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I never really remember my dreams; they rarely seem to make sense, on waking. However, I do remember parts of my last nightmare – of course, that was only a few hours ago.

It was a cold, clear night, much quieter then it was when the events took place. I think that it was raining, in the dream. The cold wind cut through my clothes as though they weren’t there, but I could see the sleeve of my jacket.

In the dream I kneel on the wet earth and feel the mud squelch, and the cold, dirty water soaking into the knees of my trousers. I can smell the blood. The mud shifts as I lean forward, peering at the battered body. My glasses are smeared and I take the handkerchief from my top pocket as though about to wipe them clean. I don’t, though. I lean forward, with the cloth making a pad in my hand, and I press it over his mouth and nose.

Then I put my weight on it.

I can hear my own voice, calm and clear, explaining why I have to kill him. Why this is a job that I must do. In the dream I cannot feel myself speak. I am listening to my own speech, almost admiring the cool and measured tones, pinning down the body of the Hell-god’s twin. It tries to struggle. The body bucks and twists, almost throwing me off, but my weight pins it. The body fights to breathe and I crush away the air. It vibrates, juddering; it arches and then relaxes under me, utterly still. I keep up the pressure on the dead face, waiting to be sure. Then the head moves once more, and Ben’s body looks at me with Jenny’s dark, living eyes…

I look up and away and see the tower, so close, so high – this time a scream trails through the air before the … crunch … of the landing.

And Jenny’s eyes are weeping.

Sometimes I sleep badly. I tend to sit awake at night and read.

Muse; Rupert Giles
Fandom, BTVS
Words, 340

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