40: What the Eyes Can't See (Part X)
"Yo no creo en brujas, pero que las hay las hay."—Galician proverb
(I don't believe in witches, but that they exist, they exist.)
Almira's dreams were troubled. She stirred restlessly, so agitated in her sleep that that her father had gone over to her bed, leaned over her, prodding her arm gently to awaken her. In the morning he asked what had overcome her in the night. She stared at him tiredly, her face still wrinkled with sleep.
"I had the most annoying dream," she told him as she watched him poke the fire in the hearth before placing the heavy cast iron skillet over the flames. "My teeth kept falling out and I was trying to hold on to them. I'd clutch them in my fist, but they kept slipping out between my fingers."
"Hmm," her father grumbled, suddenly pensive. "A dream of teeth."
Almira yawned and rubbed her cheeks.
"I even checked my mouth when I woke up. Good thing they are still there," she mumbled crossly.
Her father glared at the fire, concern settling over his face.
"I don't like it," he finally announced. "Do you know what dreaming of teeth means?"
"No," she replied, focusing on the fragrant breakfast cakes solidifying in the pan.
"They say that if you dream of teeth, someone close to you will be in danger—possibly even die," he said.
"Here we go!" she hit the table impatiently with her palms. "Who is 'they'?" she asked crossly. "How do teeth falling out of my mouth affect anyone else other than myself!" she complained. "Honestly, Baba!"
He shrugged.
"Perhaps if we were Shems...But it is well known that among mages and elves, dreams acquire greater meaning… because we are more connected to the Fade."
"Who's more connected to the Fade?" Almira scoffed irritated. "That's rich! Well, if it's a dream about disaster, it must be true, then, because nothing but disaster happens to us poor folk, right? I am going to wait for a dream about the location of a mine filled with silverite or summerstone before I begin believing in all this nonsense!"
Her father set her food on a plate, cast the pot with a loud hiss into a bucket of water, and then hastily grabbed his jacket.
"I don't like it, Almira," he repeated, nervously. "I'm heading straight to work. I want Master Adan to examine me for any ailments."
"Ask him to check here, first" she tapped her forehead.
He ignored her, bumbling around the room in a slight dither, mumbling something about 'teeth' and 'omen' and 'serious.'
"It's not good, not good," he continued, pulling on his coat before making his way to the door. "Your grandmother on your mother's side was Eran'ghilan," he said, referring to the 'dream guides," those whose dreams carried prophetic meaning among their people. "You shouldn't take these things so lightly."
"Thanks for the serving of crazy with my breakfast cake!" she called out irreverently.
She shook her head after he shut the door behind him hurriedly and began to eat. She tried to think of other things, but her mind kept returning to her father's spooked demeanor.
"Heh. 'They say.' Who is this almighty 'they' anyway? Heap of dung," she told herself while glaring at the closed door.
She tried to eat her breakfast with a renewed vigor, but could not shake the uneasiness that had arisen within her. She eventually pushed the plate away, deciding to get dressed for work, instead.
The dark feeling of foreboding only intensified throughout the day, her father's words unintentionally haunting her. She only realized why when she took the loaf of honey bread he had baked the previous night on her way to bid Krem farewell before his next mission. Whenever she could, work allowing, she would see him off at the gates, bringing him something to eat on his journey to whatever corner of Thedas the Chargers were expected at. She reassured herself that nothing was amiss; that afternoon was no different from the many afternoons she had watched them prepare for their journeys. She helped Krem lug gear into a long wagon, cursing at him as he playfully dropped a heavy visor over her head. She waited with him as equipment and supplies for their band were inspected and cleared. She was surprised to notice that a heavier escort prepared to accompany them.
"It's a big deal," Krem explained.
They had been unable to meet and talk much before the trip precisely because the mission appeared to require so much preparation. Even there, at the gates, she found they were constantly interrupted by the other Chargers and Inquisition soldiers. At one point, even Bull called out to him.
"Krem! You ride ahead—I'll follow with the Inquisitor. We have only four days to hightail it to the rendez-vous point."
Krem acknowledged the command as Almira stared in stupefaction.
"The Inquisitor?" she marveled.
He stared down at the checkered cloth.
"I might as well tell you—it's not going to be a secret for much longer: the Inquisition is contemplating an alliance with the Qunari," he told her. "The Chief has been coordinating this mission for a long time. I doubt he's gotten any sleep over the past few weeks," he confided, with a smirk as he watched Iron Bull storm about the courtyard, checking in with anyone who appeared to be involved with the mission.
Almira stared at Krem, admiring what a striking figure he cut, his carefully polished armor, his recently shorn hair, and that fierce expression that emerged on his face when he was focused on his work.
