Author's note: Just in case you were wondering, I am actually capable of updating without adding a note. I just wanted to mention that the character Muiren who makes her first appearance here is rather a special case; when the wonderful Oleander's One guessed (the better part of a year ago, I think!) that the sequel to All It Takes would crossover with Dragon Age, I offered her a cameo. That's Muiren. Name and description were Ole's choice; her role was more-or-less a joint effort.
Gann: Reflex Save vs. the Fade : *success* (15 + 16 = 31 vs. DC: 25)
Gann: Will Save vs. insanity : *success* (17 + 25 = 42 vs. DC: 40)
When you touch something hot unexpectedly, your hand snatches itself back before the pain even registers. When you are tumbled into cold water, you instinctively hold your breath. Your reflexes act to protect you as best they can. It doesn't make the problem go away, of course; the fire still burns and you'll still drown if you can't swim, but it gives you a ghost of a chance.
That's what reflexes are for.
So when Gann stumbles into a dream of unparalleled strength and complexity, his mind protects itself from the overwhelming input by severing ties with his senses and curling in on itself, creating a small, black space where he can breathe, and think, and survive.
The first thing he knows is the darkness that surrounds him. A moment ago, he had been on the grey Fugue Plane with the tendrils of a dream reaching for him, Tarva's hand in his and Safiya behind them – and in the next, this little dark place. Nothing here except his thoughts – no. With absolute terror, he reaches for the Dreamer's Heart, and could almost weep with relief when the familiar warmth of Tarva's presence and of her love enfolds and steadies him.
What has - what has happened?
The dream, so strong and so very strange... he'd felt how powerful it was, and still he'd raced headlong into it. He hadn't prepared, he'd barely warned Tarva or Safiya, so certain of his own skills and Tarva's ability to anchor him. They'd done some incredible things in dreams, after all – they had freed a nascent dreamwalker from the prison of her own dream, and destroyed the aeons-old dreamscape of the Coven.
But neither Anya nor the hags had been so incredibly strong – and then Gann knows. The dream he's stumbled into overwhelmed his defences, and he is down in the darkness hiding from it. Just a dream; all he has to do is wake.
He can't. Usually waking and returning to his body is a trifling effort of will, but now it feels as though nothing at all is happening – as though his skills are exactly as futile as a child's wishes.
Something is very, very wrong here...
And if a dream can overwhelm and trap him like this – he, who is a talented and experienced dreamwalker – what is it doing to the others? To Safiya, with her somewhat splintered soul, who knows nothing of dreamwalking and has no defences? To Tarva, almost as ignorant as Safiya, whose peculiar combination of gifts barely qualifies her as a dreamwalker and surely leaves her uniquely vulnerable?
He has to find them, has to escape, can't afford to panic but he's beginning to –
- and then the quiet flame that is Tarva's presence dims, and try as he might to be calm, to be rational, to hope, he cannot escape the horror of his instinctive reaction.
He is almost certain that he just felt her die.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Hawke let herself out the cellar door, and took the usual moment to adjust to the penetrating, ubiquitous reek of Darktown, about which the kindest thing that could be said was that it had a way of making you forget about your troubles. You were too busy trying to keep your eyes from watering.
"Morning, Anders!" she called out as she let herself into the clinic.
The blonde healer, looking vaguely rumpled as usual, appeared from the back room. "Hawke! You're earlier than I expected."
"My guests are still sound asleep," she told him. "I slipped a note under the door, in case they wake before I get back. It's just as well; I'd be happiest seeing Tarva do nothing but eat, drink and sleep for a couple of weeks."
"She certainly needs it," Anders agreed. "I have no idea why she isn't dead."
"Probably something about that curse," Hawke said. "What've we got today?"
As though it was a cue, there was a call for water from one of Anders's longer-term patients in the back room, and as Anders turned to deal with it, a human woman staggered in. Hawke hurried to her side, supporting her carefully – the way she was carrying her arm suggested broken ribs at the least – and helped her to a bed.
"Thank you, serah Hawke," the woman said.
She looked familiar – oval face, wide mouth, blue eyes, brown hair scraped into a soft bun which had a few pink oleander flowers stuck in it - and even though Hawke prided herself on never forgetting a face, it took her a moment to remember the circumstances under which they'd last met, and another one to dredge up a name. "Ah... Patrin?
"Muiren," she corrected Hawke.
