He imagines not, but remembers. These dreams are but fragments of reality, beautiful clarity, replay, rewind. Sorrelstorm would rather forget. It's a parade every night. The river whispers against his skin, cold, insidious. Silver and gold, the faces of tiny innocents. Her imperious demands and the silence from the stars. The worst moments of his life, traipsing past his eyes. Is there a pattern in his madness? In the morning, he barely remembers what he sees. But he knows it's there anyway.
His young prodigy will know one day. For now, the nightmares belong to Sorrelstorm.