Where We Meet

I don’t dream often; and when I do, they are as likely to be visions, prophecies, as ordinary dreams. Ordinarily when I sink into sleep I do so fully, unaware of another world, drinking greedily of any rest I can find.

We had resolved a thousand things in a day. It wasn’t an unusual event; to rescue my friends, prevent war, die and live again, in a single day. Over and over I died, as though there were so many parts of me that had to be lost, in order that I would be found. I could bear my own deaths easily. I could not suffer the loss of those I loved nearly so well, but that night I was at ease. The two I loved were close by my side. We were almost home, and we lived.

It was nice to sleep in familiar woods, to light the fire and settle around it, listening to birds whose call I knew, watching the stars come out and naming each one. We set our bedrolls close by one another that night; my daughter near me on one side, my friend on the other. They curled about me and slept, while I watched over them, and then watched over the stars.

I slid into sleep, with the night in a spin around me. I was covered over by rest. And then I saw my fingers uncurl, my hands stretch out; and then my arms. I followed where they led, and saw they were opened to him.

I had dreamt of him before. Wild dreams, that he sent, to persuade me to let my baby rest easily in his great hands; and yet it was only on waking, when I saw how carefully he held her, that I knew it as truth. Strange dreams, where he asked my forgiveness.

This was different. He was no longer a god, just a man sleeping as I did. He sent me nothing; he only journeyed. We arrived at the same place that night, and it was good, because there was no other place we knew that we could be together. It was the only place we could meet.

And here he was no longer wounded. His lip, his eye, his damaged hands, the marks of my anger – they were gone. I realised that my pain had disappeared also. There was not even the faded scars of battles long ago. All had healed.

My arms had reached out to him, and now his hands rested in my own.

Traveller, well-met, he said.

And then he grinned, and lifted up my hand to his lips.

Well-met indeed, I replied.

My fingertips brushed over his lips; moved to the curve of his face, and then his face was in my hands, and my mouth on his again. No taste of blood marred this kiss. My lips were soft on his; and his whole body encompassed me. I was held close in his arms. I was surrounded entirely.

I thought there was nowhere we could be together, he whispered.

I smiled a little.

Perhaps that’s where we are, I told him.

He smiled a little in reply, but then looked directly in my eyes, with an intensity more powerful than any kiss.

I know where I am, he said.

So many journeys I have made. So many more I will, until the last passage to the river of death. Here, my swiftest journey, do I travel furthest. I travel beyond past, hate, anger, loss, grief, and inflicted pain. If I close my eyes, such things are possible. I know, because I have been there.

...h.o.m.e...
bleeding-heart[dot]net