. "...In a way," I mumbled.

"So it is true!" a Shifter posing as an Elf exclaimed. I could only tell that they were one because of their eyes; Shifters had slightly slitted feline eyes, which was a consistent feature regardless of their disguise.

"I suppose so," I admitted. I then gestured to the front door. "I am open until nightfall."

Everyone began to clamber inside past me.

My gaze still wandered to the surrounding buildings. There was nothing to see, but I could not help myself. Wytches lacked forethought and self control. Not much was preventing Kynes from coming back.

If she knew what was good for her however, she would stay far away from me. I still harboured no anger for her, but we were volatile. Chaos.

A flame, and gasoline.

When nothing revealed itself after a minute, I turned away. A part of me was glad.