Sitting on the bed or laying wide awake

The raven talks a lot. A steady stream of nonsense that continues even when no one is listening or around. Of course having an audience only makes this worse and traveling with Heimdall has made the bird happy. He tells the white god everything. Everything he has seen, everything he has come to know about this country and while it all seems trivial at first the raven's language starts to change to turn into something else entirely.


It's strange at first and then familiar. These are Odin's thoughts, the All-Father's words and the beginning of his story here in America.

When Eric next opens the journal he's stunned to find all the pages filled with hastily written symbols and what he assumes to be words in a language he doesn't recognize let alone know. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the gray bunny dart from under the bed and into the corner. He throws the journal at it.

[Written in a journal provided by his therapist]

Dream log? Hippie New Age bullshit. I hate this woman.

I need to sleep.

It was a stroke of luck finding the horn blower. Huginn had been so excited he had nearly dived at Heimdall's head when he had spotted him. Instead he had waited and followed the Norsemen home, trailing him from the skies.

Landing none too lightly on the window sill the corvid wasted no time making a racket. Rapping at the glass with his beak and flapping his wings for added effect.

"HEY HEY HEY OPEN UP."

There is a wolf eating the sun. Eric watches and it's not the wolf that he finds surprising. The wolf he knows (and he does not know how) has finally found it's place. The sun, the sun is bleeding from the wounds inflicted by fang and claw. The blood falls like rust colored rain and the Earth burns where it touches. Eric wants to run but he can't. Not this time.

Can't run. Can't look away.

He starts screaming and...


Wakes up with a start the scream dying on his lips even as his conscious mind races to take control. He tosses aside the bed covers hating the way the fabric clings to his clammy skin. Blinking, fumbling he turns on the lamp by the nightstand, reaching for his phone and a pack of cigarettes.

It's a sad thing, Eric thinks with a smirk, to have your therapist on speed dial. Three rings. Far too many for the money he's shelling out for the quack's services.

"Doc? The drugs are shit. Still having nightmares and..." Eric stops. No, maybe he won't tell her about the strange hallucinations that have started to haunt his waking hours. "The drugs are shit." He repeats and leaves it at that.

( Saying all I know is I gotta get away from me. )