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lucid dream

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It's eating at him. Something is wrong with his body, has been since he woke. Muscles trembling, in his belly, shaking and shivering like his guts are icy cold. Fjord coughs up salt water and sucks in a sobbing breath, and coughs up more. In his dream the eye is watching, pushing. 

R E T A L I A T E

Fjord doesn't know how. He's had this dream twice since they were taken, and he can't seem to get the terrible, looming presence of the eye to understand: awake, he has no means of retaliation. He can't see, speak, or move in these enchanted shackles, and it feels like they feed on him. 

 He would love to tell the crushing weight of the eye that he is open to ideas, but even in the dream Fjord is pinned in place, helpless to the tides and hopeless in his chains. 

It's another lungful of water before the Presence lets him be, coughed up partially through his nose, painful and brackish and heavy.

He teeters between awake and unconscious, and doesn't know what to make of it all. Retaliate. 

Retaliate. 

He can't move, but he can think. He thinks about his sword, and feels its weight straining just beyond the nullifying field of the chains. If he just keeps working at it, maybe, maybe---

Fjord keeps his eyes shut and tries to breathe as quiet as he can. He imagines his falchion in painstaking detail, and tells himself he'll start by cutting his way free. 

The smell of brine is his only company.