Audrelite
20+ years of experience in maladaptive daydreaming
- Joined
- Feb 22, 2023
- Messages
- 3,204
- Reaction score
- 1,479
- Pronouns
- She/Her
- They/Them
- Staff
- #1
- MATURE Themes
- No MATURE Themes Apply
- TEEN Themes
- Mental Illness or Mentions of Self Harm/Suicide
- EVERYONE Themes
- No EVERYONE Themes Apply
- Other Content Warnings
- Emotional self-isolation, distorted perceptions of self, implied death (referenced briefly)
This is my entry for the 2026 Spring One-Shot Contest Delving for Dreams, loosely interpreting the theme You're Worth Hell. As always, I welcome your thoughts, though I do not wish to receive concrit. I wrote this in just over 4 hours; please be kind.
Ship: Cresselia/Darkrai
Content Warnings: Emotional isolation, distorted perceptions of self, implied death (referenced briefly)
Word Count: 840 words
Summary: "I just want to help you," he whispered to the empty air, but the doors to her castle had already slammed shut. She would not hear him.
Read the fic on AO3 here.
Ship: Cresselia/Darkrai
Content Warnings: Emotional isolation, distorted perceptions of self, implied death (referenced briefly)
Word Count: 840 words
Summary: "I just want to help you," he whispered to the empty air, but the doors to her castle had already slammed shut. She would not hear him.
Read the fic on AO3 here.
Angels wreathed in darkness were primed for exile long before they ever earned it. It is a fundamental law of the world's design, though Creanno has never found the blueprint more repulsive than he does now, standing on the black-rocked shore of Newmoon Island. If the landscape weren't so desolate—a sad wasteland of basalt and brine—Rayla would have surely dragged the stones herself to build a physical, tangible castle. She has the charitable patience of the damned; she would have piled the rocks until the tops of every tower touched the sky.
She is a master mason of her own shame. She has spent eternities hoarding every cold glance, every moment of terror she ever inspired, carving that evidence of her unworthiness into heavy, immovable blocks. She stacks those memories into windowless ramparts, sealing the portcullis with the absolute certainty that the interior is not worth the breach. Inside, she has settled into the icy chill of her own shadow; seemingly, she has forgotten that warmth was ever a condition of the living.
From behind a dense cluster of gnarled trees, a melody drifts through the fog: Rayla, singing with a clarity that defies the gloom. It is a haunting theft. Creanno suspects she harvested that sweetness from a human's dream, likely the voice of someone beloved to that dreamer—a friend, a family member, perhaps their spouse—lingering in the mind just long enough to learn the intricacies of their voice before she dove back into the dream, giving a pitch-perfect, poisoned performance. Creanno wonders if that human is still alive, or if the nightmare she left behind finally extinguished them; probably the latter. It is a bitter contradiction: an angel of darkness should never sound so divine.
To be the sole beacon of good in the face of Rayla's exile is a sickening burden. His lunar light is a blunt instrument pricking at her shadowed edges, an unasked-for beauty that only serves to sharpen and deepen her darkness. He cannot force the gate open, no matter how hard he wishes. All his celestial power is a hollow illusion here, a light that can illuminate the ruins but can never touch the prisoner inside. He has spent months tracing the perimeter, his light washing uselessly against the masonry of her conviction.
"...Rayla...?"
His voice was a soft intrusion, breaking the rhythm of her stolen melody. To the Cresselia's utter surprise, the Darkrai emerged out of the shadows of the trees, arms crossed over herself.
"Oh!" Her words were blades honed by centuries of isolation and unrestrained resentment. "Have you finally come to taunt me to my face now after all these months of spying on me?"
"No no, that's not it at all." Creanno took a breath, trying to steady the fluttering of his wings. "I just wanted to tell you... your singing. It's beautiful."
Rayla scoffed, but the sound didn't have the teeth she likely intended; there was a hollow note of exhaustion beneath the cynicism. "Well, don't bother getting attached to the tune. I'm going to lose the ability to sing like this the moment I enter the next person's dreams."
A cold realization settled in Creanno's chest. "Oh. I'm sorry. So... who are you visiting tonight, anyway?"
"That's none of your business. Though I suspect you'll find out one way or another come sunrise."
With every word she spoke, Creanno imagined a fresh stone secured into the fortress—another addition to a wall, a turret, perhaps another for the rock garden she'd confessed to the turbulent ocean of wanting during an earlier visit the week before. When Creanno looked towards her, he was met with her claws pointed in his direction, her words to him thus far carried like swords and shields both, and god, he wished he knew which was doing more damage to his already-shattered heart. He stepped forward anyway, the dark shrubbery littered around suddenly bathed in his soft, shining light.
