Daughter of Rebels

Chapter 15 - The Dream

Mara wasn't where she ought to be.

She ought to be in her sleeping roll. When Eli had returned from his supply run, she'd been too tired to do much more than crawl into the shelter, curl her body around her son's, and plunge into slumber.

Now, she was in a bed, the feather mattress and soft cotton sheets an unmistakable contrast to the soft earth of the forest floor, and the stiff, scratchy wool of her blankets. The decadent comfort was the first sign that something was amiss.

The second sign was that she felt no fear, despite not being where she knew she ought to be. Her mind strove for alarm, having fallen asleep in one place and woken up in another, but the soft warmth of the bedding soothed her anxiety. Instead of panicking, she stretched and then snuggled deeper into the pillow like a contented cat.

"Maybe I'm dreaming," she murmured to herself, unwilling to open her eyes.

"You're definitely dreaming." The mattress beneath her shifted with a familiar weight.

"Davy?" She ought to be shocked by the sound of his voice, but she wasn't--the third sign, incidentally, that all was not right in the world.

"Yes, my dear." A warm hand cradled her cheek and stubble brushed the bridge of her nose, tickled her eyebrow as he visited a soft kiss upon her forehead. "Go back to sleep." The mattress shifted again as he stood, and she sank into the softness, enveloped in a residual, radiant warmth she recognized instinctually as his. As she had so many mornings before, she basked in the leftover warmth of his body heat as she listened to him prepare for the day. The splash of water, the rhythmic scrub as he lathered shaving soap across his face, the scrape of the razor. More splashing water. Fabric rustling, the clink of a belt.

The edge of the mattress dipped once more, and his hand curled around her shoulder.

"Time to wake up, Mara love."

Without opening her eyes, lest she shatter this illusion, she reached up and clasped his hand, wrapping it in both of hers. She ran one hand down the back of his arm, soft hairs tickling the side of her hand. "I thought you were dead," she confessed, and his fingers squeezed hers.

"I know, sweet. But it's time to wake up."

~~~

"Mara?" A hand jostled her shoulder and she jerked awake with a gasp, blinking in the darkness. The hand fell away, and the shadows above her came together into a face. Familiar, but not achingly so. "Time to wake up."

"Sorry," she croaked, sitting up. "I slept in?"

He shook his head. "Sun's just rising, but I've got a fire going. There'll be tea and breakfast. Take your time getting ready."

She lay for a moment, staring at the slanted roof of the shelter. The dream had been so real, she didn't even feel as if she was waking up. More that she'd passed from one room into another. And the memory of the dream didn't thin and drift away in tatters, like dreams usually did. It stuck in her head--the sensations, the sounds. Davy's voice. His touch. Not like a dream, but like a memory. A recent memory.

It was mostly likely a product of her grief, she decided. And her exhaustion. Not to mention, it had been a dream based on real memories, on an oft-repeated ritual, which perhaps explained why it didn't drift away.

It would probably be better not to think about it anymore, so she unearthed herself from her sleeping roll, leaving Nick still breathing in soft, slow, sleepy puffs in the warm cocoon.

The crackle of the fire greeted her as she emerged from the shelter, but she stumbled away from the warmth and into the woods for a moment of privacy. Her hair had come loose from its braid while she slept, and after relieving herself she spent a long, frustrating few minutes trying to detangle it with her fingers before giving up and tying it back in a messy mass of tangled curls.