Dreaming, Dreaming, Dark

It is a considerable privilege to be invited to the Carnival of Dreams, they say. The ticket is never postmarked, never granted with a return address. Those who ignore the ticket may find it in places where it is most visible: curled around a toothbrush, folded in a wallet, crushed within a sleeping fist. Disposing of the ticket is not possible, either; it always finds a way back home.

For adventurers, the ticket is often heralded as a blessing and a challenge. There are prizes beyond compare, they say, riches and glory and whatever else your heart desires. But earning such things comes at a price, and some visitors never return home. Those who do are not the same. Some shuffle where they might have sprinted; others put their weapons away and turn their backs on the lives they loved. When asked, the survivors rarely share anything more than cursory deflections.

The carnival, they say, gives and takes. I did the same. Maybe you will, too, someday.

When Annabelle finds the ticket nestled in her fruit basket beneath bruised bananas and rosy apples, she curses under her breath. On impulse, she seizes the ticket and wrenches her hands in opposite directions, desperate to render it irredeemable, but it is magic, of course, and does not succumb to her assault.

She sinks into a chair and bows her head, holding the ticket before her face. Five years deep into retirement, she can’t fathom why she of all people would be selected. She hasn’t swung a sword in years, and her knees can’t handle the kind of rigorous activity she once delighted in. Just thinking about her days of scaling cliffs and wrestling fiends and chasing rogue goblins makes her ache.

It wasn’t an injury or a curse or an obligation that led her to retire; Annabelle chose to give up the mercenary lifestyle in favor of settling down. She found that the rough-and-tumble course contributed to astronomically-high blood pressure, not to mention an increased risk of infection, and when she reflects back on her time as an adventurer, Annabelle winces at the thought of how much she spent repairing tattered clothes, worn boots, and dulled steel. Now, she adheres to a weekly budget, a habit imparted by her wife, and only occasionally splurges on a nice bottle of honey-wine to share.

Desdemona doesn’t like to reminisce. In her youth, she was first a scholar, then a traveling musician, and her stories often rival Annabelle’s in whimsy and intensity. She is of the opinion, however, that the past should be left where it lies. In many respects, Annabelle is inclined to agree; there is no use in clinging to nostalgia, after all, especially when their histories are viewed through such romantic, rosy filters.

But still, Annabelle does not want to forget who she was. The warrior still lives on within her, rising up in crowded stores and in traffic, and Annabelle doesn’t mind the flash of heat in her blood—or the way her rigid stare makes bold men falter. She keeps these instances to herself to avoid Desdemona’s dejection and disapproval.

As she clings to the ticket, Annabelle feels the faint murmur of her past thrumming in her veins. Her heart beats louder than it has in months; the last time it rivaled this was when she swept a child out of the road, stealing him from a thunderous death of hooves as a carriage raced by. It is the adrenaline of heroics, of risk and danger, that makes Annabelle remember what it’s like to feel alive.

And then Desdemona’s arms are weaving around her shoulders, and she presses a kiss to the back of Annabelle’s head. “Morning. What’ve you got there?”

Knowing that her voice will betray her, Annabelle raises the ticket so that her wife can see it better.

Immediately, she feels Desdemona stiffen before reaching for the ticket. “Gods above, they’re insensitive. Don’t they know you’re out of the business? Well, pity for them. Tuck it in a drawer, and we’ll forget about it soon enough.”

“That’s not how it works.” Annabelle squeezes the ticket until her fingertips are white, refusing to relinquish it. “You don’t ignore it. You don’t forget about it. One way or another, now or later, you go to the carnival.”

Desdemona untangles herself from Annabelle and settles on the chair diagonal from hers. She rests her cheek against a propped hand and sighs. “And then what? Fight for your life in exchange for a final bout of glory and honor? It’s not worth it, Ann.”

“I don’t want any of that,” Annabelle says, bristling. “But I don’t exactly have a choice. If I don’t go of my own accord, they’ll take me. The carnival isn’t optional. Invitations are a formality, and you have to attend.”

Frowning, Desdemona searches Annabelle’s face for some time before speaking again. “I can’t tell you what to do. Never could. Always loved that, how rotten and stubborn you were. If you go, I won’t stop you. But I’ll worry about you every second you’re gone. So you have to promise you won’t be too reckless.”

Annabelle smiles. It’s easy to fall in love, over and over again, with a woman like Desdemona. Opinionated but amicable, she’s a lover and a fighter at once, and Annabelle constantly combats the urge to silence her with kisses. “I will. I’ll come home. I promise.”

***

Sword strapped to her back, Annabelle approaches the yawning iron fence that houses the carnival. It is imposing yet intoxicating, boasting that same air of unknown excitement she’s craved for years. Her palms are sweating, and she wipes them on her trousers, worried that her grip will be too unstable if she doesn’t.

She passes through the gate, and the carnival comes to life, lights illuminating where there had only been darkness and song bursting into existence like the reanimated dead. It takes all her might not to jump, but she manages it, pleased that her instincts remain sharp.

Before her stands a ticket booth, dappled in red, white, and gold. Atop it sits a figure, facial features hidden beneath an over-sized top hat save for a wide, toothy grin. The individual rhythmically taps a long black cane against the booth, drawing Annabelle’s undivided attention. Once received, the figure laughs, head thrown back and throat bared, feet splayed outward in delighted kicks.

“Welcome, Annabelle,” the figure says once righted. “We thought you’d never make it.”

“I couldn’t exactly say no, could I?” she says, one hand falling onto the hilt of her sword. “You don’t make it easy.”

The figure offers only a shake of the head, whipping about long black strands of hair. “We only want what you want, Annabelle. Do you know what that is?”

She swallows, suddenly unsure. “There are a lot of things. More money would be nice. A spa membership. And I saw the cutest pair of boots the other day—”

“No,” the figure says. “None of that. Think, Annabelle. This is an opportunity. An escape. Don’t you understand? Don’t you see?”

And of course, by now, she does. It isn’t that the humble life is unsatisfying; she loves the town and her wife and all the mundane habits she’s adopted. But at night, Annabelle finds herself clinging to memories of tombs and treasure. She’s not as spirited as she once was, but something within her craves that excitement, that feeling of duty and purpose. She wants adventure.

She draws her sword and widens her stance, boasting a grin that beckons to her past and welcomes it. The figure before her grins wider than ever and leans forward, chin resting in open hand. “Took you long enough.”