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“I wanted to be alone...with you. If that’s alright.”
It’s strange to sleep inside a dream. It’s dark and quiet and warm...almost like what I imagine a womb is like. Or maybe a coffin. All the same, I feel her warmth near me. I smell the perfume lingering in her hair. I taste…
I open my eyes and see the world. The false world; merely a dream. I see the sun peeking through the curtains, splaying a strip of light across my midriff and hers. She hasn’t woken yet, and that gives me time to think.
Reality as I knew it is gone now; destroyed by my meddling. I know I have to stop it, I know I have to make things right. But here, in this dream of what once might have been, all I want to do is go back to sleep.
I hold her gently. I don’t want her to wake up, I don’t want to be drawn deeper into this dream. I know that as real as it is for her, it’s nothing but a possibility lost. I wonder if that distinction even matters. No one would believe me if I told them their existence was a phantom. Maybe that’s for the best.
I have walked the halls of time. I have seen what might have been had I remained on my initial course. The dream allows me that. I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse to know how things might have gone. To know how my life would have played out both here in her bed or across time and space atop the throne my father held.
Patricide. It’s a word that leaves a sweet taste in my mouth. After all this, after the years of humble work and gentle nights, the thought of that abandoned vengeance sparks a hint of fire in my heart. I wonder if that’s just a part of who I am. A facet of my existence that precedes me. I’ve never known how to slow down. Never known when to quit. There’s a lot of blood on my hands.
When did I become so introspective? I look back on the years since the war, the home and the family we built together. That spark of fire in me...where does it go during those long summers building houses or the harsh winters routing bandits? Why does it only bloom when I think about watching the light leave my father’s eyes?
I sigh softly, and try to focus on the moment. Her breath, even and soft. Her toe, peeking out from behind the blanket that she kicked in her sleep. She has a habit of hogging the bed. It’s cute, honestly. Mirrors the way she hogs me.
My smile brings the creases in my face to bear. It has been a good life. I touch her greying hairs, knowing my own hair isn’t aging any slower. Funny how even when you master time, it still finds ways to collect its dues. Death, and age, precede time.
In this moment, I fully accept my reality. I have a task to do. As much as it would comfort me to drift in this dream forever, there is a responsibility I have outside it that I cannot shirk. I know it will be jarring to return from this life. To wake up and be young again, knowing this was just another dream.
But I’m a Time Messenger. This is the duty I was trained for.