The dreams wouldn't go away.

They were as persistent as a swarm of locusts, as inescapable as night. And whenever she closed her eyes, they descended on her again--bypassing the years of control she had built up, waiting there like afterimages. She couldn't avoid them, she couldn't forget them, and she couldn't escape them.

(There was blood, of course. There was always blood in these dreams. Blood and hate, aching and quivering; potent as sulfur and dark as murder.)

It was hard to breathe. There was a faint smell of gunpowder in the air--funny, how the faint things came through. She couldn't smell the blood, or the dust, or the wood of the wall. But she could smell the gunpowder that came floating to her nose like the fragrance of an evil flower on a summer breeze.

Funny, how the light was fading in and out like sunlight passing clouds.

Funny, how everything hurt so much that nothing hurt any more.

(She was going to die here. She was going to die here staring out at the world, without breath or movement; going to die because it was a dream and she couldn't change it, because she was too weak to put it all behind her--that was why she was going, wasn't it? Going back to the place where she couldn't breathe or fight. And even if it was only a dream, she was going to die.)

She tried screaming. She didn't think it would help. She didn't think it would chase away the pain. She didn't think much of anything at that point.

(It was a dream, right? All a bad dream.)

Scar tissue and new homes. She hated them. She wanted to cut them out but she couldn't. Not unless she wanted to cut herself out, too. But she could hide them. She could hide them behind cloth and silence. And no one would ever have to know.

(But he'll know. And he'll be angry.)

All she could remember was that his eyes were green. A calm, pale green that reminded her of winter any time she saw it. Winter was a good time; it meant she didn't have to worry about the harsh sun, it meant she didn't have to be afraid. She didn't love any of the seasons, but she sometimes wished that the cold would never pass.

Even if it was cold, even if the ice stung her fingers and made her shiver inside however many layers of coats, she wished it would never pass.

She blinked once, and the eyes like winter were gone.

(But where--)

She woke up wondering who the hell she was.

-


When Raijin woke up, Fujin was already gone.

He almost panicked at that, and he was out of the stopover's door before he had a chance to wonder where she went. But as soon as he got outside he spotted her--an easy task, given the size of the dock area.She was sitting on one of the benches, watching the ferry approach on the horizon.

Knowing that it was a very, very bad idea, he went and sat down next to her. "I was kinda afraid ya went on without me, ya know?" he mentioned, gesturing to the ferry.

Fujin ignored him, but he seemed to detect a bit less vehemence in her present silence than her earlier ones. That in mind, he decided to press his luck.

"You feelin' alright, Fuj'?"

"YES."

His luck having met no resistance thus far, he decided to test its limits. Placing a hand lightly around her shoulders, he said something along the lines of "I th--" before she got up and walked away.

Shortly thereafter, he figured out how lucky he was that she hadn't taken the opportunity to shatter his shinbones.

He didn't go after her.