The walls of Thistlemere had long since begun to feel like iron bars; their representation of her captivity more oppressive than any force Regan could bring to mind. The double front doors were unlocked, though nearly too massive for her to open alone, and she sometimes ventured to look out of them, when she was not too hungry or tired to bear the idea of heaving their great bulk aside to let the light in.

Unlocked, yes, but not an escape - it was how her wand had come to be broken, and tended to serve yet to rouse Tristan from his trance before the fire, should she step beyond the threshold.

Though her stomach was persistent in its sharp reminder of emptiness, the promise of a wash of unadulterated sunlight was too much temptation to resist, small as her pleasures had lately become, and Regan laboriously worked one of the huge wooden doors ajar, leaning heavily on the edge of its partner to rest. It would soon be dark, but for the present, the wan kiss of pale gold lifted her spirit into the realm of tolerance, out from the dullness she'd learned to expect of her days.


Sagging there against the water-roughened wood, eyes closed, she breathed deeply and could almost pretend that she was back at Ivy's Run, at home, and that her life had not morphed into a seemingly endless string of waking nightmares. The surety that there was something else, something she'd even known herself recently enough, was the worst part; if she could only get away from the ruin of a house, there would not have to be hunger and loneliness.

As if summoned by her traitorous thoughts, a steely arm wrapped itself suddenly around her middle, hauling her from her feet and provoking a brief scream of panic. There had been no warning of his approach, and as fear made her struggle, the terror-memories of her dreams springing to the fore, an equally strong and unforgiving hand was clamped over her mouth.

No... Nonononono... please...

Half-formed visions and false sense-images leapt out at her as she kicked and squirmed futilely, the sick slide of hands over her skin despite that she knew she was clothed. None of her fighting made the least difference, as it never did; Tristan was far stronger than she ever could be, nevermind than she actually was, and only when she'd exhausted herself to the point of limpness, weeping noiselessly in his grip, did he turn and let her drop to the floor.

The entry door was banged shut, the bolt thrown, and Regan scuttled back as the man with her brother's face rounded on her, empty eyes staring without recognition. He moved as if to reach for her, and she shrieked, scrambling to her feet.

"Don't touch me," she rasped brokenly, half-plea and half-demand, though what effect she expected it to have, she didn't know. Turning, she ran for the stairs, climbing until she reached the place where the landing had begun to crumble, and edged along the rail to a solid section of floor.

He couldn't follow her here, not without collapsing part of the stairs, and the frantic beating of her heart slowed minutely as she crawled through an open window onto a tiny enclosed ledge. She huddled into herself, arms about her upraised knees, and rocked slowly back and forth until the churning, shameful dread started to abate.

Fingers scrubbing at her arms, her legs under the tattered hem of her dress, Regan's own words looped in her mind as she tried to scrape away the awful ghost-caress of her nightmares, his hands, the ultimate corruption of a childish dream.

Don't touch me... don't... please... don't touch me.

Her uneven nails dragged overlapping furrows across her skin, the hot sting at least incongruous enough to counter what she wanted so desperately to forget, and she repeated the motion until all she could see of herself was red, torn in places so that little dots of blood rose to meet the air. Leaning against the window frame, she watched the sun fade below the horizon, feeling a little flame in herself die as twilight took over, because soon it would be dark.

She wasn't strong enough to stay awake through all the darkness; she'd tried, but she never could make it. At least if she was sleeping, she wasn't hungry, but that had been before the dreams came, seizing her and twisting everything into a gross parallel until she woke sweaty despite the cold, panting, sick with disgust at herself and fear of him. She was wary, now, of being in his space, unguarded in sleep, lest he know her thoughts as he had this afternoon and the nightmare become real.

Drained, she slipped back through the window, gathering a rug and a moth-eaten, dust-caked shawl to make her bed with. The ledge would be cold, but perhaps lonely and high enough to keep her mind pure, her demons at bay.

Please let me not dream this night.