“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”
Oscar Wilde
Darkmere is the realm between our world and the world of Dreams. It is where the monsters that lurk underneath our childhood beds dwell when not filling our innocent heads with their frightful visions. It is where the impish Sandman and the delicate Good Fairy meet when not making their respective rounds.
It is where beings of ethereal beauty or horrific ugliness congregate and conduct affairs that have little to do with humankind. The denizens of Darkmere view us with either passing interest or with casual disdain. They are ancient and immortal, sons and daughters of chaos-thought; we are transient, fleeting.
However, there are mortals who travel easily to Darkmere, and while not always welcomed with open arms, are allowed to wander freely. And at our own risk, for the safety of mortals is not necessarily their concern.
There are times in which the insouciant beings of Darkmere are moved to pity, especially by the plight of a tormented child. Some of those children are taken away to be raised in this place between the dream and the tangible.
My name is Phaedra Garrett. If you are a lover of urban fantasy, then you know of me. So far, I have four books to my credit, with a fifth needing only to be transcribed from a handwritten notebook. I’ve yet to join the ranks of those I consider deities in my genre, but it has been said of my tales that I infuse such realism in them that one could almost be convinced that magical beings indeed exist. I write often of Darkmere, but I give away none of its secrets.
I do not write for approbation, nor do I write for material wealth, though both have often come my way. I write to live. I write because the stories within me insist upon being told, and I obey their every command. I write in order to infuse this cold world in which I live with some semblance of magic.
Writing is as necessary to me as food or shelter. Pen and paper are my spiritual sustenance. I cannot imagine what I would do if I did not write.
How do you know when someone has visited Darkmere? Think of a song that stays with you, close to your heart, or a work of art that touches your soul. Chances are that artist somewhere in their lifetime, has been there. Children come to Darkmere all the time; for them the line between fantasy and reality does not exist.
Those of us who visit often are never the same. There's a look about us, some people call it ‘fey’, others call it ‘abnormal’. It's as if live we in a dream even when fully awake. When we return to this world, we are filled to bursting with ideas and images that simply must be expressed. We are the intense, the dramatic, the passionate, the romantic and the visionaries.
Yes, we are even the mad.
I often journey to Darkmere, not always seeking inspiration. There are times I go to renew myself, to seek solace from an increasingly hostile world.
Darkmere is easily accessible, just close your eyes, and want to be there. No road maps, no complicated directions, no incantations.
Oh yes, Darkmere is quite easy to find, but not quite as easy to leave.
And with every journey to Darkmere, a price must be paid, for a place such as this never yields its gifts without cost. Those who foolishly try to cheat this world between dreams find themselves suddenly blocked. And the inability to return is often enough to cause one to become despondent, to even take their own lives in the hopes that their soul will find its way back.
I actually enjoy the company of the myriad creatures who make their home here. Contrary to popular opinion, one need not be virgin to touch a unicorn (and I could tell you stories about their horns that would most definitely change your view of them forever). Werewolves do not always change at the light of a full moon, and there is indeed a reason why one sock always disappears in the dryer.
As is my want, I tend to be solitary by nature, and those of Darkmere respect my solitude. They find me refreshing.
I am in Darkmere tonight, sans notebook and pen, a highly unusual occurrence for any writer. This can be a dangerous place for the unwary, but I wander at will and unmolested. The winding paths and smooth cobblestone streets shift and meander, sometimes leading up to the magnificent castles of jewel-like stone that are the homes of the both the Unsidhe and the Sidhe courts; others lead to sacred hills and forests, and some of the roads go absolutely nowhere.
My own sojourn finds me in front of one of my favorite haunts—The Ash & Oak.
The Ash & Oak seems to be Darkmere's nexus. Like a fabulous bazaar of beings, whatever you seek, more than likely could be found here.
Lilting, ethereal music from a variety of instruments swirl around me, and the sounds and fragments of conversations stroke my ears as tenderly as a lovely elven shaman did with his lips once upon a moonlit night beneath Darkmere’s skies. Even duels of honor are conducted without a single voice being raised.
On one side are a group of young dwarves, obviously influenced by human adolescent fashion; baggy pants, sweatshirts and steel-toed boots. One even had a baseball cap turned backwards, and several silver rings ran up the side of one large ear.
I casually wave my hand at a shaggy lycanthrope, whom I remember was a friend of my long-ago shaman. Long canines formed a friendly, if slightly feral smile.
The space of the Ash & Oak defies every single law of physics. Outside, the building is rather small and unprepossessing, built of stone, much like pubs and inns from days gone by. Inside, it becomes an MC Escher painting, endless stairways, rooms and corridors, as complex as any labyrinth. Every time I come here, it seems as if something has been added.
I delve deeper into The Ash & Oak with a set purpose to my seemingly endless meanderings. A tankard of something brown, rich and sweet was handed to me by the diminutive pixie lad who tended the bar, his wings like stained glass.
I have come to offer payment at last, for what Darkmere has given me.
Some who come here pay in gold, others in blood, still others barter their souls.
This night, I give my body as recompense.
Ironic then, the one being whose advances up to this point I’d spurned, turned out to be the very one who would exact the price of the creative bounty I’d gained from time spent in Darkmere.
Silverthorn, the High Prince of the Unsidhe Court.
Imagine a being whose beauty is so painful that it is frightening to behold, and to stare too long at it can cause such madness in one’s soul.
Envision that, and still you cannot fathom just how impossibly lovely he is to behold. Extremely tall, thin yet powerful, regal, and arrogant—these words do little justice to the image before me.
His is a face of harmonious transcendence, defying gender, chiseled and sculpted to inhuman delicacy. The eyes are wide, glittering emerald drops with thin sweeping brows and feather-fringed lashes. The ageless cast of his features belies the ancient knowledge contained within those disturbing crystalline orbs.
Those eyes imprisoned me with their undisguised hunger. A mere gaze and already I ached for his touch, though too, I feared him.
I wanted to drink deep of his mystery. And I wanted to run and hide.
His hair is like the night sky with luminous strands of starlight. It flowed down his back, a shimmering vestment on its own. Living tendrils my fingers have always longed to touch.
Silverthorn had forsaken his usual whispering robes for denim and leather. The clothes are strangely fascinating; they flatter the tall elven prince. He glided towards me with effortless grace, a Baryshnikov in blue jeans. The cascade of black velvet swept away from his face, revealing the telling points of his fae heritage. He favored me with an inhumanly erotic smile, blinding in its perfection, blatant in its desire, and from that moment, we both know that I am his. Forever, should that be his wish.
“Come, my dear Phaedra,” extending a slender, silver ringed hand out to me, “You have a debt to pay, and I wish to collect it.” His voice shimmers and coalesces around me, like pure music. “In full.”
I placed my hand in his; he enfolds it in a silken steel clasp. “And in private.”
The Ash & Oak has shimmered and faded from sight. I am now in a large chamber of soft, muted colors and delicately carved furnishings. A fire blazes orange gold-blue in a marble hearth. Swords, shields and lances grace one wall, intricately woven tapestries line another. The carpeting beneath my feet is like sinking into air. A massive bed, seemingly hewn from a single giant piece of highly polished dark wood dominates the room, a not-so subtle reminder of what I will give in exchange for Darkmere’s gifts.
