I used to write letters to my father. No, one of me did. The other one did not.

Huh, I should start talking about myself in the singular. I am after all an amalgamation now bonded into a single entity. Both halves of me are the same person. We…in short…are one.

Instead of keeping a maudlin journal, dedicated to my dear-departed father, I believe it is time I turned over a new leaf. New world, new Mendean and all that comes with it. But what to call this piece of inadequate literature? And why am I even writing my thoughts down on paper, using the crude tools of a paintbrush , jar of ink and paper? I could carve them into the sky of my realm for all to see, or disseminate my words into the fabric of dreams. I could organise a choir of dream-things to sing these words into existence against the backdrop of a russet sky. I could do all these things, and much more.

But I will not. Paper is private, paper can be destroyed if need-be. Paper is the tool of human beings, and I am determined to hold onto that which I value most highly. My humanity. It keeps me from forgetting the world beyond the Nexus. It keeps me from descending entirely into the realms of chaos.

To work, then.

The warp and weft of this world has once again been restored. There are still soft places, where our world thins just enough for things to pass through, but for the most-part, we are no longer on the brink of extinction. The clock is doing its job.

But I remain troubled by what I have experienced. Some people and things slipped into our world during the crisis and have remained here. There is the stranger, whom I have encountered twice now. He seems familiar to me. I first encountered him in the future, and then once more in the present. He seemed to understand much of what was transpiring and he even helped me by leading me to safety from the wrath of the shining ones. And then he appeared on the sandy slope, hands covered in gore. Is he a friend? An enemy? Is he following me? I really wish I had been able to get a good look at him.

There is much that has changed about the world. Two of the divines who came through from that other dying world, are now fallen. I am half of their world too, so I wonder if the tree will reject me as well. And now there are other gods rising. The lich and the wight. Why are the undead ascending so easily? Although in the case of the Knights, the undead fall just as easily too.

Every day I half-expect to hear word from The Voice. I know that when I do, I and the other Triunes will be compelled to call a meeting of the conclave. But thus far I have heard nothing from the mouthpiece of the Tree. What is the Voice waiting for?


Ah, breakfast has arrived!

So I was taking a stroll through Gavril Princip in Wyllmochvar, when I stopped to watch a street magician. He was older than me, probably by just a few years. Yet he seemed even older. Those deep-set eyes, the telltale scars on the hand, accompanied by subtle discolouration of the surrounding skin, suggested to me he had been a potion-maker at some stage of his life. His clothes were brightly coloured. Patches sewn into drab and worn fabric, created the illusion of gaiety for the benefit of onlookers. I watched with interest as he deftly folded pieces of paper and cloth into shapes that belied training in the Aitayan tradition. He had certainly travelled widely and learned a number of useful skills along the way, but I could not shake the feeling I had known him once. I knew we would have to talk.

I politely waited while his creations fluttered and hopped and chirruped. A true artistry showed through in this man's work, and it was as he handed a paper red-necked grebe to a little girl, who laughed as the creation immediately took flight, orbiting her head several times, before returning to its master's hand. His face was in side-profile and for a moment I was able to imagine him without the beard. I knew him as a fellow student at the academy. Hamsa Tita, I believe was his name. A very promising student. I lost contact with my class, the moment I ascended to godhood, and they mostly forgot I had ever existed, for I have that effect on most people now.

Once his performance was done, I approached him. Offered to buy him dinner. He was reluctant, even suspicious at first, for I was a total stranger to him. I revealed myself to him for just long enough to gain his trust, then slowly let his knowledge of me fade. By the time we finished our meal, the only thing he would recall about me was that I was kind and generous. Oh, if only I had allowed him to remember, but it was a risk I would not take that day.

Hamsa told me his story. He was from a middle class family without much in the way of wealth, but he had showed great promise in his early days, enough to impress the mages. He had been granted a scholarship and sent to the academy in Wyllmochvar and for several years, things were great. He bonded well with his fellow students and was supported well by his tutors. Even when the screaming mouth had assailed the city, he had been amongst many who fought against the horror and participated in the rescue operations afterwards.

