He came to her in a dream. This time, sharply juxtaposed to the last, he did not smell of blood, but of hard soap and the pages of prayer books and roughspun robes, even clad as he was from head to toe in gilded armor. The first breath of him sent her sprawling into faded memories, but the second skittered in her chest, snapping her back into herself with a painful abruptness.
My father died without his head, she reminded herself, though the thought wrenched bile up from her belly and onto her tongue. I cannot trust the lies my dreams tell.
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