Dreams

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It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams

And have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

Dreams of loneliness

Like a heartbeat drives you mad

In the stillness of remembering what you had

And what you lost

And what you had

Ooh, what you lost

Thunder only happens when it's rainin'

Dreams - Fleetwood Mac

Her memories were warm, bright, full of people, and still, so very lonely.

Quintus wandered through them like the well-traveled dream-dweller he was.

There was a time, long ago, when he felt uncomfortable in his visits. Even if it was an unavoidable aftereffect of drinking blood, it felt wrong. He knew, that entering someone's memory while they dreamed, was really intruding. Even if the person in question agreed to it in advance, they could not give consent to everything. Sure, everyone had parts of their past they did not mind sharing: Their funniest joke, their bravest act, a placid day on the beach, those were the good memories. But what about the bad ones?

Most, didn't think about it when they allowed him to drink from his blood.

Because of this, he had made it a habit, to ignore the memories as he walked through them.

If someone was crying in a corner, he did not need to stay and find out why. He could just go to the other room, take a look at the pictures on the walls, maybe read a book or two. Sure, the books in people's memories were very wrong. They were never quite as the original author had intended, but more like what the dreamer remembered them to be. But that was part of the fun. Some people had hilarious versions of classic literature in their minds. And unlike with the real memories, this did not feel so voyeuristic.

Thus, even when he wandered through Zoraida's memories, it did not bother him too much. He was sure he would be able to be respectful of them.

It started all black like it always did, and then, with a single step, he entered her world.

He had never visited that floor before, but he knew, immediately, that it belonged to the temple of Aurora. If the stone paved floors and marble walls were not enough indicators, the coat of arms they used depicting a sun was a clear indicator of his whereabouts.

Still, it was a different version from the temple he had visited a week prior. It was brighter and bigger. The windows were wider, the roof higher, the corridors longer. The sunlight coming through was golden, the people he came across were chatting merely, their faces blurred, or covered by veils, as it often happened in memories. There was laughter in the air as well.

He stood in a hallway, not sure which way to turn. If he found Zoraida, he would know to go in the opposite direction, to stay away from whatever she was remembering. But that particular human was nowhere to be found.

Not all the women present had their faces blurred out, of course. Some, had recognizable features. Yet none of them looked like her. Two guards stood at the sides of two open doors. They weren't her. One was too old, with a nose too long and the skin two tones darker, than his human. The other, was too pale, could almost pass as a vampire, and too soft-featured. They did, however, have a similar muscle mass and height to Zoraida.

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⏰ Last updated: Oct 13 ⏰

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