I had refrained from drinking at my coronation, largely out of fear that I might loosen my tongue in front of something from the Fairy realms or say something foolish to one of the Red Court. And honestly, the children were so wrapped up in my story that I hardly even noticed as the night passed me. By the time I'd told them of Princess Lea having given medals of the Rebellion to our valiant heroes, and damned if Chewie didn't get a god damn medal in my version, the celebration had reached a feverish pitch that I wasn't easily able to bear.

When Amun asked me how many weeks I intended for the celebrations of my coronation to last, I realized that it would not be considered in poor taste for me to excuse myself and head to bed. I gave a non-committal answer, left the priestesses to see to the children's needs, and headed back to my chambers. With a promise to the children that there would be more stories to come of other far off lands and grand heroes. They followed the priestesses with the mix of mutinous frustration and clear exhaustion I'd seen on the faces of the Carpenter children any time Charity imposed her bed-time upon them.

The walk back to my chambers felt longer than it had taken to reach the throne room when first I'd headed to my coronation, perhaps it was the transition from the raucous party below. I caught glimpses of fireworks and celebrations in the city streets. The people of Nekheb were out in full force, celebrating their continued survival. I chuckled as it occurred to me that the Metatron had likely extended his blessings upon any celebrations happening on Nekheb. Yet another reason for the people of Nekheb to believe in their "Lord Warden."

I exhaled deeply, vaguely aware of my constant shadow – my manservant Amun. I wasn't in the mood for company, and he seemed to be able to sense my need for silence. He did not accompany me into my chambers to dress me for bed, a gesture I greatly appreciated.

Bob protested indignantly when I picked up his skull after having stripped down and put on what I assumed to be my bed clothes. Some servant had lovingly lain them upon the bed in a neat pile, scenting them with rose-water and leaving them upon a block of what might have been cedar. I ignored the skulls indignant comments, just needing to be close to the last friend I had in the world who still knew me for me. After a few snarky comments, Bob seemed to realize that I wasn't going to respond and went quiet. I just… wasn't feeling in the mood to quip.

Nothing felt very funny at the moment.

I only cried a little as I wrapped myself in the thick furs covering my bed, allowing the warmth and the distant sounds of music and dancing to lull me into a fitful sleep – full of nightmares. I awoke at the smell of smoke, tensed up out of fear that I was tossed into yet another battle, only to find myself in a familiar dark room, wrapped in a thick mess of second-hand blankets I remembered picking up from a consignment store in Oak Park after completing a job for some Yuppie couple to find their dog. I stood up from my bed and almost immediately banged my knee on that same damn table I kept meaning to move from where I'd left it last week but never quite got around doing.

I was back in my apartment in Chicago. My things were exactly where my remembered leaving them, every book in place, organized into a chaotic system that I alone seemed to understand - which was, of course, half the appeal to keeping it that way.

I fumbled through the dark, picking up a candle from the night-stand and lighting it with a muttered spell. The dancing flickered as I waved the wick around the room, trying to understand my sudden change of surroundings even as I realized that my skin was still sheer porcelain white that let me know I hadn't just imagined my time on Nekheb.

I fumbled around for my flannel bath-robe as a chill met my skin, the cool Chicago air more than what my t-shirt and boxers alone were able to guard me from. I swore angrily as I rooted through the piles of laundry looking for it, managing only to find my slippers and an old pair of sweatpants with a hole in the knee. If memory served, it had been a street tough's knife that sliced open that hole. Not even on a job either, just your run of the mill mugger with extremely poor choice in marks. Oh, not me. Officer Karrin Murphy of the Chicago P.D., the person who'd been walking me to my car.

I rolled my eyes at the memory of the man's look of confusion when he'd suddenly found himself cuffed to a bench with a tiny blonde woman standing over him with a badge in one hand and a gun in the other. "Bad day to be a robber." I chuckled as I put my legs through the sweat-pants, carefully with one hand so as to not drop the lit candle, before opening the door from my bedroom to my apartment proper.

There were two things that struck me on leaving my bedroom. The first was that the smell of burning wood that had roused me was, in fact, from the small wood burning stove in my apartment. There was a tall someone in a bath-robe, my bath robe, standing in my apartment, cooking. The second was that there was no way in hell that this was my real apartment. Everything was pristine, clean, and notably absent the sort of damage one might expect from, oh…. I don't know… a freaking army of zombies? If this had really been my apartment, the place should have looked a little bit less like it had been visited by Martha Stewart and a bit more like it had gotten scene direction from George Romero.

Which meant that this was an illusion. Someone had entered my dreams and just looked for the setting which would put me the most at ease. Which of course meant they wanted something. They wanted something, from me.

Well, they'd picked a pretty bad fucking time because I was not in an overly "giving" mood.

I was pretty much prepared to tell whatever the it was exactly where they could shove whatever it was that they were about to offer me when the woman turned around to face me, flashing a familiar row of impossibly straight teeth. My Jaw dropped. "Lash… but you…"

"Died?" Lash offered as I stammered, her voice soft and kind as she scraped eggs down onto a plate already heaped with bacon and toast. "Yes Harry. I did."

"But if you're dead then how can you be here?" I stammered, my heart somewhere in the realm of my larynx.

"Because I am." Lash's mouth quirked into a seductive little half smile as she brushed a lock of platinum blonde hair back over her shoulder. She walked the plate over to my kitchen table, and placed it down next to my coffee pot, rubbing her hands together for warmth as she surveyed her work. Satisfied with the breakfast she'd laid out before her.

"That doesn't really answer my question, Lash." I replied, reaching out to touch her. This was just a dream – guilt at having lost my friend. But she felt so real when my hand reached out to touch her. The pain definitely felt real when she pinched me for trying. I yelped in shock, even more confused than I had been before. "But… but how?"

"It's a miracle, Harry. You don't have to understand." She held up her finger to my lips as I opened them to ask yet another question, silencing me with a curt shake of her head. "No. Not now, not this time. For once in your life, Harry, you are going to do things my way. For once in your life you are going to feel happy, and loved without questioning it."

She pulled at the draw strings of the bath-robe as she stood on her tip-toes to kiss me on the lips, a hungering need in her that I returned in kind. She spoke in breathy whimpers as I came up for air. "You are worthy. You are special. And you are loved, Harry. In this life and what comes after, you are loved."

We melted into each other's bodies as my bath-robe fell to the stone floor, and I, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, was happy – if only in an Angel's dream.