Work Text:
And my head told my heart
"Let love grow"
But my heart told my head
"This time no"
In the heart of the Dreaming, the leaves turned on the 1st of October. They began to drift towards the ground on the 2nd.
It was an undeniably perfect Fall.
“I've always preferred the word 'Autumn',” she said. “Fall is so bloody literal, isn't it?”
He had never given it much thought. Beside him, she was short, neither fat nor thin, but that kind of ripe voluptuousness that put him in mind of fruit on the vine. She dressed in shades of pink and grey. Her hair was platinum blond. She could have been anything between twenty-five and fifty.
She was utterly beautiful.
But he was the King of the Dreams; beautiful women came as no surprise to him.
That first night (Odin's day, she noted with a faint, wry smile), he threw a lavish feast in her honour. A camp-fire punk from the Wessex downs sang a long lay in celebration of her beauty; the cuisine came from Jaipur and New Orleans and Ancient Rome. She wore bracelets of twisted twine, a jumble of necklaces in the open neckline of her dress. A silver hare sparkled and caught the light.
He did not eat.
He drank a little Champagne. It was a vintage that had disappeared from wine cellars around the time of the Third Reich.
It was as good as the Fall.
They danced.
“You're not the best I've ever had,” she told him. “But you'll do.”
One by one the dreamers woke, until they were alone on the floor.
Later, much later, she stood naked in front of a great window and watched as the sun rose up over the whole of the Dreaming. He found himself pleasantly distracted by the weight of her breasts and the curve of her side. She pressed one hand against the glass. She wore a ring with a green stone the size of a duck-egg.
“I can't feel it here,” she said. “It's so big and I can't feel a bit of it.”
“Would you like to?”
“No, pet,” she says, shaking her head. “I think it'd be nice to not feel it for a little while.”
She came back to bed. The sun rose without her.
In the heart of the Dreaming, the new leaves bud on the trees on the 1st of April . She stood on the threshold in clothes of heavy denim and sturdy brown boots. Her hair was braided back from her face. She still wore the same ring.
“So you'll go then,” he said, and it was not a question. He was nothing but cold for her. The rain clouds were already gathering over the Dreaming.
“I'll go,” she said. “Because there are things that need to be done and there's still power in me to do them.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a short, dark cigarillo. “And you're not going to be there.”
“No,” he said.
“It doesn't really matter,” she said, bending her head to light her cigarette. “I imagine your sister will be there.” She blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth and smiles.
Easter of the Dawn turned and walked away.
She left the Dreaming after a fall and a winter.
She left the memory of her eyes, the exact green of the budding leaves.
In the Dreaming, Spring retreated.
The frosts came again. That winter lasted for a long, long time.