dream

The Farmer's Daughter's Dream

The next evenin' I resumed me story where I'd previously ended, tellin' me grandkids about Beannaithe and her dreams...

Korvynn dreamt one night, and found himself adrift in the fog of his own eyes. Around him it was grayed white, below him it was a slightly off shade of white, and everything was difficult to see.

"Kovrynn."

His father's voice. He held up a bulky arm to block his eyes as the fog battered his iris, making it difficult to keep them open, like the spray of an ocean wave but constant, "Father?"

"Korvynn." Atticus's voice wailed.

...a week later, Pechel came. Lithuiele almost cried then--not only at the sight of another dear friend, but also at the several jugs of wine Pechel had brought along to replenish the elf-witch's stores.
    She invited her inside for dinner and Pechel insisted on cooking. Lithuiele was exhausted from lack of sleep--due to both her newborn and her fear of the mysterious chanter from her dreams--and let her have her way.

So there I was, riding me pony with as many of me things as I could pack, heading fer Needlehole an the Yondershire.

It was strange how it happened. One day I was carrying on as usual with me chores and me cooking, happy as anything, and then that dream came back ter me. It was as if it were yesterday! But that dream was over ten years old. Why was it back, an with such strength I had ter act on it?

The night-terrors plaguing him since Gondor had faded and peeled back since his visit with the strange Bree-woman and with Reviadir. They were not gone, but far rarer so that they were not a key feature of his life, privately, anymore. He knew when he was ready for further healing, he could find it.

The Great Eel Hunt was the crowning achievement of his new clan. The houses were underway. Slowly but surely, his people were learning one another and finding peace.

His people? Peace? Had he really done this?

It was comical to some, how Ryheric would make food disappear. Uncouth gluttony - now you see it, now you don't.

It’s finally there, a field of green grass inhabited by critters and watched over by a man whose straw hat has long outlived itself. Stitches grabs the dirty and nearly disembodied rim of his hat and lifts it barely out of his vision, grasping for himself a better look at the colorful fox adult that bounds through his yard.

Stitches finds himself younger, and on his knees within a cluster of trees. His hands are red. His knife is red. The corpse of a maimed doe paints the ground below. His breath is slow, he feels calm, and in a way, even happy. Footsteps behind him alert him to turn his head. Another adolescent approaches him, breathing shakily as she addresses him. Her hair is red like a sunset, and down to her lower back. Her skin pale and fair, offset with greatly wide and colorful green eyes.