Child of Light

In the sleep of the just, what dreams may come need never give us pause.  Whether the dreams bear us away to the shining spires of Argus, standing tall and true in the thoughts and memories of our eldest and passing from them to us, to remain incorrupt and eternal against the backdrop of dreams and hopes, whether they bear us to the rolling plains of the spirit realm, to run with the wind and listen to the wisdom of the ancestors gone before, or whether they carry us no further than the lips of our beloved, they bear us up, strengthen us and give us courage to continue.

Tonight, I dream a dream I have dreamt many times before.  It is not an old dream, even for me, though I am no stranger to those old dreams, which haunt the memory of our race since time out of mind, coming upon us redolent with the dust of ages to impart ancient wisdom.  It is not even old by my standards, for it is not a dream from the marsh or the temple, nor a dream from our time together as scouts, learning the ways of our then-home Draenor.

Tonight, I dream a dream not of the spirits, nor of the Naaru.  It is not a dream full of cryptic words and half-remembered directions, not a dream reeking of prophecy, bearing the weight of the world upon its gossamer shoulders.  Nor is it simple memory, filtered through the slowing processes of my mind.  It is not fantasy, not a dream of my Ineesa coming to me open and inviting, though it is a dream of her.

In this dream, we stand together atop a nameless tower, high above a place which is not a place and yet is every place at once.  The tower curves around us and beneath us, white stone glowing brightly in the eternal sunset of the plains we gaze over together and then, suddenly, tread upon, grass soft beneath our hooves.  We do not wear the mail and robes that both of us are accustomed to, no matter how fancy or fine, no matter how functional or protective, but rather simple white shifts, the thin fabric blowing over our bodies in the evening wind.

The plain becomes a forest, deep and old, and we tread within, needing no words to communicate between us, for we both know where we are going.  The forest gives way to a lake, the lake to hills, all swarming and teeming with life, from chimera to stags, and then we crest a ridge and stare down into the glade at the top of the mountains, and run, together, to the tiny house nestled deep within, knowing what we will find there.

Inside the house are two young women, one twisted and battered, leg withered and spine curved, scars deep within her body, the other whole of limb but wounded of soul, her eyes betraying the scars within, sitting together.  Sometimes they read a book together, other times they work at their craft, the twisted one taking up needle and thread, the empty one coaxing tinctures from flowers and herbs.  Sometimes, they sit outside, other times, they lay inside, but when we arrive, we take our hands and lead them from their seat, and slowly, they begin to shine as we do.

A glow from without teases my eyes open, and mine meet hers, shining softly in the night, the sign of our grace drifting between us.  With a soft breath, I release my own light to mingle with hers, pulling her close into my arms.  I whisper to her of the dream, as I always do when I dream it, and I rest against her, content in our light.

It has borne us thus far, and will bear us further still, the Light that we share between us.