(Kealen)
In the dream I'm in the cell again.
Same stone floor. Same thin line of yellow light under the door. Same cold that comes from being underground, the particular cold that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the knowledge that the way out is locked from the outside.
But in the dream there's something different.
In the dream I'm not alone.
I'm sitting against the wall with my back to the stone and my arms around — something. Someone. Small. Warm against my chest in the way that things are warm when they belong to you, when the warmth is specific and recognizable, not just heat but *this particular heat.* I'm holding something I can't look at directly, the way things work in dreams where looking too directly at the thing you're afraid to lose makes you l
