“When we dream, we are usually in our own dreams. Mithrilon had never appeared in his. His dreams were stories, true or not, he did not know.”

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≈ VII ≈

ii. The Saga of Frostwood

Under the cover of the forest, Mithrilon released the circle of still air around him to look up toward the falling white flakes skirting their way through the branches above. They sky was darkening from its blank pale slate shade to a deeper charcoal.

Mithrilon ran his fingers over the red stone on his belt, and a blaze sparked to life inches above the snow, crackling like a bonfire made of dry wood, although there was none of that in this place. He touched the blue stone and he stood in the same spot, now inside a small cabin, the fire settled to popping and hissing inside a hearth.

Settling into a chair in front of the hearth for warmth, he closed his eyes to sleep.

When we dream, we are usually in our own dreams. Mithrilon had never appeared in his. His dreams were stories, true or not, he did not know.

He dreamed of the forbidden love of a dark, beautiful, shadow creature and a joyous spirit with flowing honeyed curls, both shrouded in the prismic light of fire and ice.

He dreamed of light and darkness in human form, joined to become twilight.

He dreamed of the depths of the earth rising to meet the peaks of the mountains.

When he woke from these dreams, breathless always, he felt he was home, among family, although he had never had much of that. Rising, he touched the blazing amber stone on his belt, and the cabin was gone.

Mithrilon set out north again.

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