But in the wake of the disaster, the council's makeup changed. Hard-line mages capitalised on the peoples' misery by advocating tougher measures and to start looking inwards at their own citizens. Many believed the screaming mouth had been drawn to Wyllmochvar by dissidents wishing to spread chaos. Then they turned to ethnicity.

Unfortunately for Hamsa, his mother had been of Elvembek stock, while his father was half-Tarishitan. It did not take long for the council to turn their attention to the academy. When they learned of his Tarishitan ancestry, they were suspicious enough, but having a mother who hailed from a land enclosed within a dead zone was enough for them to bring him in for questioning.

After a brutal beating and lots of yelling, he had been allowed to go free, but the scholarship funding dried up and many at the academy began treating Hamsa as though he were tainted by something. Within a couple of months, Hamsa found he could no longer pay for his education and then was evicted from lodgings by a landlady who claimed she had seen him talking with other metallic-eyed Elvembek. Rumours spread and soon he found himself living with the other homeless of the city, making a living any way he could. He told me that the council are considering a bill that would prevent non-Wyllmochvarans from practicing magic at all. If that were to happen, he would have to consider a different profession.

Hamsa is ill. He does not know it, but his time living on the streets has given him an infection that will eventually kill him. I discerned he has less than a month to live, but did not tell him. I wanted to help him, but how do I help him without helping all who are like him? And if I do that, it means directly intervening in mortal politics. It means changing their society according to my whim. Also, if the council learn of a god directly intervening in their world, they will not respond pacifically. I would have to go to war with them, or they me.

I sent him away with some extra coin in his pocket. I hated how pathetically grateful he was. He used to be such a strong, proud young man, now reduced to…to that.

But I do not think I am done with helping him. I have contacts in Wyllmochvar. I know where others like him are gathering in secret, sharing their strength, but will it be enough? Should I help them? My heart tells me I should, but my head asks the more difficult question: How?

I visited Hamsa in his dreams, a few days ago. The usual nightmares, self-doubts, sexual confusion. Of course the dreams of the impoverished are more fearful, more connected to loss. I helped smooth out the jagged landscapes for him and visited him in our head principal's office, which was also his childhood bedroom. There was a window through which I could see a busy marketplace. Garish colours and smells of home cooking. For some reason, the window was at ground level and I found myself peering up at people's feet as they passed us by.

Hamsa was searching for something in the principal's desk. Sometimes the principal was entering the room, other times he was not there. The dream was repeating itself over and over, as though locked in a variety of non-sequential sequences. I was curious as to why Hamsa's dream did not simply move on, and then I realised he was looking at me.

I have not walked the dreams of those who would have known me in mortal life, for at least a couple of years. I had forgotten precisely why, until the moment I saw the recognition in his eyes. “Centensimus? What are you doing here? You bought me dinner.” I did not answer.

Usually I can walk in and out of dreams unnoticed. I can disguise myself if need be, but all that is more difficult in the dreaming. Here I am not cloaked by the Fugue. The Fugue ensures people remember me as though I were a dream. If they too are within that dream, there is no Fugue to cover my tracks. We are both in the moment.

When confronted by someone who has a genuine connection to me, it becomes even more difficult. I am revealed, not only as who I am, but also as what I am, for those who look too hard. As I solemnly met Hamsa's gaze, I knew he could see me for what I am. A god.

“You, you became a god? Is that why you left school? I thought it was because of your father's death.”

“It was.” I answered plainly.

It took a moment for that to sink in. The consciousness is a scattered thing in dreams. I waited patiently, then nodded as he remembered who my father had been. Suddenly it all made sense to him. He smiled, then grinned, then laughed, his dream bloomed. Wild flowers springing from every corner. We were standing in a garden, alive with huge flowers. Hamsa looked up at me with deep brown eyes. He was a child. The size of the blooms must have been symbolic of his memories of them, at least in part.

