Her vision swam in murky water. Stupid. Stupid, Stupid. The sigh had become ragged breaths. She had to take care of this, before the guard came looking for their missing patrol.
“Do not let it control you,” her father’s voice said, through the thumping drum beat that filled her ears and the swamp water that seeped into her bones, pulling her down, down. “Your fear belongs to you, you command it, Elawyn. This is your body. Breathe.” The little girl at the edge of the Byfog Marsh had seen her first Nightmare, eyes aglow, it strode on the mist, seeking out a victim amongst the distant huts. In the grimoire her great grandmother had written, they were only stories of the old days, but in the Byfog, before her, it stood, eyes bulging, thorny hide bristling, its thirst emanating in waves. The Nightmare needed fear, so it conjured horrors, blood, rivers of blood flooding the marsh…dead, everyone dead…
But her father banished night creatures like this. The Nightmare was gone with a wave of its hand, back to its home realm. That had always been the job of the Mornas. Even after the war, and the occupation, even as the rebellion raged on, and settled, and rose up again. In secret, they still protected the people of the marsh.
Still, the fear would not leave, and she remained frozen, smaller than ever. She felt smaller than the insects that crawled around in the pungent fumes, and she couldn’t breathe. Didn’t he know that? She couldn’t.
He conjured a spirit light, a warm, orange glow that smelt like bed time stories by the fireside and mother’s home brewed honey wine. She looked into the spirit light and felt herself lifted out of the muddy waters. Your fear belongs to you. “I am here Elawyn. Come back to me now. You are strong, my brave warrior. Come now,” She forced a breath, hard, from her lungs. She took another. The memory gave way to the ground where she sat. My fear belongs to me.
The Haphazard Writer's Journal 