12th Night of Summer, Year 218
by Sen SouvannavongA young woman strips away leaves and thorns from a pile of freshly cut roses with pruning shears and a practiced hand. The sink bursts with flowers of every size and shape, their colors spanning the array of a setting sun. They spill onto the patchwork tile of the surrounding counter; motes of pollen spin through the air as she picks up another bundle.
Sunlight streams in through the un-shuttered window, bathing the modest kitchen in warm summer light. The cabinets glow soft spring green, plates like ribs glinting bone-white above a rack of hanging pots and pans, metallic and worn like old armor. A cake cools by a multitude of small jars containing spices and reagents alike, each with a space of its own upon wooden countertops, deep amber brown and smoothed with age. In the center of the room, a small table acts as an island for overflow, adorned with flowers and a precious array of fruits. Glimmering fractals of light glance across the woman’s skin and hair as she swipes a peony pink lock from her face and grabs an old ribbon to tie the rest away.
The kitchen door opens with a creak, and a man wearing worn leather boots carefully enters while the woman’s back is turned. His expression is torn or perhaps confused.
Sensing a presence, the woman looks over her shoulder and startles, catching herself on the sink.
“By the gods, Ethan,” she huffs to catch her breath, and looks him over with concern. “What happened to you? …You look like hell.”
His clothing and armor are scraped and gashed, but it’s his face that calls her attention. He looks alarmed and disoriented, his hands are shaking. She sets down her pruning clippers and hurriedly dries her hands on her apron.
“Are you okay?” She approaches him and lays a cool hand on his forehead before softly holding his face, the other gently braced on his shoulder. She inspects him more carefully, her brow knit with worry. “You don’t seem injured…”
“…Danica?” His voice is hoarse and filled with doubt. He removes her hand from his cheek as he takes her in, but doesn’t let it go. His head shakes in disbelief as his memories come back to him in a rush, alongside an uncomfortable punch of suspicion.
“How did you get here? Where—where are we?” Ethan furtively glances around, instinctively scanning for danger in the fragrant, hazy room. The strangeness of this idyllic space discomforts him, but as Danica squeezes his hand in reassurance and looks up at him with familiar worry, his resolve dissipates. The draw of standing with her in arm’s reach and hearing her voice again is overwhelming despite his apprehension.
He doesn’t dare to step away, for fear she might vanish.
The concern in Danica’s expression intensifies, “…Maybe you should rest. I can put water on the stove, or—” She moves to pull a chair from the table, but he doesn’t release her, instead wrapping an arm around her waist, the other across her back. His hand grips her shoulder and he squeezes her tightly with his head lowered. She gazes at him for a moment with discerning tea-dark eyes before returning his embrace, the sun caught in her hair setting them both aglow in amber.
“This isn’t real,” he finally says, “It’s a dream.”
“You flatter me,” she teases. Then, turning her face into his collar with a soft sigh, “You know… dreams contain fragments of reality; even if they’re just pieces…”
…sometimes that’s all we have.
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