“Why have you chosen me? I am a true Parvporan. I do not worship the gods. What interest would you have in me?”

“A good question. My interest in you is my interest as a man of Parvpora. I am that first and a god second…or last.”

“And a friend? Where does that come in? Or does it come in at all?” He was older now. In his teens and dressed in an apprentice mage's robe. I noticed he wore no shoes.

“Hamsa. I…I did not really know you that well. You were a year or two above me. Remember?”

Hamsa's face was without expression, but his eyes were bigger and browner than ever. I could not read that distorted expression. It is always the way, when I have a…no. I was confused. I had not been in a situation like this before, where there were…I am sorry. I am having difficulty putting this into words. Instead I will continue the tale.

I picked a flower. A bright orange chrysanthemum, I think. It was made from folded paper, of course. Without saying anything, I presented it to Hamsa. “For you. You can call for me.”

Hamsa accepted the flower and stared at it. He was a man now, but stronger and cleaner than in real life. The mage robes were beginning to decay and fall from his body. “I know I am sick. We know these things in dreams. I know that in the waking world I will not understand the nausea and that I will probably put it down to hunger pangs, but I know something is growing inside me, eating me alive.”

“I think I can heal you, but…”

“But there are rules, aren't there. I know that about the chaos lord who walks in dreams. He has rules. Nothing is ever given freely, either on his side or the other. Everything has a cost. You have to stick to those rules, or what you are becomes a lie.”

“Hamsa, I…” was all I could manage to say. I felt ashamed.

“It's alright. My dream-self gets it. My waking self has nothing left to offer. And it would have to be an offer. Something given freely.”

He was half-right. I can give freely, but when called on it, the divine rulings come into effect. They are like oaths to us gods. Strong and binding, unless nobody is looking. Unfortunately he was looking, at me. Something about the way he looked though. Something different. What was it. An inner wisdom? If he had finished his studies and trained in the dreaming arts, I think he could have been quite a formidable dream mage.

I turned away, suddenly ashamed, although not entirely certain why. “You are correct,” I conceded. But I can help in other ways. Your situation is part of a larger thing, and that I can influence in a number of media.”

He grabbed my wrist and I turned back, startled by such an action. A mortal, daring to touch me? But the urgency in his eyes redirected my own ire. “Mendean. Imayhavesome - “ before I could react he was gone. The dream collapsed into white light before fading into the colourless void. Hamsa was awake.

I hope he will remember the flower.

Curing cancer is not as easy as I thought it might be. It's not like curing a disease. Usually you can banish the infection, or boost the ability of the body to fight it off. But cancer is something else. According to some very in-depth elven scrolls, they say it is a part of the body that refuses to grow in the way it was meant to. Basically it is a growth that spreads inside the mortal form, damaging the vital organs, or clogging up the humors and weakening the victim so that they are unable to fight off other forms of infection. It is not a pleasant way to go.

The difficulty with using the wrong healing spell on a man or woman with cancer, is that many spells of this nature, do not distinguish between the cancer and the body. But that is because the cancer grows from the body. Such a spell of healing would heal the cancer as well as the flesh. I need to do some more research.

Imagine, a part of your own flesh, attacking you from the inside. It's the stuff of nightmares. No wonder I saw Hamsa's dream self picking mushrooms from cavities that had opened up in his skin. He did not appear to be experiencing pain, although there was that pervading sense of horror and dread at what had become of him. I fixed it for him of course. I am not a dream lord for nothing. But I know that it will happen again, and again. I cannot control a man's dreams indefinitely.

It took me a while to calm him down. We talked of old professors and lost loves and all that old school reminiscing stuff. Well okay, I have never loved, so most of the talking was down to him. It distracted him, which was what I wanted it to do.

I have not visited Hamsa in his waking hours. I will not do so until I am ready. For now, I am content to interact with him in dreams. It has been a while since I last made a friend. I did not realise how lonely I had become. It is one of those things one forgets about when there are other distractions, such as the recent near-end of the world!

As I said, I have not visited him in the physical world, but I have begun to manoeuvre circumstances. I have spoken with a healers' guild in Wyllmochvar, who do charitable good works. I made a generous donation, mentioning that I have noticed a number of the street entertainers seem to be sickening in Gavril Princip. I was not blatant, but I think they got the message. The idea is in their heads now, that there could be another epidemic about to break out of the district and they will have to find a way to contain it before it spreads. And of course, one of those entertainers just happens to be Hamsa. It is only a matter of time before they find him. I wonder if they will be able to help?

I have come to understand something new about myself. The reason I have not visited Hamsa in the flesh, so to speak, is because I cannot stand to see him suffering.

It is an odd thing. I am not malicious, but I have seen death and suffering on a grand scale before. I walked the fields of glass and blood, the swamps of gloom and other such charming locations in Hell, when I was searching for the daemon who slew my father. I have seen thousands of souls, moaning and screaming in eternal suffering and walked over them without a second glance.

But with Hamsa, I am afraid to directly witness the suffering of his flesh. It has been so long since I last had an emotional attachment to someone who was not immediate family. It is strange.

And yet, I have not attempted to heal him; to prevent his imminent death. There are still rules to abide by. I may represent the forces of chaos, but I am also bound by certain rules. Never something for nothing. Never nothing for something. Never nothing for nothing. Always something for something. Requesting the help of the lord of chaos who walks in dreams is a dangerous game to play. Even Hamsa understands this.

I am also concerned by the larger problems of the society of which Hamsa inhabits the fringes. Things are getting worse. No Wylmochvarians are being persecuted and the law is increasingly turning a blind eye. It is only a matter of time before more draconian laws come into place. The question is: do I attempt to intervene?

I discussed this with Hamsa's dream self and he was fairly philosophical about it. He said he had considered leaving Wyllmochvar, but he did not have any place he could get to easily. He has family in Ataiyo he has met in the past, but no means of getting there. And besides, he considers himself a Wyllmochvarian. He feels it is appropriate that he should die in the city he has always thought of as home.

I think I will look into booking passage for him, should the need arise. I think that a price paid is beginning to emerge: friendship. Freely given too. It fills me with hope for the future.

I could not find Hamsa in the dreaming at first. I sensed his presence, as I have become familiar with him, but for some reason his precise location eluded me.

It took some time, but I found him in the deeper regions of the dreaming. It was a strange, constantly shifting environment that he had created around himself. Orange-red clouds, fire in the sky. A red haze over things. And the landscape! A wasteland filled with wreckage and broken detritus from his life. Children's toys, books, broken furniture, fragments of buildings, people and animals, melded with the inanimate. And there in the centre of this shifting landscape - where hills and troughs rose and fell, almost like waves on the ocean – was Hamsa. He was in rags that barely covered him. Wizard's robes hanging in strips over pallid flesh.

I went to approach him when I realised what had happened. Hamsa was sleeping more deeply than he should. His thoughts were scattered and confused and the oppressive atmosphere implied something bad had happened to him. I did not think for a second longer. I turned and left, transferring myself into the physical world as quickly as I could. My heart racing, I felt sick.

It took me several nerve-wracking minutes to track him down, but I found him. I am certain the city council's monitors must have picked up on the divine power I was throwing out, but so far there have been no consequences. They leave my kind alone, as long as I do the same to them.

He was lying behind some empty crates, near the docks. His face was swollen on one side and I saw blood mixed with a puddle of water that the back of his head rested in. His bag of paper was gone, as were his boots. Anger filled me as I realised he had not only been beaten unconscious, but he had been robbed as well.