"Where are you off to this time?" she asked.
"Storm Coast," he said, finally glancing back at her. "But I can't tell you more than that."
"No letters?" she asked sadly. Sometimes, if they were off to somewhere remote or moving frequently, they couldn't exchange their letters.
"Not this time," he stated distractedly, something catching his attention in the courtyard.
"You will miss out on all the excitement here," she lamented.
He hadn't heard, though. The sinking feeling gripped her once more and she found she was having difficulty shaking it off.
"Excuse me," he apologized, squeezing her arm reassuringly. "I'll be right back."
She watched him jaunt over to a stable boy leading three saddled horses. He pointed the boy to a group of armored soldiers waiting by the main gates.
The dread intensified, chilling her innards, causing her to shiver uncomfortably despite the mild afternoon. She stared at the pattern on the cloth wrapping the bread and it began to blur as tears began to well in her eyes. Krem sauntered back towards her, his attention still engaged by some activity unfurling nearby.
"Stitches has to stay back," he revealed as he approached her, his head turned towards the corner where Stitches spoke quietly to Dalish. "He hasn't healed completely. Yanked his chain a bit: told him we don't need his gimping to slow us down." He stopped beside her, still focusing his attention to the two standing farther away. "Psh, look at them. He's worried sick about her." He grinned. "He's probably going to say something to piss her off just before she leaves, though, knowing him."
Almira allowed her gaze to follow his, to where Stitches and Dalish stood, their heads drawn close, their words hushed and private. Stitches contemplated Dalish with a forlorn expression, while she prodded at something in the ground with her foot, her eyes downcast.
"Stitches and Dalish?" she asked, still unable to focus clearly on the fuzzy figures ahead.
"You didn't know? Those two have hopped into each other's bed more often than I've awoken in a foreign town since I've become a Charger. They maintain it's strictly physical, but as Rocky likes to say, for something purely physical, they sure have been taking their time exploring each other's topography, exclusively..." he chuckled, finally directing his gaze back to Almira.
He found her staring at him dazedly, her cheeks tear stricken.
"What's wrong?" he cried, gripping her by the shoulders.
She didn't know and she couldn't say as she contemplated his face wordlessly, bewildered by the depth of feeling that surged within her. She covered her eyes with her cupped hands; she didn't want to give greater power to a stupid dream she wished she had never had, never told her superstitious father about!
"Why are you crying? Are you unwell? You look so pale!" he insisted, his own expression filling with heartbroken concern.
Someone close to you will be in danger—possibly even die…Have I cursed him? she wondered, gripped by the thought. Undo it, Almira! Undo it now!
"Be careful," she managed to say, gripping his hands so tightly her knuckles turned white and her fingers trembled. She couldn't bear the pained look emerging in his eyes.
What if this is the last time—
No.
She took the small loaf she had placed in her satchel and pointed at the bundle as she backed away from him. "Make sure you return that dishtowel to me when you return, yes?"
He looked down at the ordinary towel, the hem unfurling from frequent wash and use.
"Almira?" he wondered, watching her as she stepped away from him uncharacteristically. "What is this all about?"
"You have to return it," she insisted. "All right?"
"Please: what is this all about?" he tried once more.
"You have to come back, understood?" she pleaded tearfully, her voice clearly shaking. "I will never, ever forgive you if you don't come back to me… and return it."
She turned away without a further word and ran, denying him even her usual 'dareth shiral.'
This is not good-bye. We have unfinished business between us. He must return, she stubbornly argued with whatever invisible forces might rule such matters.
The horn sounded at the gate and he knew he would have to assemble for departure. Normally Almira would walk out the gates with him, wave at the bridge as he left.
Right then he found himself alone, staring in the direction she had run off to. He wished he had enough time to pursue her, inquire what that odd scene had been about. He had never seen her so distraught.
Kaffas! The timing couldn't have been worse, he exhaled frustratedly.
"Krem, are you ready?" Rocky stopped before him.
He blinked for a few moments, clutching the small wrapped loaf she had entrusted him with.
"Ooh! I know we haven't left the gates yet, but can I have a piece?" Rocky rubbed his hands as he contemplated the bread covetously.
"Yes," he finally managed to reply, telling himself that once he returned, it would be all right. "Go ahead. Eat as much as you'd like and then you won't have to walk down the mountain: you'll just roll down," he teased, as the dwarf tore a hunk off.
Krem held on to the cloth, though, fingering the edge carefully, as senseless as it all seemed to him.
A/N: Anyone else familiar with this dreaming of teeth thing? It was a superstition in my family for sure and I know it is the same in many different cultures.