The only things that Riley has seen in the dreams she allows herself to have now, come from that damn book that she refuses to open, and that damn world that she refuses to revisit.

Now, instead of standing stubbornly in the white room and glaring at an unopen book, she finally has a new dream. For a moment, this is a relief and a pleasure. Anything new is welcome.

But the frustration of a hallway of broken doors begins to seep in quickly. Her patience is finite and easily disturbed; she grabs one door and it crumbles in her claws. She touches another and it creaks with disdain. She moves down the hall, and she knows she is being denied, left and right, by others that hold some significance she has yet to understand. There is nothing more frustrating than wanting the knowledge behind a door, and being locked out.

She grows sour with impatience, and begins breaking the doors as she passes instead of trying each one.

Pieces of splinters litter the skin of her tentacles as they thrash wildly around her. Running has begun, spurned by the need for answers that could only come from reaching some sort of end. The doors were nothing but distractions now, keeping her from what had to be a goal. The point of the dream had to be a goal. She runs to find it, smashing doors as she flies past them.

Her tentacles slam against one door to the right, and it does not break.

It takes her several seconds to realize it; when she finally does, she slows to a jog, and swivels around. It was still there, strangely lit as if it was trying to tell her something. This the door silently tells her. This was your goal. Not the end of the path, but this one, very specific door.

She walks back towards it, and finds it obliging when she tries to enter. There, inside, were answers in the form of more questions - as was always the case with a good answer. She enters the room, her room, and immediately can tell she was not alone. The presence within felt soothing, and calm. There was nothing there but acceptance - Riley would reach out, and find the presence there, in her hand. It did not fight her possession. It was hers, now and forever. Just as everything should be.

But then it cracks, as does everything around her. Everything begins to shatter, piece by piece, until she is nothing more than fragments and she knows this was all she'd been since the first time she'd died. No amount of memory retrieval, or rekindled connections, or victory and blood would ever seal her cracks back together again. She was broken, through and through, and refusing to accept that.

She felt that presence in her hand, convincing her to accept that being broken was not the end. It only made her more fluid, more mobile. She was broken, and it was as well - it filled in the cracks until she felt like something entirely new, and entirely more powerful.

Still broken. But better than new. Free.

---

When she awoke, her eyes flickered open, and she laid face up on the bed of bark and leaves. The pumpkin sun pierced through the tree she called home, burning rays into her eyes. She recalled the dream perfectly, but could not decide if it meant anything until she sat up and felt it by her side. There, on her left side, a sword was hilted securely to her waist. This would not be so surprising, save for the fact that she already had a sword hilted to her right side, and this was the only sword she'd been carrying around. The one on her left, however, was different. She felt it humming with power and life, and knew it to be the creator of her newest, most vivid dream. She'd touched it there, and held it now, in her hands.

It held the kind of power she'd never expected, but always hoped to have. With a flick of her wrist, Riley unhooked the hilt of her old sword. The long, useless blade of nothing but metal and blood fell to the ground, forgotten and discarded. Her sights were set only on the new sword, and it's brilliant, sunburst shaped hilt.

Where did you come from. She whispered to her new acquisition. It gave her no answers; it felt empty, and unready to reveal itself. Well. No matter. You can tell me when you're ready. I have no reserves when it comes to patience; but for you, I will wait. We will do great things, my pet. She ran her fingers down the blade, over and over, much as one would brush their fingers down the lines of a lover's body with affection. Great and terrible things.