In truth, I never should have climbed the tower, and let us into those rooms. I never should have let Ianto kiss the sleeping girl; he did not wake her, but he woke what had been in her dreams.
He did not rouse her from her slumber, but instead, he shook the shoulder of those things that had been curled within her mind, those things that scritched messages on the inside of her skull, those things that whispered within her, and hollowed her out so that their shrieks would echo within, and then fall, clattering, out of her mouth.
He kissed her, pulled the shining pendant from her throat, and then he ran.
I stayed, rooted to the spot, full of horror and wonderment, and watched the sleeping girl’s skin blister, fade, fall open, and the meat of her dreams grew thousands of legs and a pincers, as it fluttered glistening wet wings, and chirpbuzzed.
I stayed, and watched it crawl the stones to my boots and then glide up them, a thousand thousand thousand legs swarming over me, a wave, until the pincers took hold my teeth and prised them open.
I swallowed down the sleeping girls dream, and felt it fill me, cold and dark, and then I went down the stairs to follow Ianto’s footsteps. I could see the warmth of them, where he’d passed, a fragrant trail of heat and fear.
Her dreams were my dreams now, and I wanted my shining pendant back.
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