She kept insisting that he was not alone, and, had she been someone else, he might've argued - might've shouted, you are nothing but a dream! and wallowed in his miserable, pitiful emptiness. Pathetic, but also true. But she was Ophelia, even if it was just one of a dream, and somehow he could not bring himself to show neither scorn nor wretchedness in front of her, and so he merely averted his gaze with a sigh. Was he so desperate for life, that even his dream kept repeating that he was not alone? Of course, he thought bitterly. Who wants to be dead, after all? "But don't follow me into death," he told her, turning his scarlet-cast face towards her - anguish and pleas mingled, like a cacophony of desires, in his eyes. "That, I must face alone. And you, you are far too beautiful and good to die." The last, nothing but a murmur, a whisper, in the dark. Your dreams, they stay in your skull, but they consume you from within: it was harder to resist what he felt, harder to find a reason not to probe the dusty corners of his mind. Harder to care. He closed his eyes.

She was not afraid of the dark, but he wondered idly as they stepped into it, if he was - it was not in his nature to fear anything, really, but when your entire existence had been turned into a chase for truth and life, when your mind ran itself ragged, it was harder to retain that natural.. confidence. But even as they left the crimson roses behind, and their world turned to gold, he found that his heartbeat did not quicken, his eyes did not widen; he was not afraid of darkness, nor of the ghouls that battered themselves against his certainty, wrathful of being cheated of their prey. And so, the things he feared still numbered only two: fire, and complete, utter devotion.

Nor did Ophelia fear it, at least so it seemed to him. Where it encroached upon her, she snapped at it, and it stayed back, obedient. Perhaps it was weak, seeking prey of lesser strength, but he paid it no heed. Had no reason to. The golden glow pushed it back, until their hooves stood upon the rim of the pool. Where she studied it with obvious delight, he hung back, raising his head and staring into the darkness, wondering, how much time do we have left before I awake? Fear of waking often woke him sooner, and yet he couldn't steer his mind away from it - too caught up in reality to fall into dreams. And still, nightmare entities pushed against the golden aura, seeking to devour their dream and fill their hearts with fear. He would not let them. He would not let them taint his memories of Phi.

When she spoke, his head slowly rotated down, black-rimmed ears forward and alert. "Perhaps it's not supposed to make sense," he offered with a slight, amused smile. It was easy to forget, that she was so young still - so much younger than he. It was easy to forget, too, how different she was. While he loved to learn, he did not need everything to fit in.. especially not in dreams. "It's only a dream, after all." And they seldom made sense, though his sleeping mind found that even odd things made sense: like the destruction of the world, the trail of roses, the things that happened. Had he been truly awake he would've wondered at them, but as it were, they felt natural. And so, he slowly lowered his own head to the surface, and plunged his muzzle in. It was.. neither hot nor cold, more sluggish than water but obviously not solid. Frowning, he pulled his maw out of it, gold dripping off the edges of his whiskers. "Huh," was all he said, unaware that his eyes had glazed over completely with gold.