"Oh, sorry. Normally I'm better than that. About three years ago, when all those gangs were trying to take over the city, wasn't it?"
"You have a good memory, serah Hawke. The offer stands, of course."
"The streets have been rather quiet lately," Hawke said as she helped Muiren lie down, and probed carefully at her ribs. "I haven't been jumped by a street gang in over a year."
"I have reason to suspect that may change," the woman said, hissing slightly when Hawke found a tender spot. "We live in troubled times, serah Hawke."
"We do indee-"
"Muiren?" Anders rushed out, practically shoving Hawke aside from her patient. "What are you doing here? Are you all right? Are the others – did they get out safely?"
Muiren smiled at him. "A few broken ribs, Anders. Stop fussing. The operation went as planned, except for the one watchdog we thought was safely asleep. Last I heard, our friends were enjoying a sea cruise." She held up a hand. "Don't ask more."
"I won't," Anders promised, and took her hand, his healing spell an elegant, effortless spill of blue light.
Hawke watched him with the usual envy – she was good, no doubt about it, but she simply didn't have the reserves of power that Anders did – and a faint touch of curiosity. She didn't usually enquire too deeply about Anders's... extra-curricular activities, but then again, she'd never seen him greet a patient with such concern or warmth, either. "Obviously you've been keeping in contact. Do I want to ask why?"
"That depends," Anders said, although he didn't look up at her. "Are you ready to fight for the rights of mages in this city yet?"
Oh. Right. That had always been rather a sore spot between them. "No offence to present company, Anders, but most of the mages I've met in Kirkwall have been stark raving bonkers. If the templars weren't looking after them, they'd have exploded the place by now."
" 'Looking after'? 'Looking after?' Hawke, what part of isolation and imprisonment and torture and rape is including in 'looking after'? You've been free all your life – you have no idea what it's like in the Circle!"
"As you've said before," Hawke said, "and I admit it. But, Anders, we are mages. We aren't just people; we are people who are extremely dangerous to others. All it takes is a moment of weakness – and there are plenty of opportunities – and boom, goodbye sexy tortured martyr look, and hello abomination! Not to mention all of those who decide to use their power over other people-"
Anders released Murien's hand as the woman sat up, and sighed. "Hawke, you know I admire your determination never to use your magic against others... but you were born free. It's a luxury you can afford – for now. One day, you'll find yourself backed against a wall, with no weapon except your magic, and you'll use it."
"I'd rather die," Hawke told him. That was fundamental, the very core of her magic, her father's first and last teaching...
"Or that," Anders agreed. "But maybe then you'll understand the true plight of mages."
Well, it was an argument they'd had many times before, and even if it had gotten to the point where each of them could predict everything the other would say, it didn't get less bitter each time it flared up again. In stiff, awkward silence they tended to the patients – Anders was right about that much, it was starting to look like an epidemic - and when Hawke went home for lunch, she didn't invite him to join her.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Safiya was not a heavy sleeper – that was an unhealthy trait in a Red Wizard, no matter how good your wards were - and a soft, half-heard sound, perhaps a bird, woke her from a rather uneasy sleep. Her head felt stuffed. It seemed as though the Founder had passed to her rest when Akachi had, and passed all of her knowledge and memories - not to mention Nefris's and Lienna's – down to Safiya. It had hit her hard in the Fugue Plane, and it felt as though her subconscious had been busy sorting it all out while she slept. There were spells and ideas surfacing in her head that she'd certainly never thought of – except that she sort of had.
It was going to take some getting used to, that was certain.
On the other hand, she hadn't slept so well in months. A bed, no watches, no dreams of being broken in the Wall of the Faithless... that was sheer luxury. Safiya sat up and stretched out her arms. She looked over at the bed set against the opposite wall. It was empty – and Tarva's scythe had gone too. Not a good sign, usually, but at least her armour was still on the floor.
Tucking her hands in the pockets of her red robe, she wandered out into the hall. Looking about her, Safiya spied Tarva through one of the floor-length windows that opened to a spacious, sheltered courtyard. She was moving slowly, her scythe sweeping about her in patterns Safiya vaguely recognised as her most basic exercises.
She supposed that she should go scold her friend and make her crawl back into bed to eat, sleep and generally convalesce, but really... she was Tarva's friend, not her mother or her healer. Tarva wasn't stupid, even if she was often ridiculously driven; she wouldn't push herself too far. Besides, Safiya had a horrible feeling she should really offer some comfort and reassurance about their... temporary misplacement of Gann, and she didn't have the first clue how one went about that sort of thing. Sympathy was not on the Red Wizard curriculum.
