It’s one of those gorgeous lucid dreams — the kind where a part of her is awake, struggling to hold on to what she sees. She’s dreaming of a wood: unfamiliar, old growth, wide spaces beneath the tall trees. And there is Loki, on the edge of the glade.
She doesn’t know which Loki; she knows so many, now. He changes, in that way that dreams do; now heartbreakingly young, now subtly marked with the weight of millennia. Always tall, so tall. Long hair, short hair; armoured, casual.
She cannot see his face. If she could see it, she might know — is she here for love, or hate? To die, or live?
In a dream, it could easily be both. Or neither.
She calls his name.
He pulls himself out of the chasm of unconsciousness, but not enough to wake up. Still dreaming? He cannot be sure. The energy of his magic sometimes carried him among reality while he dreamed. Visions, omens…connections.
Pin straight shadows lean like scars across the forest floor, then shooting skyward in the form of tall thin trees. He stands still, afraid to move, to disrupt this journey, until a glimmer of fire-gold flickers just out of sight, behind him. He is suddenly filled with a terrible, beautiful ache. That shade of red, orange, sunset, what could he call it? It was unique in the nine realms. It burned within him. It kindled familiarity and hope and fear.
“You ought to know better than to try and sneak up on a man in his own dream, Summer.”
“I thought it was my dream.” She takes a step closer, and another. Her footsteps seem to make no sound here. “I don’t sneak, either. That’s your province.” It’s hard to make out where the light comes from, too, though there are long beams slanting across the forest floor, glittering with dust motes.
Another step. “What is this place?”