The Impossible Dream

After all the ordeals Oliver had most recently been through, it all seemed to add up and a wave of fatigue washed over him. He was so tired. Glancing over at Stan, he felt reasonably assured nothing would occur between his stepfather and the immense Larissa. Reasonably assured. Sitting down, the notion of his mother’s impending visit create conflict in his mind. How was he supposed to act? She knew this thing was going to happen and she did not intervene. What could she have said to prepare him? Looking at the situation, a half smile appeared on his face. He knew there was nothing she could have told him, nothing that would have even come remotely close in preparing him for this ordeal. The fact she might have been ineffective warning him did nothing to alleviate the hurt he felt or the sense of betrayal, but still, she was his mother. Conflicted.

Lying down on his side, Oliver closed his eyes. Although bone weary and still imperiled, he forced himself to relax, letting his mind go blank and allowing a sense of calm to fill him. The deeper he got, he began experiencing a sense of floating, drifting on an unseen current as sleep settled over him, fatigue melting away.

In the darkness, he could hear a soft rhythmic pulse, steady, soothing. Warmth enveloped him bathed him in the purest of love and filled him with inner peace. It was then he realized he was in his mother’s womb.  A queer sensation danced over his skin, energy leaving him not unlike the ritual in the Omega house. Light shone all around him. He knew he was dreaming, but in the odd dream fashion, he knew it was him, but somehow not him, he being little more than a spectator. As the light faded, the dreamscape shifted, he looked on a very young version of himself on the ground having just fallen off his first two bicycle, bright tears in his eyes. Both Stan and his mother were there offering soft words of reassurance and helping him get back up on the bike. The scene melted away, now he saw himself, this time a little older, in the garage, gloved hands pounding away at the heavy bag suspended in the corner. It was like a slideshow, flashing little vignettes of his life. Grade school, Sara, the ranch.

Next, he was sitting on his bed in the dorm with Cam, they were laughing over something or other but he did not know what. Sersei appeared, materializing like some radiant golden angel with a beatific smile. Seeing her there filled him with an ache. He knew in her core she was an evil vile girl, she had deceived him and betrayed her brother, but somehow even after all of the villainous things she had done, she still had the power to fascinate him.

The scene shifted and he was himself again, this time he found himself on his back lying upon the altar in the basement of the Omega house, his life essence pouring out him. He opened his mouth to yell, to protest but no sound emerged only a blanket of darkness settling over him.

As the darkness receded, he found himself somewhere else, somewhere out in the open, the sky overhead a pallet of fiery sunset hues. All around him there was a sea of people his size, thousands maybe, all on hands and knees, heads down in supplication, soft chants in an unknown dialect creating a susurrus of whispers.

At the center of the gathering, facing him, sat an enormous polished marble statue of a woman reclining in a massive throne, her attire some type of garment draped off one shoulder. Left arm extended toward him, she held a smoky colored spherical object in the palm of her outstretched hand. Was it the moon? The subtle coloration of it made it look very much like the lunar surface of the moon. On her right side, her arm upon the rest, she held in her hand a spear rising vertically from the base upward and there was an ornate looking carved shield leaning against the side of the throne.

Even at this distance, the delicate masterfully sculpted features of the woman made her appear exquisitely beautiful, the artist somehow capturing a supernatural grace reflected in the colored light of dusk. Navigating through the throng of sprawling devotees to get closer, the statue’s appearance was something of a conundrum in Oliver’s mind. She looked mature without seeming aged, but young without appearing juvenile. Either way, the closer he got, the more resplendent her visage.

What could this place possibly be? Some residual delusion in his own mind created by recent events or possibly related to the Weeping Stone? Such a strange dream.

Suddenly the chanting stopped leaving an ominous quiet hovering like a palpable sensation in the air as the prostrate people all around him dissipated like wisps of smoke caught in a breeze, leaving him alone. The hair on his neck rose and goosebumps decorated his arms.

Gazing now over the empty space recently inhabited by people, “Weird,” he murmured, his voice raspy in his own ears.

Turning his attention back to the beautiful statue, his breath caught in his throat. With his back turned, the figure had moved, head tilted forward now as if regarding him. Her eyelids opened, but instead of eyes, there was only a luminous purplish colored glow.

“Ah, I,” he babbled, staggering back a few steps from the gaze. Blackness clouded his vision and the ground seemed to rush up under him, making him feel as if he were falling.

Suddenly, Oliver awoke with a startled jolt, rolling to his side on the cool surface of the kitchen table, eyes blinking rapidly, heart racing in his chest.

Rising from where he sat near Larissa, “You okay pal?” Stan asked, taking a few steps in Oliver’s direction, a concerned expression on his face.

“I,” Oliver paused, frowning. Why was the hair on his neck still standing?