random etchings

Sew

There’s a tavern at the edge of chaos where the nightmares congregate at dawn, full of the stories of their dreamer’s fears and ready to stand up and toast their successes with fire and blood. Each one is terrible to look upon, from the shadow, who stares out of the corner with sharp teeth and mirrors for eyes, to the maenad, who would be beautiful if not for the mad laughter and the gore beneath her claws.

And in the midst of these night terrors, jostling and boasting for space at the bar, only one figure is given wide berth.

He isn’t a frightful figure—in fact, in the right costume he could pass as one of Santa’s elves—no bigger than the span of a man’s hand and whistling as he stitches. He always stitches, never putting his work down, even for the loudest story or the fiercest brawl. On his head, a spider spins his thread, her body widow marked.

When he speaks, as he sometimes does, the bar hushes, and even the dragon at the hearth stills and the room grows cold.

“I met a dreamer in the night.” His voice is quiet, just a whisper in the hush. “A gentle lady whose life had known such pain that even nightmares are a respite from the horror that she endures.

“And I stitched her such a dream—of a future when her husband changed because of the strength of her love, when her bruises were healed, when her children laughed again.

“And when she woke, the veil was still before her eyes, and instead of leaving, as she had resolved the night before, she remained, certain that finally, he would change.”

The other inhabitants of the tavern pale and their boasts quiet, for of all nightmares unleashed when Pandora opened hell, none are as deadly as Hope.