Page 65 of Whisper of Nightmares

“Ash,” he says at long last, no recognition in his voice. No resistance. But no elation either. “Ash it is then.” He scans the horizon again, sword twitching at his side. “Now, tell me, if you are not dead, then why have you come here, Euphemia?”

Euphemia looks around them as well. She notes the thick tree roots that carve scars into the earth, even though there are no actual trees in sight. Only these strange roots that twist and bulge.

Euphemia rests atop a particularly bulbous one, as tall as her knees. She holds out a hand, delighting as snowflakes drift up and around her fingers, falling back into the sky.

“It’s simple, really. I’m here because I am dreaming.”

Ash angles his head at her. “Dreaming?”

The way he says it though, it’s like he’s never heard of such a thing. Or perhaps it is one more thing he’s forgotten.

But overhead, the sky seems like it’s starting to lighten, a window of baby blue shining through.

Their time here might be ending soon.

Euphemia can spend the rest of the dream trying to teach him all the things he doesn’t remember. But there is so much she’s curious to learn about as well.

“Is the whole place like this?”

“Like what?”

Enchanting is what she wants to say. But years of scorn make her swallow the word whole. “I don’t know. Impossible? Surreal?” Still sensing his confusion, she gestures to him. “Take, for example, your eyes. They dance like firelight.”

Tentatively, Ash reaches a hand up toward his face. He pauses, a mere graze away. As if he fears the bone might scorch him.

Euphemia gets the strange feeling then that he has no idea what he looks like.

She looks back down the hilltop toward the river. Unfortunately, the nightmare is still grazing there. It wouldn’t be worth the risk to go back. If only there was a river closer⁠—

The moment the thought crosses her mind, the meadow shrinks. The river bursts beside her in a sudden whoosh. Euphemia gasps, jumping up from the tree root and colliding against Ash’s broad chest.

His hand wraps around her waist, steadying her. He is as sturdy as a tree and smells like one too. Cedar and embers. Like logs burning in the hearth during the harshest winter.

But Euphemia keeps her gaze trained on the river as she rights herself. She hears it babbling, even though the waters remain still. Not a droplet has spilled or been disturbed.

Even the nightmare still grazes peacefully, as if it never even moved.

It is both remarkable and unsettling.

Pressing herself as close to her own spine as she can manage, Euphemia nods to the water now beside them. “There. Have a look for yourself,” she says, a little too breathless.

Ash watches the mystical water. Unmoving.

Then, with a sudden burst of bravado, he trudges forward, brandishing his chest like a shield.

The nightmare whinnies and bucks onto its hind legs, before finally galloping away.

Ash steps to the water’s edge. But he does not look down. His gaze remains fixed on Euphemia, staring at her as if he’s afraid she might disappear. Now that the nightmare is gone, there’s no reason to keep her distance. Besides, if her presence can help ease his worry, then she must aid him. All devout women would.

Euphemia joins him and together they wade into the frigid water. It only comes up to her ankles, but still she feels the bite of it, as if shards of glass are digging into her flesh.

Somewhere in the distance, a raven screeches.

Ash twitches.

Once.

Then, with a deep inhale, he finally succumbs and lowers his gaze to the river.