She dreamed of him constantly.
In the night, the dreams were vivid recreations of the past, some pleasant, some harrowing. During the day, wistful fantasies of a time in some impossible future, when all their trials were finally behind them, and their enemies were vanquished, and they could rest. Croe had never imagined, before, that she would long for rest. Stasis seemed contrary to her nature, contentment seemed like a thing not meant for one such as her. But after over a decade of trauma, of losing him and finding him and losing him again, of worrying for their children and finding her bed cold, of aching with loneliness and longing…Croe was tired. Tired, and dreaming of rest, but never getting it.
Maybe that was why this dream began so weird.
The world materialized from nothing, as if it were being born. It was dark, and lonely, like reality without Mallos in it – the primary light was the blue-green glow of bioluminescence. Her eyes had no need for adjustment; magic compensated for the thin moonlight, the pulsing, fleshly glow of the mushrooms. Her skin prickled with the cool humidity.
All of it was wrong. Croe was not creative – at least, not in this way. This was not a world she would have conjured from nothing; this was not the way her subconscious would choose to play god. She was sure she had never seen it before, and yet here it was, fully formed before her, looking and feeling as real as the waking world. It had to be a trick, it had to be a trap.
“Croe?”
She turned sharply, as if she had been struck.
Mallos stood before her, and that was something her subconscious would do – the only thing it seemed capable of doing. But as she stepped toward him, grief and love crashing over her so roughly that her breath caught, she could not help but notice he was different. It seemed so cruel, for her mind to change him. She didn’t want to imagine him like this, with that hunted look in his eyes, that wariness. It was worse than finding him locked in the Alhambra, because she did not know what she could do to help.
“Mallos,” she breathed, closing the gap between them and raising her hand to cup his cheek. He felt so real, though she had no memories of the sensation of a beard beneath her fingers that might have served as a template for this punishing fantasy. Her hand slipped up into his hair and cupped the back of his head, feeling the weight of him, then pulling him down so their foreheads touched. So real, so real.
There were so many things she wanted to say to him, demand of him. She wanted to tell him she’d been worried, she’d been worried sick, she was growing sick of being worried sick about him, and couldn’t they have a break? Was this the break? Your children miss you, she wanted to say. I miss you. I am dying without you. I am going to find you, if I have to murder Gwythr to do it, if I have to burn them all down, I swear…
“Where are we?” It was the best she could manage. If anyone in this dream could answer, it was him. Her arms were resting around his neck, her cheek was resting against his cheek. He was warm, and dusty, and smelled of a place that was not this place. His beard prickled against her skin. So many details for her mind to have come up with, so many differences from how she usually dreamed.
“Is this…real?”
She barely dared to ask.
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