She always dreamt in allegory. She’d long been a regular at her dream reader’s for interpretation of her nightly forays. The notes in her dream diary went back years. She hoped those notes were enough to decipher this one because more mundane expenses meant she couldn’t afford a dream reader today. Her dreams were never prophetic before. This one...?
Willows, that’s what’d been on the metal plates they’d worn. Stylized willows. They’d been willows before they were men, dream logic being what it was. She sketched the design while she remembered it.
The men who’d worn those plates had all been so tall and beautiful. They’d passed her like she wasn’t there, as often happened in real life, but perhaps in the dream she wasn’t there. Or it was yet another metaphor for impotence to influence events round her. Her dream diary was full of those.
Although they’d acted as if she didn’t exist, she’d cared desperately about those men. She’d tried to warn them about the army massed in its own shadows before it advanced with cutters and flame. She’d pounded on chests to no avail, too insubstantial for notice.
Her beautiful, tall, steel-clad willows had died and in her dream she’d cried tears of blood over them while the shadowed army had pillaged...everything she cared about. Even thinking about it now, it felt like her heart was breaking.
She looked around the kitchen of her flat, the small self place she’d built. If her dream was prophesy, it would be gone too.
She didn’t notice the knocking on the door at first. When she opened it, she looked up past a willow-motif tie to the most beautiful male face she’d ever seen.
“Ma’am?” His voice was like sunlight on water. “My dream reader suggested I talk to you.”