Dream
If this is real, Spirit thinks, it's only real in parts, or it's a kind of real that has nothing to do with the world she knows--like the other side of dreaming, maybe, or the other side of life. Maybe it's the feeling of the arms around her that gives her that sense--a beloved, welcome touch, but one that should almost not exist.
"Thinking deep thoughts, kitten?" The voice is male and teasing, familiar in the same way as the embrace.
She smiles, reclining back against the body behind her. "I just want to ask," she says dreamily, "why now? Why like this?"
She feels the press of his mouth, delicate and sharp at once on the nape of her neck, and oh, that feels real. As real as it needs to, anyway. "This is the easiest way to reach you. And there are things you need to know, before you go back. The garden's a different view these days, kitten, and you can't hardly see the flowers for the weeds."
She turns and loops arms around his neck. She wants to purr like the kitten he named her. "And you couldn't have stopped by the garden before now?"
"Believe me, the choice wasn't mine." He pushes her back, moves over her, and for a while all is dark and fervent delight.
She has no idea much time has passed, and doesn't care, before she catches her breath to question him again. "So what do I need to know? And why can't you just tell me in person?"
"You know better than that." His arms are curved around her waist, intimate and possessive. "I'm long gone, kitten."
"Big liar," she says lazily, and he laughs.
"Can't pull the wool over your eyes. I guess you could even bring me back, if you tried."
"Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
"There's one more thing. You need to remember this." His hand covers hers, their fingers threading together. "There's some kinds of death that are more permanent than others, and you've died too many times for comfort. Mind what grows in your garden."
She's torn between gravity and amusement. "Do you always speak in metaphor?"
He laughs, a low and private sound that makes her belly tighten pleasantly. "Kitten, it's what I do best."
"Thinking deep thoughts, kitten?" The voice is male and teasing, familiar in the same way as the embrace.
She smiles, reclining back against the body behind her. "I just want to ask," she says dreamily, "why now? Why like this?"
She feels the press of his mouth, delicate and sharp at once on the nape of her neck, and oh, that feels real. As real as it needs to, anyway. "This is the easiest way to reach you. And there are things you need to know, before you go back. The garden's a different view these days, kitten, and you can't hardly see the flowers for the weeds."
She turns and loops arms around his neck. She wants to purr like the kitten he named her. "And you couldn't have stopped by the garden before now?"
"Believe me, the choice wasn't mine." He pushes her back, moves over her, and for a while all is dark and fervent delight.
She has no idea much time has passed, and doesn't care, before she catches her breath to question him again. "So what do I need to know? And why can't you just tell me in person?"
"You know better than that." His arms are curved around her waist, intimate and possessive. "I'm long gone, kitten."
"Big liar," she says lazily, and he laughs.
"Can't pull the wool over your eyes. I guess you could even bring me back, if you tried."
"Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
"There's one more thing. You need to remember this." His hand covers hers, their fingers threading together. "There's some kinds of death that are more permanent than others, and you've died too many times for comfort. Mind what grows in your garden."
She's torn between gravity and amusement. "Do you always speak in metaphor?"
He laughs, a low and private sound that makes her belly tighten pleasantly. "Kitten, it's what I do best."