He’d thought it was a dream.
Initially.
And then, as he swam back toward consciousness, he’d hoped it was a dream. Mumbled some muted plea before he dared open his eyes. But there had been a relentless pounding in his head and he had known, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it had not been a dream.
And when he’d finally forced open the eyes the vision had been obscured by tears. He’d gathered what little strength remained and pushed himself to his feet. Peered down at the place where the tears pooled at his feet, golden.
He had staggered back to the meadow to find Plumeria. Panic had consumed him, become him, leeched into the marrow of his bones. Because he had watched her walk willingly into the monsters mouth. And he had followed her. Followed her because there was no life for him without her. And she was not where he left them sleeping in a glen and Dear was nowhere to be found either.
Rife with terror, he’d scoured the meadow until he found her. Plumeria. And when he found her, he also found that he’d been gone for weeks. Or months. Long enough that Dear had grown old enough to wander away from her mother’s side.
“We have to go,” he’d said. And then he’d marched away from the meadow. Weeping his golden tears as they went. Until he couldn’t walk anymore. He’d caught wind of a land of ice and had entertained the idea of making a home there once. But the Tundra underground had swept him under, poured water into his lungs, killed him the first time. So, he marched to Tephra instead.
As far away from the mountain as he could think to get.
And it is only once they’ve arrived that he finally turns to her, Plumeria, and exhales a shuddering sigh.
“Were you there?” he asks, quiet. It is not a demand. It’s shaky. He doesn’t want to know, really. Doesn’t know if he can stomach it if she was. “The mountain,” he clarifies, those golden tears cutting rivers down his face, “were you there?”
@[Plumeria] @[Isilya]