He had not been dreaming. Or had he? He had been afloat in a sea of darkness, a soothing, comforting place where nothing stirred, where half-made thoughts rose sluggishly towards the surface before sinking again, too heavy and meaningless to matter. He wasn't quite sure if it had been peace, or just exhaustion, but it had felt good to merely exist in that pool of black water, rocked by invisible tides, held up by something other than his own strength.

But in a heartbeat, everything changed, and he was torn from that quiet place and thrown into a world of chaos and light. It stung his eyes, and with a startled shout he recoiled from it, pressing his lids down to block it out — but it was futile, as it found gaps, ways to crawl in, to sting his sensitive retinas. Noises cracked around him, the keening of the wind, the boom of earthquakes and volcanoes, the crash of waves against a cliff: screams and shouts, worming their way into his ears despite how flat they lay against his thick neck. They rose in a crescendo, a disharmony of sounds, and at some point, his own shout mingled with theirs as the blazing light burned agonizingly into his mind.

And then, it all faded into silence.

Echoes imprinted in his memory lingered for a moment longer, and bright spots danced before his eyes as he rapidly blinked them in the darkness. He was alone again, and the world was blessedly silent, but it was not the same heavy restfulness as it had been, and he was standing upon his own four legs. Rather irked with being so cruelly torn from his, for once, blessed oblivion, he started to look around, but there was nothing there.. until the shadows moved and a voice spoke his name.

He knew that voice. He knew her. Psyche.

He'd dreamed of her a few times as well, and in those dreams, he had done everything from murder her to confess undying love. Slowly, he let his blue eyes fix upon her face, upon what seemed to be exhaustion and vulnerability. She had been running, sweat limning her sleek body.

"Jackal-heart," he answered her, studying her for a moment. What was his issue, if he as of late found all the mares in his life in a state of distress, or otherwise vulnerable? Ophelia had been vulnerable in the fact that she did not remember her old life, a clean slate for him to write a new story upon, and since that dream, he had not dreamed properly — but now he did, and here came Psyche, looking somewhat haggard and cautious. Would she, too, need his protection, for him to curl up around her and shield her from the world? Do I want to? He swallowed that thought as quickly as it came, and merely stared at her in silence instead, wondering if she'd cross the darkness and linger, or vanish just as quickly as she had come.

Mauja Frosthjärta