The library was just behind her, and she hadn't gotten to it yesterday. A library full of books she'd never even heard of – well, that was an entirely unnatural state, and it made her physically itchy. She took one more glance at Tarva. Apart from looking almost as thin as the scythe handle, her friend seemed to have things under control.
Safiya hurried into the library, a cheerful room lined with bookcases - not quite as many as she would have liked, she could see the wallpaper in a couple of places – and sighed, the closest she'd been to complete happiness in years. So very many books... where did she start?
A small movement caught her eye – Hawke's mother at the writing desk, raising her grey head to look at this intruder into her realm. "Hello, dear."
If Hawke hadn't referred to the woman as her mother, Safiya would never have looked closely enough to spot the resemblances. If they had been in Toril, she would have placed Mistress Hawke as a native of the Sword Coast – blue eyes, middle height, fair skin, and in youth, her hair would probably have been brown or blonde. Her daughter stood more than a head taller, and looked like a Chultan – dark brown skin, curly black hair, and eyes of a similar shade. Clearly Hawke took largely after her father; it was only on a closer inspection that Safiya had picked up the similarity to her mother in the shape of her features.
"Safiya, Mistress Hawke," she introduced herself.
"Safiya," the woman echoed. "How's your friend doing?"
"Good question." The Red Wizard browsed along the bookshelves. That section looked like history; she picked up a book. Well, that wasn't history. She replaced it hastily, and heard Mistress Hawke chuckle.
"My daughter's idea of a joke. On the other hand, the descriptions of Denerim verge on the poetic." She smiled. "You don't have to worry about your friend. I've seen Flower pull off some amazing things. She has her father's hands."
" 'Flower'?"
"My daughter," Mistress Hawke answered.
"That's her name?" It didn't seem particularly suited...
"No, but it's what I call her." She shook her head ruefully. "A word to the wise, dear – never let a man name your babies. I let him have his way on the eldest, but I insisted on decent names for my twins." Her head dropped into her hands.
"Mistress Hawke?"
"Never mind, dear." She drew a deep breath and raised her head again. "What are you looking for?"
"Basic history, geography, magic theory. Whatever you have."
"An interesting combination," Mistress Hawke said. "For history and geography, I think you want Brother Genitivi – over there, dear. Magical theory... I don't think that's usually written down. It wouldn't be safe. If we do have any books of that kind, Flower will have them well-hidden."
Safiya looked up from the bookshelves in shock. "What's wrong with studying magic theory?"
Mistress Hawke looked at her very strangely. "If you don't know that, I think you'd better talk with Flower."
She knew when to stop pressing an informant and look at books instead. "I will. Thank you." Safiya gathered several volumes of Brother Genitivi and curled into a chair with them.
She read absorbedly for several hours, learning the shape of the world around her and something of its past. Blights and demons and darkspawn. Free Marches, Ferelden, Tevinter, Nevarra. Humans, elves, dwarves, Qunari. Andraste, the Maker, the Chantry. Something about the Fade – and Hawke had used the same term – but nothing very solid. Mentions of templars and the importance of their role, but no explanation of precisely what that role was. It all made her insanely curious.
She noticed the glances Mistress Hawke gave her – well, of course she did. Life in a Red Wizard Academy was an uncertain business and only those who were paranoid or extremely ruthless – ideally, both – prospered. Hawke's mother wasn't hostile, though; just a little worried. Far more relaxed than Safiya would have been, if she'd had two strangers in her house asking stupid questions, especially in a world that didn't know there were others.
Tarva came in not long after Mistress Hawke left. She was very pale, and, Safiya surmised, would probably have been shaking if her self-control was not so very good. "Tired?"
"Yes," the half-elf admitted. "I probably shouldn't have tried, but I have to do something–"
"Of course," Safiya agreed. "Want to hear what I've learned so far?" At Tarva's nod, she summarised what she'd garnered. Her friend listened silently, although Safiya could guess exactly what she wanted to ask. She answered it. "I don't know where Gann might be."
"I know," Tarva said quietly. "If you'd thought of something, you would have come looking for me. And –"
"And?"
"Something's very wrong."
