Prosieous (A Short Story)

Photo by Fineas Anton on Unsplash

Jolted from sleep on a sudden breath, Prosieous woke from a nightmare drenched in cold sweat.

Muscles ribbed and tense, Prosieous turned over to his wife, Leybeth. Her muted snores like the soughing of the wind through trees. He breathed in her vanilla and lilac scent, confident in his love for her despite what his dreams had told him over the millennia.

Prosieous trusted her with his secrets and a great deal of his history and, therefore, the history of the cosmos. The things of legend often forgotten or misinterpreted, but that were every part of him, like his flesh and her beating heart.

Careful not to wake Leybeth, Prosieous slid from the bed.

Echoes of his nightmare curdled from his subconscious as he quietly stubbled through the cottage: mounds of bodies sweeping the landscape, cloudy iridescent skies infused with streaks of lightning, and, in the distance, a heart-faced woman in draceau-styled armor doused in ichor.

Prosieous seized a pair of shorts draped off the arm of a chair. Cautious eyes tracing Leybeth's pregnant belly beneath the comforter, hair sprawled across her pillow in a beautiful mess.

For years, Prosieous neglected to confess that Leybeth would always love him more than he could ever love her, no matter how hard he tried.

And he tried.

For what it was worth, he did love her.

However, his heart, pounding in his ears, would always belong to another—the recurring nightmare proof.