// 009. [false memory?]
The warmth of the sun on your face is overwhelming and faraway all at once. Warmth through a veil beneath a veil, and the sandscape is hazy around the edges, soft focus and whispervision because maybe you've been staring straight into the sun for a little too long.
Shielding your eyes, turning as you catch sight of a familiar silhouette, the burnished gold and titian slash of a boy's robes. Offering up a gentle smile with words you somehow forget before they even leave your lips. Words you both understand and don't
But there are arms around you now, and maybe they have always been there. At this moment you are sure that they always will be. You are to married within the week's end - the heat of the sun blooms in your cheeks, a little dizzy, a little breathless at the scent of olibanum in the air.
Serenity is in his smile, (alike and yet not to the boy that's looking on) the reflection of your own image (tanned skin, luminous crimson eyes) in his spectacles as you close any remaining distance, and with it your eyes. The flushflash of heat between - warm sun and comfort and skin and promises of forever.
So much love that you feel as if your heart might burst from it. No fear, no hindrance or hesitation, only the absolute certainty of this. Of now. When he speaks your name, strokes your hair and pulls you impossibly closer you are on fire at his words.
You want to stop this moment, halt it here and stand for just a bit longer, but the sands are shifting beneath your feet, the silvering lilt of your anklet echoing the distant sound of a locket suspended and pressed into his palm and you burrow into the warmth of his embrace, the safety of it eclipsing the far-off realization that you're somewhere else.
The scent of olibanum, of desert flowers.
Your eyes flutter open; you were dreaming.
You're in a bed, the softspun outline of his face above yours, and a furious love in his eyes - eyes that never leave yours even as the edges of his portrait fade and darken further still. So heavy, your own eyes. For just a moment you close them, his afterimage burned inside like a fever beneath the blood. The wetness of tears splash your brow, mark your collarbone and pool there between.
Heat stays your breath, steals it and slips a whisper that’s lost on the smoke of incense and offering and the faint wilt-scent of petals fallen, crushed.
And when he tells you that you'll be together again, soon, you believe him, as you always have. What you have is pure and true and binding and forever and you trust in him almost as much you trust in Ishbala. Maybe even more.
His fingers brush yours. If you could just rest a moment, everything will be fine. Exhausted, floating on wings of words that flutter out of hearing distance. There is hope in your heart, still. A beacon of hope and faith and comfortlovingtruth and there is hope---
---in your heart
(but it's)
Still.
{Your eyes flutter open; you were dreami---}
[She's in a bed. Sunlight filters through the windowglass, lighting on her brow - an unblinking beacon for a moment of absolute quiet before the feed cuts.]
[ooc: Sensations and emotions in this dream will be mostly pleasant, albeit increasingly warm and blurred.]