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[Xana]

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She sees a woman who looks exactly like herself, but somehow Xana knows it is not herself she sees. That horrifying confused feeling that often accompanies dreams washes over her. She was in a crypt of some sort and she could hear the ocean's surf. A familiar looking man and woman were in the room with her, the man laying supine on a stone sarcophagus. She viewed the person who looked so much like herself only harder, meaner, somehow, from a doorway. The other gypsy is chanting in the old language, words that sound like "Make this man whole!". Suddenly there is a terrible explosion and the room fills with smoke and fire, the very walls trembling.

In the way dreams do, time stutters forward and the one who looks so much like herself stumbles from the room, gagging, not seeing Xana's dream self as she passes her by. Another stutter, and Xana hears a voice nearly identical to her own say "A life for a life, I must now kill my sister".

Xana sat up suddenly, barely choking back a scream as she realized that it was all a dream. She looked around this particular rented room, the light of which was given by only a small lantern. Sweat beaded her face, neck, and chest; with a groan she lay back onto the pillow and thanked the gods that be that it was all just a dream.

The woman lay in the gloom staring up at the shadows on the ceiling. My sister... This phrase resonates repeatedly in her mind and she sits up once again, her hand covering her mouth. "Merrique!", she blurts against the backs of her fingers, suddenly realizing it had been years since she had even thought of her twin, who she grew up not knowing, the twin lost to death at her very birth. Feeling her heart skip a beat, Xana thinks to herself that this must be her mind's way of reminding her that she should never have, nor ever again, forget to pray for the soul of her lost sister.

No more sleep came for the confused gypsy this night. She watched the shadows dance, listened to the night birds, thought of the love she so desperately wanted yet will not have. Not soon enough, dawn broke cloudy and dreary across the land, and she wandered out to greet the day.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner