Dreamwalker's Bride - Chapter 12

A moral quandary
Trace listened carefully for the sound of Anaisa’s even breathing, not willing to let himself relax until he was sure she was comfortable. As big as a change this was for him, it had to be far scarier for her.

An unfamiliar place, far from where she’d grown up, separated from her family. Well, at least her sister. He didn’t know if there was anyone else out there in the world for her. He had the luxury of a close knit family. It grieved him that she treated the idea as an anomaly and not the norm.

He pitied her, and the life she must have endured before coming here. He wondered if she would have nightmares, either a product of past trauma or recent volatility in life. He endured the impulse to go guard her dreams, but that seemed invasive.

On the other hand, she was his wife. Tradition said that when two people married, they became one and the same. Philosophically, it was no different than dreaming on his own. Was it?

No, he couldn’t convince himself that was an adequate justification.

Dreams, he knew better than anyone, were highly personal. By looking into them, he could easily find out things a person would never reveal in their waking hours. Some hidden part of themselves that perhaps even they didn’t want to face. Some memory they would rather forget. Some secret desire.

Some loved one they yearned for.

Anaisa seemed to have a lot she kept to herself. Perhaps just things she didn’t want to talk about yet, or maybe secrets that she wanted to keep from him forever. He longed to know them, but he also wanted to earn her trust enough for her to give them to him freely.

He shook his head. He’d just met this woman. He couldn’t rush into knowing her greatest fears and heart’s desires. He would need to earn them. Slowly, like any other man would. That was best, wasn’t it?

The rules of gentlemanly conduct didn’t exactly prohibit him from the behavior, but the underlying principles of privacy and fair conduct weren’t quite in his favor.

He rolled to one side, trying to find some justification to look into her mind. There wasn’t one good enough to sway the lessons his mother instilled into him from early childhood. Hers were the first dreams he ever looked into, so she definitely had strong opinions on the topic.

The woman had once compared it to rushing into the outhouse without knocking. A rather abrupt metaphor, but it got the point into his young mind that the behavior was inappropriate. There had to be some loophole for marriage, however…

Still struggling with the moral quandary, he fell into his own dreamworld.

Tonight he stared into the sky, at the sparkling stars of his world. There was nothing else out there besides what he knew; in this world of his creation, there was nothing he had not deemed should exist.

Now that his mind was unburdened about the harvest’s completion, the fields of grain he’d imagined before were turned to green, soft grass.

He debated what to do, whether to go for a swim, or fly amongst the clouds, or dig into the earth, or simply run with the wind in his hair.

Or create. He looked to the side, and a great cliff rose up from the earth, towering and intimidating. Taller than a hundred trees, it loomed over the calm landscape below. He clapped his hands together, ready to climb the challenging escarpment. Running towards the cliff, he leapt and landed against it, his fingers working their way into holds before he slipped downward. His bare feet scraped against stone, and he pushed upward. With three points of contact at all times, he deftly began his ascent. Up, and up, and up.

Refusing to look down, he climbed higher. The wind here blew rougher, the sun blazed hotter. Yet, he did not sweat. He was concentrating on continuing his challenge, when some movement below caught his eye.

A woman stood, at the edge of the field, staring up at him. His mind had brought her back again. With a sigh, he went to banish her, but before he did, he looked more closely at the person his imagination had brought him for the third–the fourth?–time this week.

She had cascading auburn hair, and eyes the color of cornflowers.

He waved his hand with irritation, and she disappeared. Had his mind been so preoccupied with Anaisa since the inn that it had been bringing an image of her to him since then? Or had he been yearning for a companion, and now there was just more detail to give the nebulous, distant figure of his dreams?

Trace could not say for certain, but his hands slipped from the cliff and he let himself fall to the earth below. A pillowy landing dispelled the existence of the cliff, and he leapt up to run instead of climbing. Without heading in any particular direction, he suddenly skidded to a stop at the edge of his dreamworld. Shame and curiosity warred within him.

In the camp, surrounded by men, he had peered out to thousands of dreams, like translucent glass balls containing the worlds of other people’s minds.

Most dreams he could recognize once he entered them simply because the person dreaming looked like some version of themselves, enduring a nightmare or engaging in a dream. Some people thought themselves far more beautiful, some far uglier, many with exaggerated features. A few looked nothing like themselves at all. People were strange in their warped self-perception.

Tonight, there was only one globe within his sight. He pursed his lips and let his feet leave the edge of the world where he stood, floating through the emptiness. It was not far, and as he drew closer he could feel an indistinct terror and rage roiling within.

With some measure of guilt, he laid his hand on the cool, smooth surface and closed his eyes. He would not look at the dream’s contents, but he didn’t want his wife’s first night in their home to be filled with nightmares.

Taking a deep breath, he spread his fingers against the globe, and concentrated. With effort, he calmed the emotional storm within, and replaced the terror with peace.