On awkward subjects, Tarva tended towards silence, and understatement when she couldn't be silent. She didn't make statements like that. "Can you tell me which 'something'?"
"Do you remember Skyla Avolov?" Safiya nodded; the powerful dreamer they had accompanied from the coven of the hags was not the sort of person one forgot easily. Tarva looked at the tiles, her face just as expressive as they were. "She spoke to - to him just before we met Rashemen. There is a... phenomenon. She called it the Dreamer's Heart."
"Like the Dreamer's Eye and the Dreamer's Voice that the spirits had given you?"
"Not... not quite. The Eye and the Voice, she said, can be given by many spirits, for whatever reason they choose. The Heart... the Heart is given only by Sune." She caught Safiya's look. "The goddess of beauty and of love, and she gives it only when it is needed."
"And what does it do?"
"I... Safiya, I feel him. His presence, his love. That's what it does. Even... even after death."
It sounded terribly sentimental to her, but she supposed that was a given with a goddess of love. "And why is this 'something terribly wrong'?"
"Because," Tarva said, "ever since we came here... it's weaker."
"Oh." Safiya looked at her friend, who was very carefully not looking at her. "Tarva, it doesn't prove anything. We're in a different world. The rules are different. The gods probably don't even have power here."
"I can still feel him," Tarva said quietly. "My scythe flamed with Chauntea's fire. The gods may not rule, but they do have power, even here."
"The Weave doesn't exist," Safiya pointed out. "Either Mystra has no power here, or she's neglecting her job." Tarva said nothing, and Safiya sighed. "Look. We'll find Gann."
"One way or another," the half-elf said.
"And what do you mean by that?" She didn't like the sound of that phrasing much.
"If he's here or in Toril, we'll find him. If not, then I will go back to Kelemvor and make him surrender him."
"Tarva... speaking from centuries of experience on the subject of rescuing loved ones from the land of the dead... it's a very bad idea." She might as well have been arguing with a brick.
"Don't think I'm unaware."
And that, Safiya knew, would be all she'd say on the subject. She sighed, rubbing a hand over her scalp, and chose another tack. "Did you dream last night? Can't you find Gann there?"
"I... did dream," Tarva said. "We were coming through that yellowish place, and I pushed him away. Left him there."
Centuries of aggregated experience in her head, and none of it warned her when she was about to say exactly the wrong thing. Safiya grimaced. "So... not helpful, then."
"No."
But Tarva should have been able to navigate dreams. The spirits of Rashemen had given her the Dreamer's Eye and the Dreamer's Voice; Gann's mother had given her a focusing stone. With all three of them, Tarva could dreamwalk. Safiya had seen her holding the stone before they left the Fugue Plane... "The Hag's Eye?"
"Gone," Tarva told her. "Melted." She held out a hand to Safiya; in addition to the calluses left by years of scythe work, there was a raised silvery scar of a roughly circular shape, about the size the Hag's Eye had been. Had it – had it melted right though her gauntlet?
"What melted?" Hawke asked from the doorway. "And I hope you've been looking after yourself, Tarva. Nothing more irritating than a patient who insists on making my job harder."
"I believe you," the half-elf answered, as Hawke joined them. "But the schedule you left was very clear. And a... gift melted, when we crossed from the Fugue Plane."
Hawke grabbed Tarva's hand, just as she was withdrawing it, and frowned critically over the mark. "A burn. I must have missed it because it looks like old damage." She poked it. "Does that hurt?"
"No," Tarva said. "I barely felt it."
"It does look thick." Hawke muttered a few words to herself – Safiya strained to catch them, but didn't quite manage it. She couldn't even be sure whether Hawke was thinking out loud or casting. She touched Tarva's palm again, with a hand that glowed with blue magic –
- the scar blazed with an intense azure glow that made Tarva's hand seem insubstantial. It died almost instantly as Tarva jerked away from Hawke's touch.
"That did," Tarva said softly.
"That did what?" Hawke said. She was staring at Tarva – and at Safiya – as though she wasn't quite sure that she could trust her eyes.
"Hurt."
"What in the name of Szass Tam was that?" Safiya demanded, but she was already thinking, and thinking hard. Obviously a strong magical reaction of some kind, which suggested a correlation between however Hawke cast magic and the Hag's Eye... she wished she knew more about hag magic.
"Are you sure you're not from Tevinter?" Hawke asked.
