i dream in phosphorescence

The things about dreams, were that in this mortal realm, in this mortal body, they could not be controlled. Not by her, at the very least, but that wasn't to say her Norse friends were not tinkering away in the God Realm, planting her dreams with little seeds. A blessing or a curse; but she chose to think them a blessing. The dreamweaver herself was one of Freya's soulbounds — one that she hoped in this realm, she might be reunited with for she had not seen her in the last — and she could not think that Nótt would sprinkle Freya's dreams with torture and pain alone.

So the Goddess would take it as it came, drifting off and yet not feeling herself wake, but arriving there nonetheless. The warmth remained and though she had heralded a Northern Kingdom in the life prior, she did not mind the clinging feel of the heat. She could thrive in all conditions, she had seen to it before, and for all that were here, she would be a fool to focus solely on the heat.

Fireflies danced amongst an ethereal glow, looking like little twinkling stars themselves, and the sweet scent of flowers remained in the air, drawing her in once more. A mist settled upon the top of the grass, low and not quite thick enough to be blinding, and Freya's laugh bubbled from her as the fireflies crowned atop one of the large leaf boats, before flying up in a group and dispersing to the skies.

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He felt it again. That familiar tug drew him in, back and forth like the gentle surf he used to walk on lost beaches. It was only when he slept that he felt it, when his stomach rolled and his mind drifted to the past. A life forgotten in the presence of another, if only marginally. Though no matter how much he might will it, wish it, even, it was her he could never forget. The woman of spun golden silk that pressed upon his memory with every step, every action taken.

Try as he might to conjure a woman of her magnitude, the reality of it was that he could not feel her in this world. Not when he was awake. She was lost, to him, for as sure-footed and sharp-minded as she was, she would not find herself in a place she did not wish. But him, Raihn, he had. Lost without her, lost without the tangle of the viper's tongue, lost without the shield of prosperity that was the princess—the warrior he'd met. He was not as sure-footed in this sense.

So he escaped, chasing after the familiar feeling of being wanted even in his dreams. The calling—the demand—it beckoned him. And then she was there when his eyes opened, when the world changed and glistened beneath his stare. She was the same, neither weak from the efforts of childbirth or ill-minded from the stress of an impending war, but healthy. Free. Captivating.

His steps were slow as they progressed, heavy still, but not hurried—not haste. He would cherish the dream, draw it out for as long as he might; and with any efforts, he may never leave. His words came swiftly—softly—as to not disturb her awe. “I have always preferred the splendor of summer upon you than I do winter.” Raihn's eyes never left her. His friend. His protector. His Queen. “The glow of it when it hits your skin is different, your body welcomes the heat. Soaks in the attention.” As he does her. His sun.

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The warmth made her think of Fólkvangr. The seasons there did not work the same as the Mortal Realm, and there were pieces that were eternally one, and never any other, but for the most part, Spring reigned dominant within her Realm. It could change, if she wanted, but Springs, she found, was always what suited Fólkvangr the most. This was hotter than there, though, she determined. 

Thoughts of Fólkvangr had her thinking of those she missed so direly, and though she remained confident that she would see them again, it did not entirely alleviate the longing, did it? The sleep realm was a good distraction, and she knew that her Soulbound would not cast her away to nightmares or war within there.

Instead, it brought her a piece of home. A piece of much more than that, she would wager, but it was welcome. He was welcome, as ever. Raihn was a poet, she had decided long ago. Some may be put off with the way his brow seemed so stern, and that he was ever so dedicated to his duty, but the Goddess knew better. He strung together poetry in his speech, and Freya's skin flushed with an appreciative warmth as she heard him from behind her.

"Is that your way of saying you are glad my time in the Reach had come to an end, my Captain?" Freya teased as her eyes watched the dancing fireflies for a moment longer, before she looked over her shoulder to see him. Even here, he remained the same as she last saw him. A wolf, dark and looming, but soft. Drawing her in. Her smile dimpled against her lips as she shifted on her toes to face him fully, "Does it soak in your attention, Raihn?" She hummed as she quirked a brow, but she knew the truth.

"I dream of you," she mused, "will you remember this when you wake, the same as I? I wonder if my dear friend has conjured you as a figment, or if we are meeting truly within my mind." Freya welcomes his company, as she always does, and for a moment, she's a touch vulnerable in the way she drinks him in. She hadn't been prepared to be gone again, not truly — she may have felt it coming, but she hadn't been finished with her legacy in that Realm.

She has missed him, she will not deny it. She never denies missing her Soulbounds, it would feel similar to betrayal, if so, but he carries many titles next to that of a Soulbound. Friend, confidant, Captain, companion, protector, counsel. 

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