Author's Note: Currently just Rachel&Quinn friendship building, but I'm not ruling out the chance that it may eventually become Rachel/Quinn.
Rachel Berry wasn't ever crazy, and certainly is not now, and won't ever be, so these slanderous rumors spreading about her sanity, or lack thereof, need to stop; thanks for asking.
She has these visions though, and if she ever told anyone about them, they'd lock her up in the Northwest Ohio Insane Asylum and throw away the key. Not that there wouldn't be people lining up to be the one to turn the key, she knew that much.
They'd started out as simple moments taking her out of her daily routine for a fleeting second: the faint smell of manure in math class, the sound of far-away laughter as she ate dinner one night, the blurry sight of two women in old-fashioned dresses on her walk to school, the indistinct feeling of rough wool beneath her as she laid in bed one night - she chalks it all up to sleep deprivation and vows to add an extra hour to her sleep schedule.
It stays like that for a while, until one day, when she's running late for Glee rehearsal. Not a normal occurrence, but Ms. Young, her English teacher, wanted her to stay behind for a few minutes to discuss suggested revisions for her final essay of the semester. She flings the door to the choir room open and walks in. Instead of seeing the disapproving glares of her fellow Glee clubbers, she sees a street lined with market stalls. A gaggle of young women, roughly her age, push past each other, vying for a stall that, upon closer inspection, sells jewelry and other baubles.
The words they speak to each other are unfamiliar to her ears, but somehow she picks up on the general vibe of the conversation, as the blonde girl whispers seething words to the brunette next to her: something about the necklace she was trying on looking not-quite-right. In nearly the same motion as the brunette reluctantly taking off the necklace and setting it back down on the pile, the blonde scooped it up and handed the merchant the proper amount of coins. The other young women smile and laugh as they walk off with the necklace in hand, leaving the brunette behind to tag at their feet.
Rachel closes her eyes, and when she re-opens them, Mr. Schuester and the rest of New Directions are staring at her. "Practice is about to begin," he says, and she frowns as she flounces to her seat next to Finn.
There is no way something that vivid and realistic was just a weird trick of the light, and as she looks over at Quinn, she frowns even further. There are thousands and hundreds of thousands of blonde girls in the world.
So why did she get the weirdly distinct feeling that Quinn was somehow connected to all this?
She tosses and turns that night, which doesn't make sense to her. She had followed her nightly routine to ensure fruitful and blissful sleep, right down to making sure her pillow scent blend was the right proportion of lavender and vanilla. Before tonight, it had never failed her, not even on nights before huge auditions or competitions.
She buries her face in her pillow and inhales the blend, and then peeks out over the top of her pillow.
Normally, she would see the visualization of her life plastered on the collages of her walls, or her lamp at the very least. This time, however, she sees something completely different and out of place: the blonde and the brunette from this afternoon are sitting on upturned barrels, hidden in an alleyway and they're talking quietly to each other. The necklace that had been the focal point of the afternoon sits proudly around the blonde's neck, but it's not a direct continuation. Their dresses have changed, and their hair is done slightly differently, and Rachel stands back behind a stone wall to observe. If these two are going to keep recurring in her dreams, she's going to learn all she can about them.
She still can't understand what they are saying. It's in a different language, one she can't understand no matter how hard she strains her hearing. The tone of the conversation is softer and more pleasant, less accusatory and openly mean-spirited. They keep looking behind them, and then back at each other, whispering something under their breaths only loud enough for them - and her, she supposes - to hear. She wonders if they can see her, and if that may be at least part of the reason for their fear. She's not dressed anything like what they are.
"Iern!" she hears the blonde yell, as she grasps the brunette's hand and runs through the haphazard maze of corridors. By context, she can infer what they're probably saying - and she runs too, following them to an even more remote and hidden part of the marketplace square. The clattering of footsteps behind them indicates to a swiveling Rachel what they're running from: two young men, around their ages, carrying swords.
"Quoenguyd," the brunette says, catching her breath and placing her hand on the necklace. She murmurs a few things that Rachel can't quite pick up on, but the two girls embrace quickly and then part ways, exchanging one last stolen glance before leaving from different sides.
The next thing Rachel knows, she's waking up in a stiff, curled-up ball, and her fathers are hovered over her with concerned looks on their faces. "Are you alright?" one asks, while the other presses a cold compress to her forehead.
"Of course I am," she says, trying to sit up at the same time as they force her back down to the bed. "I just - I had a bad dream. That's all."
"It's noon on a Saturday. The last time you slept this late was when you were twelve and had the flu."
"She's not feverish," Leroy says, pulling the compress away from her face and frowning.
"I'll be fine," she says, and even as the words leave her lips, she knows she's lying. But the words sound nice to hear, and she doesn't think that she can rationally explain what's going on with the blonde - Quoenguyd? - and the brunette from another time and place. "I feel better already." She kisses the sides of their cheeks and smiles. "Go to your gardening show."
"We'll leave some chamomile tea by the stove, if you begin to feel worse again," Hiram replies, kissing her forehead and walking out of the room.
She pulls herself up and walks over to her computer. Twenty minutes later, as she sits staring at Google hits for random movie quotes - guess she doesn't actually know how things are spelled, after all - she frowns. Without seeing Quoenguyd and her brunette companion again, she's at a complete dead end and a total loss for what to do.
The next few days are relatively uneventful, and - dare Rachel say it - somewhat normal.
The only hint that something isn't right is in her dreams late at night, when she hears a soft voice calling out "Rochild...Rochild..."
She turns over and blocks out the sound, and falls back asleep, into a dreamless state, with only the faintest of uneasy feelings pricking at the back of her mind.
-to be continued-