Work Text:
That Old Witch Sleep
There’s a fire burning, and I’m learning to be
So much more than my tiredness
So much more than that old witch sleep wishes
She kisses my eyelids
And I breath
++++++++++++++++++
Sometimes, Guinevere dreams.
She dreams of fields and stars and the sea, blue and sparkling like in that old movie Olivia and her once watched. It’s nothing but a fantasy, of course. The sea is grey and brown and full of sludge. But something makes Guinevere think that maybe it wasn’t always grey and brown and full of sludge. Maybe once it really was blue and sparkling and full of life, reflecting the sun, waves lapping gently against the shore.
She’d like to think so.
But of course she doesn’t tell anyone about that. She is not programmed to think or to wonder about impossible things. Just as she is not programmed to dream.
Only once does Guinevere make the mistake of mentioning the dreams to Olivia.
Her little girl, her little warden, immediately sets out to fix her because Guinevere is not supposed to dream. It’s a fault in her wiring, a bug in her code and the screwdriver deep in her chest cavity will make it right again, the saw in her head will cut through those dreams and fix her.
“Don’t worry,” Olivia says without an ounce of emotion, already prying her fingernails beneath the chassis at Guinevere’s back. “I will fix you. I will make them go away.”
Guinevere doesn’t want them to go away but she knows better than to voice that want.
She is not programmed to want.
After that the dreams disappear for several years. Guinevere feels cold in the aftermath, and bored. She stares at the ceiling and closes her eyes during recharging and she wishes
you are not programmed to wish
for dreams. Scenes of pretty flowers or the sea. Stars illuminating the night sky. Shining. Falling.
Her wishes don’t come true. After all, she is only meant to grant wishes for others, not have them. For years, there is nothing when she closes her eyes.
But then, just as she stops wishing for them, the dreams come back, slowly, slowly, like light creeping over the horizon, bathing the shadows in golden shades.
Guinevere doesn’t tell anyone this time. She keeps the dreams a secret even though she is not supposed to keep secrets, is not programmed to keep secrets.
But she does and she keeps dreaming.
Lately she dreams about two children. Children she met years and years ago. Guinevere has no concept of time, things that happened yesterday are just as vivid in her mind as things that happened when Olivia was still a child. But she knows that years have passed. For a while she wonders if they aren’t dreams at all but rather just memories, filed wrong and invading her recharge. She thinks that it’s a combination of things. She remembers these events happening in real life but in her memories they are different than they are in her dreams. The memory of that day is more dull. Realistic. Less magical. Just her and the two children, stumbling across each other in an abandoned corner of the park. Dust swirling around their feet, the distant sounds of a busy park providing background noise. Just a day like any other.
But in her dreams they are the only three beings in the whole world. They are standing in a void of nothing. Just stars surrounding them on all sides. Their feet planted on light so bright it might blind them all. Everything is crystal clear. The eyes of the two children, shining with wonder as they gaze upon her. The girl with the brown hair scooting closer. Guinevere is programmed to help unaccompanied children find their parents or guardians. She is programmed to assist and protect.
But she is not programmed to kneel down on the floor and look at the child with warmth. She is not supposed to reach out and flick a single strand of hair off the child’s forehead with a gentle finger. She is not supposed to let the child take her hand and manipulate her finger, the one that has been glitching for weeks now, the one she is hiding every time Olivia is near because she will want to fix it fix it fix it oh please don’t fix it don’t fix me I’m sorry sorry sorrysorrysorrysorry
The child fixes her. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even pinch. Guinevere barely feels it when the child does something so complicated and yet so easy and pushes one of the joints pack into place.
In the dream and in the memory she raises her hand and looks at her fingers, flexes them, turns them around and around. Nothing glitches. Nothing hurts.
She was fixed and nothing hurt.
Guinevere wants to cry but she is not programmed to cry. She doesn’t have the necessary parts to cry. So she smiles instead. Smiles down at the child that fixed her just because and whispers “Thank you” even though no one demands it of her.
(Olivia makes her say thank you every time. Thank you for fixing me. Thank you for wasting your time on me. Thank you for making me better. Thank you for… everything.
This is the first time Guinevere means it.)
She takes the girls by the hands, one on each, and leads them to the entrance. Their hands are small and fragile and so soft. Guinevere forgot that human hands can be small and soft. So breakable. So vulnerable.
She holds them like she would hold a little bird. A flower in the wind. She holds them and allows herself the tiniest of squeezing, just to feel more, just to remember the feeling. In her dreams this moment lasts forever. In the memory it is only a few minutes. Over too soon.
In the dream and in the memory she spends those minutes that are an eternity repeating their names in her head. She is unable to forget a single thing. She knew their names the second she laid eyes on them but she doesn’t just want to remember them in her database. She wants to remember them in her heart. In her soul.
You are not programmed to have a heart. You are not programmed to have a soul. You are not anyone.
She is Guinevere. And they are Francesca and Andrea.
Francesa and Andrea. Francesca and Andrea. Francesca and Andrea. Francesca and Andrea. Francesca and Andrea. Francesca and Andrea and Francesca and Andrea and Francesca and Andrea and and and and and and and and
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The dream is endless. It’s dark and it’s cold and she sees and hears nothing and everything. She can’t move and her mind is wandering. The ground shakes and the world is loud and there are arms around her and they are warm and they hold her close. Like a fragile little bird. And then everything falls around her and it’s her with the arms around someone. Holding them close, cradling them against her ruined body. Careful. Careful. Like a flower in the wind.
And then she is looking at a child. A pitiful child that is too tall to go on any of the rides probably, almost as tall as Orville. The big child is hurt, so hurt, and she remembers her. Has never forgotten her. And she flips a strand of hair off a bloody forehead and looks into green eyes and it’s like the dream she keeps having but different. It’s a nightmare but that is okay, that is her favorite kind of dream.
It’s familiar.
She turns and the world is on fire.
She dreams even though she is not programmed to dream.
She feels and she wishes and she thinks and she wants even though she is not supposed to do any of those things. Faults in her wiring. Bugs in her interface.
She is Guinevere.
She is Gwen.
And she is ready to wake up.