The dream swells like ocean tides. Unseen, but felt, the undercurrents of the dreamer’s mind: the uncertainty, the anxiety, the pulse of hidden nature. The joy, too, and the awe, and the lack of understanding. She doesn’t know he’s real, does she? She thinks he’s a figment of her lively mind, and Dune doesn’t correct her. He feels like a criminal for it, an imposter.
And despite all the unspoken information buried in the fabric of the dreamscape, he still isn’t sure what to make of this dreamer. He knows only that he feels bad when he draws back and her sweet smile fades. There is something then that festers behind her eyes, a self-loathing that he does not-- could never, really-- understand. It sets his hairs on end when she apologizes.
“Are you afraid of me?”
She asks the question with a delicacy that hurts his heart.
Dune immediately shakes his head no. Of course not. A small smile comes and goes at the very idea of being afraid of her. He had been beaten bloody by neighborhood bullies, thrashed in the fighting pit, almost turned to stone by a basilisk as a one-man regime took its vicious leave.
Why would he be afraid of a girl who smells like honey and salt?
And yet– and yet he can’t quite bring himself to reach out and tuck that veil of hair behind her ear. To make her look him in the eye. To tell her he's very real indeed.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, “I’m sorry,” and all he can do is shake his head no, no, no. Don’t be sorry. Don’t be sad. Don’t wake up.
Please, don’t wake up.
The birds are flying between them now, and as they collide with his dream-flesh the cavern fills with the metallic tang of blood. He’s sinking, bleeding, falling now, quickly, despite his efforts to scrabble back.
-
The dream spits Dune into his body without grace. He wakes with a raspy groan, head pounding from all that dream magic. Turning himself into a looking glass was a new trick, and he would pay for it with lethargy and pain for the rest of the day.
He turns to the window, where a crescent moon shines in with all the shy beauty of his dreamer. She’s out there, somewhere, beneath that same moon. She had seemed to him so very lonely. He bites his lip. Even if he could use magic to jump right back into the dream of his choosing (he couldn’t, the dreaming happened by chance) the shooting pain in his skull would not allow him to pass the gates of sleep.
What a strange girl you are, Sereia.
With a sigh he lights a candle, rummages for some paper and ink. There would be no more sleep for him tonight, and he did not like to waste his waking hours. Scribing was his latest pursuit; the pay was decent and it was far easier on the body than most of the other odd jobs he picked up. He would practice his penmanship until the sunrise, and there was no telling what the new day would bring after that.
And despite all the unspoken information buried in the fabric of the dreamscape, he still isn’t sure what to make of this dreamer. He knows only that he feels bad when he draws back and her sweet smile fades. There is something then that festers behind her eyes, a self-loathing that he does not-- could never, really-- understand. It sets his hairs on end when she apologizes.
“Are you afraid of me?”
She asks the question with a delicacy that hurts his heart.
Dune immediately shakes his head no. Of course not. A small smile comes and goes at the very idea of being afraid of her. He had been beaten bloody by neighborhood bullies, thrashed in the fighting pit, almost turned to stone by a basilisk as a one-man regime took its vicious leave.
Why would he be afraid of a girl who smells like honey and salt?
And yet– and yet he can’t quite bring himself to reach out and tuck that veil of hair behind her ear. To make her look him in the eye. To tell her he's very real indeed.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, “I’m sorry,” and all he can do is shake his head no, no, no. Don’t be sorry. Don’t be sad. Don’t wake up.
Please, don’t wake up.
The birds are flying between them now, and as they collide with his dream-flesh the cavern fills with the metallic tang of blood. He’s sinking, bleeding, falling now, quickly, despite his efforts to scrabble back.
-
The dream spits Dune into his body without grace. He wakes with a raspy groan, head pounding from all that dream magic. Turning himself into a looking glass was a new trick, and he would pay for it with lethargy and pain for the rest of the day.
He turns to the window, where a crescent moon shines in with all the shy beauty of his dreamer. She’s out there, somewhere, beneath that same moon. She had seemed to him so very lonely. He bites his lip. Even if he could use magic to jump right back into the dream of his choosing (he couldn’t, the dreaming happened by chance) the shooting pain in his skull would not allow him to pass the gates of sleep.
What a strange girl you are, Sereia.
With a sigh he lights a candle, rummages for some paper and ink. There would be no more sleep for him tonight, and he did not like to waste his waking hours. Scribing was his latest pursuit; the pay was decent and it was far easier on the body than most of the other odd jobs he picked up. He would practice his penmanship until the sunrise, and there was no telling what the new day would bring after that.
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