"Quite sure," Safiya said, and indicated the piles of books around her. "I've been studying. There do seem to be several cultural similarities, though." She ticked them off on her fingers. "The use of slaves, the eradication of sentient rights – although those two things are usually linked - the focus on magical experimentation, the presence of a ruling class of extremely paranoid and power-hungry spellcasters." Hawke was staring at her. "That's why I told you not to be afraid of me."
"Safiya is a Red Wizard," Tarva said, "but she prefers to concentrate on more ethical research."
"It's actually more interesting," Safiya told her. "Any idiot with a weapon can hurt or kill someone. Not everyone can create life."
"Sure they can." Hawke grinned suddenly. "All it takes is two people of appropriate age and gender, and about nine months –"
"Not quite what I meant," Safiya said, but Hawke's smile was contagious, and the woman had relaxed again. "So, why did Tarva's hand light up like that?"
Hawke sobered immediately. "Lyrium."
"It was mentioned in a couple of books; nobody seemed quite sure about what it is. A magic-infused mineral?"
"Close enough," Hawke said. "Although I think it's magical in and of itself, not just magic-infused. The question hasn't been very widely studied; what it can do is far more interesting than what it is. Hmmm... where to start?" She thought for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Raw lyrium. Don't touch it. The effects range from serious injury through madness to death. Fortunately, the veins are rare. Dwarves and the Tranquil can handle the raw form, though, and they can also use it to enchant items. It can be processed into several forms. If prepared in a potion and ingested, it feeds magic, or certain templar abilities – juices you up. But it's still dangerous – and very addictive. Lyrium withdrawal is not a pretty sight."
"And if trapped under the skin?" Safiya asked, concerned.
Hawke shook her head. "I don't know. I've heard that dwarven resistance to lyrium can be bypassed if the raw stuff gets in through an open wound – or the eyes or mouth." She looked critically at Tarva. "But I think if anything bad was going to happen to you, it would have done so already. Maybe you should talk to Fenris."
Tarva inclined her head, and Safiya shook hers. "The grumpy white-haired elf? He seemed..."
"I know," Hawke said, and then she smiled. "He does seem – but it's not without reason. You've noticed his tattoos, I'm sure."
"They are rather noticeable," Safiya said. "Are facial tattoos a cultural peculiarity of elves here?"
"Oh, just..." Hawke waved her hands about. "Don't start on that just yet. Quick answer – some elves. Merrill's are. Fenris's aren't. Fenris is from Tevinter, and you mentioned all the important facts: slaves, magisters, magical experimentation."
"I see," Tarva said. Her voice was still soft, but there was something in it that caught Safiya's attention. She'd heard that tone a couple of times before. Sometimes it was followed by violence.
Hawke was looking at her, too. "Yeah, I can tell you do. He was a slave, and his master was the experimental type. There's a lot to the story, but those tattoos are lyrium, branded into his flesh."
"Is that as evil as it sounds?" Tarva asked quietly, surprising Safiya again. First, she wanted to ask all sorts of things about how something like that had been achieved – it sounded quite the feat, given what Hawke had said. Second, she didn't see how Tarva had jumped to that particular question.
"No," Hawke said, her mouth set in a line of flat, implacable hatred. "It's much, much worse."
"I think I'd like to meet him properly," Tarva said.
Hawke nodded, although the glitter of anger hadn't left her eyes. "Probably a good idea. He carried you down from Sundermount, you know."
"Then I should thank him."
"He thought you were probably a slave," Hawke told her. "And that Safiya was your mistress. He was very sympathetic." She paused, and grinned. "Well, as sympathetic as I've ever seen him. He doesn't like you staying here, though. Doesn't trust you."
"Good," Tarva said.
"What?" Hawke gaped at the half-elf, and Safiya suppressed a laugh.
"Good," Tarva repeated. "He has no reason to trust us. I wouldn't, if I were you. Not that I am ungrateful for your generosity – far from it – but if he distrusts us, that means he's paying attention. It's a good trait."
True enough, Safiya thought, but it wasn't exactly wise to point out that just how untrustworthy you might be when you were staying in a stranger's house and had nowhere else to go -
Hawke looked at her. "Am I wrong to trust you?"
"We're no threat to you," Tarva said quietly. "I probably owe you my life, and if anyone raises their hand against you, they will answer to me. But you're naїve. Needing help doesn't make a person trustworthy."
"I suppose..." Hawke admitted. "But if you can help, you should. You're responsible."