As I bent down to lift him, I felt the sharpness of his bones, like skin wrapped around an oddly-shaped frame. He had wasted away rapidly in the two weeks since I had last seen him. I was horrified. I had not realised how badly his health had deteriorated…and now this. I wasted no more time. I performed a healing spell upon his head, to heal the concussion and reduce the swelling I detected inside. It was a mild spell, for I did not want to risk there being any cancer in his brain. If I had healed such a cancer it would have hastened his death significantly.

His body was easy to lift and carry, like a bird's frame. Even though he was taller than me, I had no difficulty and that shocked me. I took him to the charity and left him there. He would heal, I was told, but his body was very weak. The healers were unaware of his cancer, but they could tell that he was sick and that they could not predict how long it would be before he woke up. I made another donation and left him with the charity. I knew exactly where I was going next.

I tried for several hours, trying to coax Hamsa's dream-self out of his reverie, but he seemed to be unaware of me. Mostly he was fixated with the scraps of his life, stretched out across that alien plain. Gathering and assembling things in patterns that made little sense. Trying to put together fragments of his life. Had I lost him already?


I admit that I flew into a rage, but it was not directed at Hamsa. I tore my way back into the physical plane, returning to the scene of the crime. There I spent the rest of the day tracking down the two perpetrators of the crime. When I found them, I…I did not kill them, but I…


I do not wish to say what I did to them. Suffice to say my vengeance was terrible and long-lasting. Neither of them are likely to assault anyone, ever again. When my head had cleared, I saw what I had done and felt shame, but I did not undo it. What does that say about me? The things I am capable of. No. I will put those thoughts from my head. I am not my mother.


And neither am I my father.


Most of Hamsa's possessions were gone, but I was able to salvage his collection of paper, that he kept in a canvas bag. I returned it to him, even though he was still unconscious, and then I performed another mild healing incantation to help the swelling go down. After that, I left, returning to the deep dreaming where I found him, much as I had left him. Squatting in the centre of a shifting landscape.


Except that he was holding a piece of orange paper, that he had folded into the shape of a chrysanthemum.


Falling to my knees, I took the hand that was holding the folded paper and lifted it. He seemed in a daze as he finally looked up and saw me. As he stared at me, the growing comprehension in his eyes was like the embers of a fire. I fanned those embers, offering words of encouragement. It took an eternity, but finally he looked me in the eye and I could see that he was himself again.


“Why are you crying?” Those were his first words. I pulled away in surprise, instantly regretting the move as it made Hamsa flinch. I had not realised what I was doing, but I wiped my face clean with a sleeve and composed myself.


“I thought I had lost you. You were hurt, badly hurt. I didn't want to lose my friend so soon. But you came back.” I smiled, lifting the paper flower I had taken from him. “You called me. See?”


Hamsa recovered quickly a whole range of emotions flickering over his features. Down in the deep dreaming, people are closer to themselves. There is less control over reactions. Frankly, mortals are much more honest about themselves there. “Friend?” He seemed to be tasting the word uncertainly, as though testing it. And then he reached out and took hold of the hand with the flower. “I thought we were more than that.”


And then he kissed me.

It has been over a week since my last entry into this journal. Much has changed. I have changed. I have learned many new things about myself that I had no knowledge of before. I think…I think I might actually be happy.

The kiss from Hamsa was a shock. I had not experienced anything like it before, but somehow, I knew how to respond, or rather, my body did. I do not understand it, even now, but it was as though something exploded inside my head. I felt vulnerable, exposed. After all, affection is not a thing I know anything about. But I liked feeling vulnerable. There was a strength in Hamsa, and to feel him taking the lead with me, a god. I must confess, I rather enjoyed that sense of weakness, of not being in control.

I won't go into details, suffice to say that intimacy in the dreaming is different to the physical plane's equivalent. First you have to concentrate, focus. You don't want stray thoughts to suddenly summon a disapproving parent who will stand over you, demanding you tidy your room!There is less danger, one can go further, be more imaginative. There is a certain deep emotional intensity that one cannot experience while awake. And then there are the moments that can stretch on and on and on, whereas in the physical world it can be over all too soon. At least, that is what I am told, for I have yet to experience physical intimacy in the world of mortals.

Not to say that there wasn't plenty of fumbling, a lot of mistakes, false starts, embarrassment and uncertainty. It was my first time and neither of us really knew what we were doing. But I think what we lacked in experience, we made up for with enthusiasm. I now have some sympathy for mortals and their relentless pursuit of each other. That desired moment of intimacy. A closeness not felt in any other way. I feel like a fool for sneering at them so frequently. I bet they were probably laughing right back at me the whole time, inside their heads.

In the so-called 'real' world, I hear Hamsa is awake and eating food. Mostly broths. Solid food makes him sick. I have not been to see him, but I have spoken at length with the healers of the guild. They say he is dying, as the cancer saps the last of his strength. But I have no lost heart. I think I can fix him. I have researched all the necessary spells and I feel confident that I can restore him to full health after he is cured. Once that has been done, I have arranged for him to travel to his relatives in Ataiyo (I managed to track them down and letters were exchanged) then perhaps the future can begin.

Yes, I think I am genuinely happy. I feel…I feel.

My visits to Hamsa in the dreaming always seem to go much the same way. We talk, we laugh, there is a moment of fear that passes between us and then we come together, like a pair of jigsaw pieces, exploring the environment, as well as each other. Endless possibilities. Down in the deeper parts of the dreaming, everything seems possible.

But with his illness progressing, periods of wakefulness are frequent, as his consciousness rises and falls, like a drowning sailor coming up for breath as his strength inexorably begins to fade. Hamsa is fading. He is fading both from the world, as well as the dreaming. We do not have much time together. I know if I delay any further, I will not be able to save him.

*~*~*

The spells I had to cast, were dangerous ones. I suppose that is why I delayed performing them. I received a message that Hamsa had caught an infection of the blood and that soon he would slip into coma from which he would never awaken. I was offered the chance to say my goodbyes to an old friend, but I think some of the guild suspected the true nature of our relationship. It did not matter. The healers' guilds have long turned blind eyes to many things, simply to be able to practice their arts.

I rushed to the building where they were keeping him, a near-derelict town house that stank permanently of death. Hamsa was on the top floor, as I had paid extra to ensure he had a good room. A bed of his own and clean sheets, unlike many of the poor souls who occupied the building that night. Even so, it was raining and the roof leaked. A pair of wooden pails collected water as it dripped.

When I began drawing chalk symbols on the walls around him and burning dishes of exotic herbs, the healers objected. I understand that. I was not of their guild and yet here I was, interfering with their processes. It took a secret revealing of my divine nature to a sympathetic elder, as well as another hefty donation to their funds, to ensure suitable privacy, but that was what I obtained for us.

First I began with simple curing incantations and a light healing enchantment, in order to reduce his temperature and remove the infection. That was the easy part. I could see the cancer had spread throughout his body and even into some of his bones, weakening them. With senses only a god possesses, I saw every tumour, every horrific thing that every tiny particle was doing to him.

But That would not stop me. I used tiny points of heat, conjured up and materialised within his arteries. Each one vaporising and boiling away particles that might block the flow of blood and cause a stroke. That task alone took a couple of hours. Aiming, concentrating, summoning divine fire and applying it. By the end of it, my fingers ached and I had to call for fresh water for myself.

Then I went to work on the tumours. Each spell had to be precisely placed, for maximum effectiveness. When cast, it changed the disobedient pieces of Hamsa, encouraging them to cease their growth and return to their original purposes. Bargaining with them was not an easy task, but through correct use of the words of power, annointing with the appropriate scented oils as an offering, and finally the placement of charcoal markings upon his wasted body, I was able to prevail. Some parts of the tumours refused and I had to eliminate them with the tiny points of heat. There were over a hundred that had to be removed in that way, but that figure was tiny when compared to the millions of fragments that cooperated.