"You said you'll lose the ability to sing upon entering another's dream? Would you... would you want it back?"
"Why do you even care?" Her appendages extended, a reflex that gave her lower body a striking solidity, even in its amorphous state. "You're the one who gives the good dreams, Creanno. The world loves you for it. Why can't you just let me go about my life in peace?"
"But Ray, can't you see that I want to—"
"Please," she interrupted, and for a second, the Darkrai's voice cracked. "Please, Cre... please just go away."
Her bright-blue eyes gleamed, two freezing points of light holding Creanno's gaze with a desperate and silent plea for him to stop looking at her. Then, the lids descended. And with that, Rayla melded into the shadows without so much as a glance back, the darkness swallowing her whole before Creanno could find the words to stop her.
"I just want to help you," he whispered to the empty air, but the doors to her castle had already slammed shut. She would not hear him.
She is a master mason of her own shame. She has spent eternities hoarding every cold glance, every moment of terror she ever inspired, carving that evidence of her unworthiness into heavy, immovable blocks. She stacks those memories into windowless ramparts, sealing the portcullis with the absolute certainty that the interior is not worth the breach. Inside, she has settled into the icy chill of her own shadow; seemingly, she has forgotten that warmth was ever a condition of the living.
From behind a dense cluster of gnarled trees, a melody drifts through the fog: Rayla, singing with a clarity that defies the gloom. It is a haunting theft. Creanno suspects she harvested that sweetness from a human's dream, likely the voice of someone beloved to that dreamer—a friend, a family member, perhaps their spouse—lingering in the mind just long enough to learn the intricacies of their voice before she dove back into the dream, giving a pitch-perfect, poisoned performance. Creanno wonders if that human is still alive, or if the nightmare she left behind finally extinguished them; probably the latter. It is a bitter contradiction: an angel of darkness should never sound so divine.
To be the sole beacon of good in the face of Rayla's exile is a sickening burden. His lunar light is a blunt instrument pricking at her shadowed edges, an unasked-for beauty that only serves to sharpen and deepen her darkness. He cannot force the gate open, no matter how hard he wishes. All his celestial power is a hollow illusion here, a light that can illuminate the ruins but can never touch the prisoner inside. He has spent months tracing the perimeter, his light washing uselessly against the masonry of her conviction.
"...Rayla...?"
His voice was a soft intrusion, breaking the rhythm of her stolen melody. To the Cresselia's utter surprise, the Darkrai emerged out of the shadows of the trees, arms crossed over herself.
"Oh!" Her words were blades honed by centuries of isolation and unrestrained resentment. "Have you finally come to taunt me to my face now after all these months of spying on me?"
"No no, that's not it at all." Creanno took a breath, trying to steady the fluttering of his wings. "I just wanted to tell you... your singing. It's beautiful."
Rayla scoffed, but the sound didn't have the teeth she likely intended; there was a hollow note of exhaustion beneath the cynicism. "Well, don't bother getting attached to the tune. I'm going to lose the ability to sing like this the moment I enter the next person's dreams."
A cold realization settled in Creanno's chest. "Oh. I'm sorry. So... who are you visiting tonight, anyway?"
"That's none of your business. Though I suspect you'll find out one way or another come sunrise."
With every word she spoke, Creanno imagined a fresh stone secured into the fortress—another addition to a wall, a turret, perhaps another for the rock garden she'd confessed to the turbulent ocean of wanting during an earlier visit the week before. When Creanno looked towards her, he was met with her claws pointed in his direction, her words to him thus far carried like swords and shields both, and god, he wished he knew which was doing more damage to his already-shattered heart. He stepped forward anyway, the dark shrubbery littered around suddenly bathed in his soft, shining light.
"You said you'll lose the ability to sing upon entering another's dream? Would you... would you want it back?"
"Why do you even care?" Her appendages extended, a reflex that gave her lower body a striking solidity, even in its amorphous state. "You're the one who gives the good dreams, Creanno. The world loves you for it. Why can't you just let me go about my life in peace?"
"But Ray, can't you see that I want to—"
"Please," she interrupted, and for a second, the Darkrai's voice cracked. "Please, Cre... please just go away."
Her bright-blue eyes gleamed, two freezing points of light holding Creanno's gaze with a desperate and silent plea for him to stop looking at her. Then, the lids descended. And with that, Rayla melded into the shadows without so much as a glance back, the darkness swallowing her whole before Creanno could find the words to stop her.
"I just want to help you," he whispered to the empty air, but the doors to her castle had already slammed shut. She would not hear him.
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