I set to writing it down. Every dream I could remember with you in it, in as much detail as I could manage. The premonitions are normally hazy, and I can see little beyond you. That helped me narrow it down some . . .” He motioned to the piles. “But I wrote them all, just in case.”
Her eyes skimmed the papers, mirroring his own gaze as he struggled with words for a moment. Riding in the desert, she read the lines at the start of each page, blood on her face, reading together in the library, a crown upon her beautiful hair, writhing on the floor, dancing at a gala, holding hands on the Sunlit Stage, first child . . .
Vhalla reached out and took the paper from where he’d sorted it, and Aldrik didn’t object.
She is radiant, even when she has every right to be exhausted. Hair clings to the sweat that’s on her brow, and she is tired—I can see she is. But her smile is so brilliant, she is goodness incarnate. She’s reclining in a bed, though I cannot discern where it is or who else may be there. It is bright though, and warm. She’s reaching out to me, her mouth is moving, and I know what she is asking for. I look down, and perhaps it is the most perfect sight I have ever seen. The tuff of hair upon the babe’s head is black, though he has her eyes: bright, inquisitive, and almost yellow. He has more her than me in him, I can feel it, and I am so thankful for it. I pass him to her, and she seems almost afraid. I move to kiss her. There is nothing to be scared of. I will protect them both.
The words became more difficult to read as the paper quivered in her trembling fingers. Vhalla blinked her eyes. Her emotions were too wild to handle this. She curled into a ball, clutching the paper to her chest. Aldrik’s arms were around her shoulders, and she wept into her knees, not caring for the folds or wrinkles it put in the parchment.
This was what he’d been silently enduring for months. Each night he went to sleep, he risked a dream. He risked seeing joy, he risked seeing pain. Vhalla realized it was far worse than seeing his memories. Those were cemented in history. But, for Aldrik, the brightest hope could be torture because it may be a guiding light or a false beacon.
“You say you are a curse, but I’m the one who’s cursed you. To torture you with such visions.” Even before he’d realized his dreams held the future, she knew they would’ve caused him the rainbow of agony to ecstasy, depending on their subject.
“Hush,” he demanded. “Do you know how often I sleep wishing to see something like the paper you hold? It’s been the only thing that’s allowed me to sleep some nights. It’s the only thing that gave me the courage to ask you to be mine.” His long fingers wrapped around the watch at her neck.
“You’re sure?”
“I am.” He coaxed the paper from her hands and began to show her the sets he’d created of his dreams against records of events that had come to pass. His moments of confidence suddenly made more sense. She knew why he had so much faith in getting her to the front as Serien, why he’d easily refused her advances for something more at the last campsite before the North, how he’d known he could accomplish making her a lady. Even if the details were blurry, and the means of it all happening was slightly off, it matched dream to reality.
“Did you know, about—” Vhalla swallowed hard and risked the name, “—Baldair?”
“I didn’t.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe, maybe I saw something. But I only ever see you. Perhaps it’s because I don’t possess general future sight?”
“My death?” The word was like a curse upon her lips.
“I don’t know,” Aldrik groaned. “I haven’t even written it down, I couldn’t manage with—” his voice quivered, and he drew a shaky breath, “—with Baldair.”
His hands were on her again. They ran down her cheeks onto her neck. They were over her shoulders, intertwining his fingers with hers and back again. As though he was assuring himself that she wasn’t some phantom, that it wasn’t one of his dreams.
“I saw you bleeding. You had a gash from your shoulder to your