Autumn Night, repost

She felt that the autumn came faster than an eye could blink. The days flew by, dressed in colours of agonizing nature, each morning colder and duller than the one before it. But what's more, there was the never-ending smell of decay in the air; decay and the overwhelming feeling of loneliness. The nights were better, but not by far - dark, damp and grey, they covered the swamp like a giant blanket, drowning it in nearly unreal silence. Which could be a bad thing, except to her, it wasn't. This way, she was left to dream undisturbed.

She was quite sure that if the citizens of the rest of town would ever learn of her thoughts - or ways to spend a cold autumn night - they would at least call her strange. At worst, some could see witchcraft in her harmless evening chants. Witchcraft it was not, of course, just a book that used to belong to her mother, something that lie resting in a large pile of useless things in the attic. All it did was help her see the dreams she wanted to. And it was arguable whether the book did it, in any case, but the more she had been using it, the less she felt inclined to try. For the dreams the book seemed to give her were not the sort she would readily part with again.

It was nothing complex, really. No dreams of riches, power or fame; in fact, she'd never even dare to dream of such things, never quite knowing what those would feel to possess. So, she dreamed of simpler things. Like the summer that was now gone, and the man that was to be her husband that was gone with it. Gone just like that, the Baron off to fight over some dispute with a neighbor. Of course, he wouldn't settle for fighting by himself, instead, it was dragging every man along. And now it was almost three months. Nothing has changed, only a slow stream of wounded that were unable to continue the fight. None of them ever brought news of him, though. It was as if he didn't exist, or as if he died... Though all those thoughts aside, each night she dreamed of him beside her, summer surrounding them; a new, bright, joyful dream every night, never repeating itself, and always continuing where it left - as if her real life was a dream that would pass at dawn as she fell asleep.

Of course, all that was said was true for other nights. This night, however, was different. There was no fog over the swamp, the silence, too, lifting itself from the surroundings. A strong wind blew across the landscape, dragging storm clouds through a dark and empty sky, occasionally ripping the shroud for the light of the moon to shine through. The wind howled in the chimney, knocked on the doors and the shutters, the wind was everywhere, wailing in the trees, throwing leaves across the yard and, occasionally, causing a few ripe droplets of rain drop from the skies.

She could feel it, the night was different. She never opened the book tonight, in fact, the thought had not even crossed her mind. All she did was gaze out of the window in sheer fascination. Watching the clouds, the raging treetops and the fleeing leaves. Suddenly, the storm subdued, the wind dying down, the silence once again enveloping the land. She slowly got up and walked to the door, opening it, hesitantly and carefully, then made a few still hesitant steps, with each step growing more assured - and made her way to the entrance to her yard, opening the gate and waiting by it.

She wasn't sure how long she had to wait, but suddenly - though not to her - there was movement just out of the reach of her eye. As she turned to better see what came towards her, a great lightning split the sky for the briefest of moments, followed by a deafening thunder - and once again, there was silence and darkness, faintly illuminated by the moon that peered out from behind the torn clouds. Faintly illuminating a man in worn, dirty clothes and dented and rusty armor. He looked pale, tired and ill, but it was him. He just stood there, looking at her silently, smiling.

Slowly, she walked up to him, quiet and careful, as though not to scare him away, or to break an illusion, then hesitantly reached for his hand. It was dreadfully cold, though whose hands wouldn't be on such a night? She beamed at the realization a moment later - his hand was real, and this wasn't a dream, for she knew it couldn't be. She tugged on his hand, urging him to step inside the house before the storm, and he slowly followed, clanking his armor and smelling faintly of autumn.



Commentary: A remake of my earliest work - this version has a lot of different things, though, and if I find the original, I will put it up for comparing. This version's main difference, however, is the lack of a clear end that I had in the original, only a hint at it. If one reads attentively enough.