The dream had followed him ever since that night at the Deadwalk—sanguine, glowing eyes piercing the night, dim though somehow penetrating—an enemy poised to strike, to tear out his throat as it had Pyr’s. It was stalking his dreams, getting ever closer. It was hard for Phelan not to worry. Sleep found Phelan again eventually, though it was fitful, restless. Time passed.
Phelan startled again, this time nearly waking the mage Khadhras, though no one else seemed disturbed by Phelan’s sudden spasm into wakefulness. Again he was sweating...but this time the dream was different. His skin was not cold or clammy—this time he was warm, as if having just finished a run.
The wolf had once again found his dreams...but this time it was different. Eyes of clear amber, reflecting the night of the moon—this was not the undead monstrosity that had awakened him each night, this time his companion was natural. Phelan felt not hunted, but guarded. His mind was tired, and sleep overtook him again quickly.
Another dream followed, though this time it was a fragmented memory, a scene from Phelan’s past. No wolf haunted this dream, and Phelan’s surroundings were familiar—the village circle where he grew up, and across from him was his uncle, his breath heavy after a bout of swordplay with his young nephew where Phelan had nearly seized the upper hand. His uncle looked happy, though his brow was furrowed with recognizable stress, worry. The moment did not last long.
Nearby, Phelan’s mother emerged from her tent. Her hair was bedraggled, her skin pale and sickly. She had been drinking again, this time heavily. She stumbled into the daylight, ignoring concerned looks of neighbors and passers by. The doeskin tunic his uncle had made for her was dirty, hanging loose on her where once lithe muscles and curves had filled it. She did not look well. She pitched forward, nearly falling, and when she caught herself, she began to meander towards Phelan and his uncle.
Phelan stood, throwing back his sweat-soaked hair, which he had let grow to nearly shoulder length, emulating his uncle. His mother did not seem impressed. When she approached, she reeked of alcohol. Her cheekbones were prominent, her hair dirty.
“You look like your father,” she cursed, the vehemence of her statement catching Phelan off guard and ruining any chance of a pleasant conversation. His uncle winced, stepping forward to intercede, reaching out an arm to offer her support.
“Don’t you touch me,” she nearly spat, drawing glares from women tending pots and beating rugs in front of their tents nearby. “Don’t...touch me.” She reeled from his outstretched arm, giving Phelan one more cold, unapologetic glare before turning away and lurching towards the river to wash herself.
There was silence between Phelan and his uncle then, long and uncomfortable. Phelan let it linger before speaking. “She lose a baby again?”
His uncle tensed, taking a step away from Phelan and turning to face him. “What?” he asked, dumfounded. “How did you...”
“Everyone knows, don’t be an idiot,” Phelan replied perhaps a little too harshly. “Everyone knows when you’re arguing. And everyone knows when you’re not. It’s a small village. Most don’t care, the rest were actually hopeful this time that it would happen, that perhaps it would help things.”
Another long silence before his uncle replied. “And you? What do you think?”
“It’s none of my business,” Phelan replied, unsure how to respond. He honestly hadn’t given it much thought. “Another round?” he asked, hoping to break the tension.
“No,” his uncle said after thinking on it. “No...I should go see to her. Perhaps you should...”
“Take a walk? Disappear for a while?” Phelan interrupted. “Don’t worry, I had planned on it.” His uncle was obviously concerned, searching for hurt on Phelan’s face apologetically, and finding none, he smiled—if only a little.
“She’s wrong, you know.” A pause, and then his uncle continued. “You’re nothing like your father.” The lie was evident on his uncle’s face though, and Phelan knew not what to make of it.
* * *
When next Phelan woke, there was no wolf—whether that was for good or ill, Phelan did not know. Memory of the dream began to fade quickly, as dreams do, but the eyes—brilliant amber in the blackest night—Phelan could not shake the way they made him feel.
