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Maomao is, distantly, aware that she is dreaming. There is little other explanation for the dry, scaly texture of her skin or the short, flat shape of her body, or, perhaps most tellingly, the fact that she’s rushing on four legs. She is certain she is injured, though it is less that she hurts so much as she is struggling: struggling to breathe, struggling to run, struggling to identify the threat that drives her so urgently home.
Home, she thinks, gratefully. She opens her mouth to taste the air, pulling it in and pushing it up through her nostrils, and senses a familiar scent on the wind. She must be getting close, though in the syrupy dream-time she feels as though she has been running–no, hopping-no, scurrying may be the best word-hurrying as best as she is able, for as long as she can remember. There is danger behind her. A predator? Something injured her, she is certain. But also the sky is dark and angry, and the ground is dry, and some instinct in her mind tells her that things are about to change for the worse. She is so thirsty, yet the threat of rain makes her afraid.
Before her looms a dark hole in the ground, but within is not the source of her fear, only a source of comfort. He is in there: her partner, warm and sleeping, as he does. His is a life of extremes: rapid, frantic hunting then deep rest. Still, just the scent of him, the perceptible markers of his reputation which she carries with her, keeps her safe. Usually, at least. She had strayed too long in her search for water, eaten too many strong smelling plants, and his protection had worn off.
She blinks, and her race is over. She is within the burrow and, because it is a dream, this sudden change does not seem strange to her. He looks so comfortable, nestled within the burrow, his body curled to make space for hers (which so quickly forgets what it is to be warm). She remembers his warmth, how it will make her blood jump and her mind quicken. Oblivion beckons her, but she resists. There is danger, danger that even being smothered in his scent will not protect her from. The danger will come to him as well, but he is sleeping, blind to it. She must wake him up so that they can get to safety together. But she is injured, the sluggishness of her cold blood the only thing keeping her from bleeding out entirely, inches from safety. She must heal first, and must do so away from him. And yet, she is tired, and she is afraid, and she longs to be wrapped in his warmth, to rest before they must flee. She’s exhausted, running again seems almost as unimaginable as waking him from his Long Sleep. Just a moment will not hurt, she decides, will help calm and sharpen her mind so that she can lick her wounds. Yes, she will curl up with him, turn her heavy belly to the roof of their bower in all safety, just for a moment, just until she is aware enough to get back up that she might wake him to the danger.
She does not resist sleep. Which is just as well: soon the world outside their burrow will shudder and rain will shake loose the hillside around it. Her blood will mix with the mud that fills the bower, but they will rest together, entwined in an eternal embrace.
When Maomao woke, it was not with any clear awareness that she had done so, but more a growing awareness of moving from one dream into another: it was still unnaturally dark, the sounds of their breathing bounced off the close walls of their burrow, no, off of the closed panels of their bed. She was still wrapped in the warmth of an embrace, her thoughts lulled by another’s slow, sleepy breathing. Even if she did not recognize the arms wrapped so familiarly around her, those perfect hands with their strange collection of calluses were unmistakable (of course, the incongruity made perfect sense now: the Royal Brother would be trained in combat, but also in penmanship. He would spend half the day in martial training and the other half with bureaucrats and scribes) (and now the nights, it would seem, in her bed. Under the influence of her own strong sleeping medication, that thought no longer terrified her). In the tight quarters, the smell of the lotions she had been gifted mingled pleasantly with his ever-present smell of incense.
If this is a dream, she thought, let me never awaken. Let me stay here forever. I could not stand to wake from this, to live my life only for the hope that, when the day is over, I might return here in sleep. She could still taste the coying sweetness of the sleeping draught at the back of her throat, beckoning her toward the next strange dream, and she resisted it, fearing that, if she gave in, she might never find her way back to this place, even in her dreams.
So she laid there, nearly immobile, twining her fingers into his, trying to memorize every cuticle, every fold of the skin, as a cure against the sadness that would come later. Yet, the longer she stayed, the more detail she cataloged, the less dreamlike it felt. The realization came over her like sleep itself or like walking into the ocean: growing slowly, moment by moment, until all at once a wave takes the ground out from under you.
All at once, the evidence overwhelms the theory that this is a dream. There is one singular conclusion available from the facts beneath her fingers: she is awake and Jinshi is with her and everything is going to be okay. All needs seem suddenly distant, even the sudden need to understand why he misled her, even the need to cry of relief in his arms. Her body relaxes, her shoulders losing the tension they have carried for weeks. And before anything else can happen, despite all her questions and desires, sleep pulls her back into its warm embrace. Oblivion beckons her to join Jinshi in rest as she has laid in his bower. This time she does not try to resist.