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“Do you…have nightmares, Rook?” The words stalled in Lace’s mouth on the way out, hesitation nearly killing them entirely. She didn’t know exactly how personal this kind of talk was—she had never had this kind of talk before, who talked about dreams with a dwarf?
She didn’t miss how Rook immediately stilled, his brown eyes flickered around the room for a moment, obviously thinking—probably thinking about how much he wanted to share.
“…Yes.” He admitted, after a few more moments, eyes meeting hers again. He looked unsure, even as he said it. “More often than I’d like.”
“How long have you had them?” Lace leaned forward in her chair. Now that she had experienced…all of that, she was desperate to learn more about them. She didn’t know what was normal, did you just go to sleep one night and suddenly find yourself running afraid?
Rook’s shoulders lost some of their tension, and he chuckled. “Ah, since I can remember, Lace. Since I was a—ah, a boy. Elves, humans, and qunari I guess, too, we dream from birth. And they—they’re influenced by your emotions and your memories, so they change with you.”
Harding nodded, digesting this information. “Are they…” she hesitated, feeling silly. “Usually abstract—? Like, uh, being stuck in mud—losing your teeth?”
Rook rubbed his hands together, quirked his lips as he thought. “I have to say it depends, Lace. Everyone is different, and so their dreams are all different. I—“ he started picking at the skin on his fingers, and Harding knew that this topic might have been a mistake.
“I, personally, dream about the chant of light. Not the imagery, or the events, the words. Writing it. So vividly that I recite it while I sleep, sometimes.”
Harding couldn’t stop her face from morphing into an expression that felt like the disbelief she was feeling. Rook huffed out a laugh when he looked up, so she must have looked ridiculous. She schooled her face fast as she could. Rook had only ever expressed respectful disbelief in the Maker—in Andraste, she couldn’t believe he could recite the chant, much less in his sleep.
“I know, I know, it sounds insane.” He shrugged. “My father decided I was going to be a member of the chantry when I was a teenager. Hired a tutor who…” He rubbed his elbow, face tightening, speaking casually obviously taking some effort. “He made me write the entire chant out. Several…hundred, thousand, something times.”
Harding nodded, something about this story and his wording and tone and his taut expression…it dug under her skin, felt uncomfortable. She didn’t like the idea of somebody using the chant, the Maker, as a punishment, and that’s sure what it sounded like.
“So it got stuck in your mind. So your dreams used it…because dreams, and nightmares, they’re a reflection of your thoughts and your fears. Right?”
Rook nodded. “Things show up even years later, sometimes.”
Harding blinked as she considered it all. How strange. How senseless, yet it made sense. She didn’t know if she liked this whole dreaming thing yet, but it sounded like it wasn’t something everyone liked, anyway. Bellara seemed to, but she was a mage. Were her dreams more vivid because her connection to the fade was stronger? Or did her experiences just lend to more pleasant dreams? Harding had nothing but questions.
She snapped out of what must have been a long reverie when Rook coughed awkwardly.
“Sorry, Rook,” she sighed deeply. “I’m thinking a lot. And I’m sorry about…” she hesitated, unsure how to phrase this without sounding pitying, or condescending.
“It would be devastating, to me, to have the chant turned into something…painful, like that. I know you don’t believe, but…I’m sorry that happened to you. I wish it could’ve been a comfort to you, instead of that.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Me too, Lace. There’s a lot I wish could have been different. Sometimes I have dreams about that, too.”
Harding nodded slowly, her heart sinking. She had started having those dreams. Those were her least favorite—sweet as she dreamt, and a bitter taste in her mouth when she awoke.