Dreams, no matter how surreal, had meaning.
This, Sphinx believed unfalteringly; although it was not a belief he had come by of his own volition, but had rather had drilled into him as he grew and learned.
Imhotep, the man who had raised him, was something of an enigma to him, even now―but he was wise. He knew the world in ways that Sphinx did not, and taught him what he could be bothered to learn. He’d gotten him ready for the world, taught him from a very young age what to do and what not to do in public, who he should trust and who he should not, and what to do if he found himself in trouble, no matter what kind.
Sphinx had been an energetic and explorative child, and later a rather rebellious teen, and now was closer to where he’d started despite having left home some years ago. He was curious about the rest of the world, the places Imhotep had told him of but never let him see in person. He felt at home among the ruffians and outcasts of the world, felt happy with no place he had to return to when the day was out―although he did find himself to be wanting for a consistent place to sleep at night.
These few years away from home had brought him to many places he never would have seen if he had stayed at home, but he would freely admit he missed knowing where he would be laying his head each night.
His dreams were surreal, often frightening, and not knowing if the place he’d be having them would be secure was a cause for great anxiety.
What gave him more anxiety still was that simple fact of life he believed so whole-heartedly―dreams, no matter how surreal, had meaning.
If this was true then what, exactly, did that say about the dreams that he had? What did they mean?
It was a difficult subject for him, something he couldn’t speak of out loud with anyone but Imhotep, and yet something he didn’t think he’d even be able to articulate to the most trusted person in his life. Words were not his strong suit, and feelings were not terribly far behind them; understandably, trying to combine the two and properly get his point across was not something he thought he’d do well with, and particularly not with a subject so… Touchy.
Call him paranoid, but he found himself disbelieving in the idea that Imhotep would be able to provide answers he would like.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what such terrible dreams meant for him.
He could call to mind many that scared him, all different, sharing few ideas or themes between them. In particular, there was a dream that left him shaking for hours after he woke, left him unsettled the entire day.
It was disjointed, broken, but he knew what was happening.
There was a strange mummy, and a large creature he could not comprehend with his waking mind, but knew intimately in the dream. He thought his dream-self called it Set. In his own hand there was a blade made of light, and on the opposite wrist a shield would form to block attacks from the monster. A fight would rage between he and the monster. It blasted him with fire, but occasionally he would manage to strike it, until finally, finally it fell. And there was a moment, an orb that spoke to he and the Mummy, and the Mummy wonderfully fouling up whatever he was supposed to do with the vase he was given.
And then he would wake.
The dream itself felt more like a memory, and that scared him even more.
Past lives weren’t something he thought of often, but he preferred to believe that was for a reason―and that dream, in particular, made up about 75% of that reason. The fear it caused in him comprised another 15% or so, and, he thought, the last 10% was just general lack of attention to the ideal.
But not thinking about the idea didn’t mean he didn’t believe it. He certainly thought it was possible.
It was just that he liked to think that whatever past life he may have had wasn’t… That. Whatever that even was.
Still, it wasn’t as if there was anything he could do if that was his past.
He just hoped it wasn’t.