The process lasted from sundown the previous night, until sunrise the next morning. Once I had finished, I was able to let loose with stronger spells of healing, not longer afraid of healing the cancers too. I can tell you it was a relief to be able to do the crude work at the end, filling bone lesions, bonding muscle tissue, fusing skin and what little fat there remained in Hamsa's emaciated body. One final blanket cure incantation and I was done. Even though I am an immortal, there are occasions when my physical endurance can be sorely tested!

I left him sleeping, content that his heart was beating normally and that he breathed unhindered once more. When he wakes, they will feed and water him. Then if he is up to it, they will hand him the letters that have recently arrived from his family in Ataiyo. Hamsa is getting out of here. Away from the prejudice and the oppression. I cannot wait to visit him in a day or two, discuss the future with him when he is truly awake. I have never felt this way about anybody before. I want to see the world through his waking eyes now.

Something required my attention, so three days had passed when I finally visited Hamsa. I found him on the balcony sat in a wicker chair with a blanket wrapped around him. He gazed out across the city. I noted that he was clean-shaven and his dark hair had been cut short. His face still bearing telltale scars from the hardships he had endured on the streets of Wyllmochvar. His features were gaunt, but the skin was clear. Eyes now free of yellow and red. The evidence of recovery pleased me.

He greeted me with a smile, but seemed distracted as I joined him. His mind clearly elsewhere, but that was to be expected. What was not expected was the way he seemed to be avoiding meeting my gaze, as though something about me made him uncomfortable. At this point I was there as Centensimus, his former contemporary from school. In the real world we had met only a few times and those had been short, or while he was not wholly conscious. It was not until the nurse who had been changing his bedding left, that I revealed myself to Hamsa, but his reaction was not what I had expected.

At first, his eyes widened, as though in fear, and then when he addressed me, it was as though some force compelled him to look anywhere but into my eyes. He only briefly acknowledged that he had encountered me in dreams, but if he recalled any more than that, he avoided the issue entirely.

My heart broke when he spoke of owing me a debt and trying to come up with ways to repay me, promote faith in my church, or donate money to worshippers, or something else that meant nothing to me. At one point he even suggested sacrificing animals. I think my expression of unbridled horror at that point, gave him the answer.

I had given to him freely. All I wanted of him had been reciprocation. Not even love, but companionship would have been enough. But here he was, the man with whom I had shared so much over the past two weeks, attempting to bargain with me for services already rendered. I could not understand, so said nothing. Instead, I let the veil slowly fall across his perception of me, restoring my mortal countenance to his eyes.

We sat in silence after that. Hamsa gazing out over the city. I, searching for the man I thought I knew. I glanced at the opened letters on the table next to him. “I take it the letters are from your father's family in Ataiyo?”

“Yes.” Hamsa seemed relieved to have something else to discuss. “They have sent me money and passage has been booked aboard a ship in the next few days. Was it you who told them of my circumstances?”

“It was.”

“Then I thank you. You have given me not only my life, but a future too. I cannot ever repay you. I know that now.”

“I do not require payment.” I had reached across the table and touched his hand, but he slowly withdrew his own after a second. I continued. “I just wanted to - “

“Do you know I had the strangest dreams while I was ill? I think you were there, and we…well…” I wanted him to speak of our times together, of love and loss and the plans Hamsa's dream-self and I had made. I wanted to hear him speak as he had done in the landscapes of his subconsciousness. “…Well they were pretty freaky dreams. I must have been delirious or something. I'd never…”

He trailed off and I could feel the weight inside me, dragging me down. I became Centensimus again and watched as the memories of me began to fade from his eyes. The repression locking him down once more. Societal taboos fitting into place. His next words nearly killed me and minutes later I was no longer in Wyllomchvar, or even Parvpora, or even Revaliir. I could not bear to be there after hearing those coffin-lid words.

“Ah well, it doesn't matter. After all, it was only a dream.”