"Also true," Tarva said, and rose from her chair. "If you'll excuse me, I need some water."
Hawke stared after the half-elf as she left, and the silence in the library was almost painful. Finally, frowning, she turned back to Safiya. "Is... is your friend always like that?"
Safiya considered the question. "Usually she's less abrasive... but the trust issues? Oh, yes." She offered Hawke's words back to her. "It's not without reason."
"Right," Hawke said, and ran slender ebony fingers through her curls. "Sounds exhausting."
"Sometimes," Safiya said, and leaned forward. "Now, tell me all about magic, and why you hide your magic theory books, and about templars..."
-0-0-0-0-0-
In the timeless black void where Gann is curled about himself, there comes a time that is different, when the Dreamer's Heart strengthens once more. Tarva, he thinks, and suddenly everything is easier. She lives.
The sense of her nearness, the assurance of her love, encourages him, spurs him into action. He would never normally attempt to walk a dream so strong, even with a proper anchor instead of this connection between him – and he isn't so sure he can trust it not to weaken again – but what choice does he have? He must wake somehow; cowering in the dark will not help him find Tarva. For all he knows, she has been caught in the same way and is waiting for him to rescue her.
So Gann anchors himself with the Dreamer's Heart, and wraps all his other gifts and skills about him as armour, and slowly, cautiously, he reaches out.
The strength of the dream he touches – lightly as a dragonfly skimming over water – burns and sears him, and he snatches himself back. He's never felt anything like that, and he has encountered some very strong dreamers. The coven of hags at Coveya Kurg'annis had been stealing dreams for their own personal hoard for centuries, weaving them into a tapestry of unimaginable strength; yet he and Tarva had ventured there and never feared being swept away.
The dream he's in... is as much greater than the hags' as a volcano is greater than a small candle, and as volatile, as ancient. Gann has no idea how such a thing could be, but it's an idle speculation. The question is what to do – no, it isn't even that. The question is how to do it.
He steels himself and reaches out again. The dream lashes and burns him, but he fights past the pain and the overwhelming temptation just to hide again where it cannot reach him. Like a great wind, it tears at him, but he clutches at his flimsy anchor and stands unmoved. It would drown him; he struggles frantically to keep his head above water. He forces himself to adjust, to make sense of the overwhelming barrage of emotion and ideas and personalities – bilious light glares and dazzles his eyes, and the mad babble of uncounted souls shrieks in his ears, but he's succeeding –
- one voice cuts through all the others, urgent and beloved, "Gann!"
"Tarva!" he calls out, "I'm here!" It takes all he has left, and he begins to fall back down into the darkness, but then her arms are around him, and the dream comes sharply into focus. He has no eyes for the greenish, livid world around him; all he truly sees is her.
She looks up at him, her love and relief shining in her eyes, her expression open as Gann has rarely seen it. Her dark hair is loose, flowing over white shoulders left bare by her grey shift – a garment so thin as to barely hide the slender, perfect lines of her body. "Gann," she says softly. "I was so worried."
"Oh, my love," he smiles at her, for everything is all right now.
"Never again," she says, and pulls his head down to kiss him hungrily. Her tongue thrusts past his lips, and if his mouth had not been otherwise occupied, he could have laughed at her eagerness. They had needed to be so restrained for so long... He threads his hands in her hair, pulling her closer; her hands slide underneath his shirt and pinch expertly, sending a current just short of pain through him, making him groan her name.
Her mouth is soft and hot against his throat. Her fingers nimbly undo the buckle of his belt –
- and he pushes her away, appalled at what he'd nearly done.
"Gann?" she asks, her eyes filling with tears. "What's wrong? Don't... don't you love me any more?"
"I don't know who or what you are, or why you are wearing Tarva's shape, but you don't fool me."
"Gann. Gann, please-" She is crying, and even though he knows beyond any possibility of doubt that this is not Tarva in front of him, he cannot look at her. "You're breaking my heart."
"You're not her. You're not even a particularly good imitation. Go away."
"Gann... Gann, you've been here too long. I'm sorry it took so long to find you, but please... please, recognise me," she begs. "Don't be so hard, so suspicious. Come with me. I can help you get out of here."
Gann turns his back and begins walking away, refusing to acknowledge the woman. The dream swirls chaotically about him, and for all its strength, it isn't loud enough to muffle the sound of her weeping.
