Frostbitten - Chapter Eleven

Interspersed among the soldier images, Jack saw a house.

It was a huge house, like a Home Reality-style Victorian.  It hovered in the midst of a mountain forest of pine, about a yard in the air.  Snow flurried to the ground, but it didn’t last long; on the opposite side of the clouds, the sun melted away the frost.  It gurgled farther down the hillside.

That was all Jack saw at first.  Then a man with a lung hanging out of his split-open belly swallowed up his gaze.

*

Now Jack was inside the house.  The room was huge, with a vaulted ceiling, mosaic walls, and gold-leafed columns along the edges.  People, all dressed in immaculate gowns and robes, flitted here and there.  Some had skin as white as Jack’s; others had flesh so dark it was nearly black.  Some emanated heat, some left trails of sparkling frost behind them, while a few had trains of birds fluttering around their heads.  But they all glowed with power and immortality.

Jack saw himself.  He looked younger, maybe sixteen or seventeen.  His hair grew long, almost to his shoulders, and it was stark white, like his skin and eyes.  His tunic was white, too, with satin edges of wintergreen.  The fur-lined cloak draped about his shoulders sparkled snowy at times, then flickered to a pale blue.  A slim belt of white fur around his waist held a graceful dagger with a blade of what looked like ice.  He looked more powerful than any of the people in the room.

*

After another tangle with bloodied, mangled soldiers, Jack’s subconscious returned to the house.

There had been so much blood, even his mind’s eye now saw everything past a haze of red.

He saw himself again, clasped inside the arms of an older woman whose sanguine features were lost in the crimson cloud.  His eyes were closed, and she had a hand to his hair, as if she were comforting him.  The others in the ballroom – clearly what it was – all stood still.

Then the house began to shake.

* 

Another clash with the soldiers. One screamed at Jack, his indecipherable language suddenly making sense.  He wailed his life’s story, each description of his children, each detail of his achievements digging its claws into Jack’s brain.

Finally the soldier whirled away, and Jack was back at the house.  Either it was still shaking, or his mind was about to shatter; either way, the ballroom was also empty.  Except for one figure.  The red woman, sprawled facedown on the floor.  Even in the trembling, scarlet frame, Jack could see the blood stain, the pool oozing from her chest.

He didn’t know her.  Or, at least, he didn’t think he did.  But one thought shrieked through the quivering mass of color.

Why wasn’t I there?