An Angel Called Eternity

To Bet on Losing Dogs - Seventh I: The Mists of Dreams

Seventh I: The Mists of Dreams

The Twentieth Day of the Second Moon, 873 AD.
Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.

They'd been having the dreams again. Not dreams of prophecy or futures that may yet be, but of memories. Their own memories. Hazy, half formed images of mother and father danced across their waking mind, memories of two people that were so kind, so loving despite their nature, two people they could never truly know outside of places and features they had seen in dreams they'd had a lifetime ago. Even hazier were the memories of the man who had made them, who had granted them consciousness before giving them to the woman who was to be their mother, and the man who was to be their father.

They wished they could see them again, if only for a day. What would mother and father think of them for their abilities now? Would they shun him? Would they care? Would they see them any differently?

No. Of course not. Their faces were blurred by the weight of time, but their voices remained with them always. Their joyful proclamations at finally having a child of their own, mother's endless doting and proclamations of love as she rocked them in the cradle, of father's quiet but always reassuring and kind presence.

They missed them immensely these days, as all the mysteries and tricks of the man who they had once called their God all but mocked them for their lack of understanding. They felt like they were trying to read a language no man had ever learned before, or comprehend a colour no artist had ever yet seen. It was almost maddening, but they couldn't afford to lose themselves in what once was, not when there was still so much to do before them. A realm barely held together, tensions along the borders, and... and they had the oddest feeling that something cold was waking.

They shook their head and got back on track. Lykourgos was still asleep, but alive. Nasos had been the one to heal his Grace, or at least stabilise him. Most pressing, according to him, was the wound in his stomach. The young healer and priest had made sure that all his instruments were sterilised in boiled water, before washing his hands so vigorously Seventh had thought he meant to take the top layer of skin off. Afterwards he had, to Seventh's limited understanding, stitched the wound back together. The room had stank of shit and blood. It was no surprise; the open puncture in the prince's stomach meant that whatever was inside was... well, it was still in there, but it was now open to the world. 

The young man had run himself completely ragged to heal the Prince. It had taken well over ten hours for the procedures to be completed, and even then he did not rest. Endlessly he went back and forwards taking notes on the prince's breathing, the pallor of his skin, if his body reacted to stimuli. For another six hours he had worked there, before finally being literally carried away by a worried and, unless his eyes were deceiving him, somewhat smitten Dreamwulf.

They could see those two working well. It would be funny to watch them obliviously dance around each other, at least.

Speaking of princes, Seventh suspected Rhema now knew what drove his brother to fight like a man possessed to rescue him during the Twilight Rebellion.
The attempt on his brothers life seemed to have... shaken Rhema, for a lack of a better word. Despite how close they had been, Seventh was never quite sure how much of Rhema's madness was true madness and how much was an act, a veneer to throw off those around him who may wish him harm. As he had said, after all, in order to fool your enemies you must first fool yourself.

As Lykourgos had been laid  motionless in his royal bed, Rhema had changed in an instant. Perhaps the scene had snapped him back from the brink of insanity. Perhaps he had simply stopped pretending. Either way, the man who now sat the throne was a completely different person than the boy who had sat it a scant few months ago.