(no subject)

[cog_nomen]

He dreamed again of flames. Devouring, consuming and releasing everything they touched. Converting all to light, heat, and ash. He felt no fear of the fire, it passed over him without harm, flickering like he imagined dancers would. He had to wake up - and yet he couldn't bring himself to rouse from the vision.

Sometimes he dreamed of sound or music. Only when he dreamed of fire could he see. The blaze raced ahead of him, the only colors reds and oranges. The rest of the dream was blank and black, a void of content. Where the flames penetrated, it's light made a circle of nothing from the dark surrounding.

His dreams, as they often did, anded when the screaming around him began.

"Fire!" The call went up, carried by other voices of those suddenly roused by the same thing.

There was no fire. When he woke, the world was as black as it always was, there was no heat save the investment of his body in the blankets. He could not smell smoke. His dreams were vivid - and loud. Those around him often shared them - unused to their intensity, they became convinced that the dreamed fire was real.

He could hear footsteps thundering up and down the stairs as roused patrons searched for the nonexistent fire to put out. Reluctantly he surrendered his warm pocket of blankets, fingers seeking out his dressing robe. The room was still unfamiliar, only a rental of two nights. He felt carefully with his hands, and skimmed his feet over the floor to avoid low level furniture and irregular floorboards.

He had just located the low bench which held the crumpled form of fabric when the door burst open. Sound told him what direction to look in while his fingers took up the robe and eased it onto his shoulders.

"Begging your pardon, sir," The voice belonged to either the innkeeper or his son, who worked the kitchens. "Seems like there may be a fire."

"I heard." Sometimes he had to quell the urge to remind people that his blindness did not affect his ability to hear. If anything, his other senses were sharper from his reliance on them. "But I don't hear any fire or smell any smoke."

He carefully sashed the robe in the middle, groping the floor with his toes to locate the shoes he'd left nearby. He encountered the chill leather with only a little time lost to searching. Crouching, he began to put them on.

"Still, best to get you out of here, sir." He could hear the man approaching and hastily did up his laces to save himself the indignity of the other man tying his shoes for him. "I'd rather safe than sorry."

As he got to his feet, a hand seized his elbow to guide him down the stairs. Though he was more than capable, he did not protest. People went slowly when they were 'guiding' him. When they were waiting for him, they got impatient. People always felt better if they thought they were assisting - like he would be grateful for someone to provide him with the benefits of the one ability he did not have. The truth was he would rather do it on his own, but he'd learned long ago to hold his tongue and be tolerant.

"Where's the fire supposed to be?" He asked as they began to descend the stairs. He took measured steps, taking hold of the railing and discreetly extending two finger to keep track of supports and track his progress.

Surprised by his ability, his benefactor took a second to answer.

"That's the funny thing." The man's voice was pitched low, almost conspiritorily in tone. "Everyone seemed to wake up sure that the place was burning fit to collapse, but now nothing is burning anywhere."

"I dreamed of fire, too." He said truthfully. At the bottom of the stairs he paused, trying to remember the layout of the room. He was somewhat grateful when the man led him toward the door automatically. "Maybe it was something in our dinners."

"Like as not, everyone panicked when the first person yelled fire, Master Diejuste." A woman's voice interrupted their conversation smoothly, as hers always did. "And now seek excuses for why they trampled each other trying to get out the door."

Accustomed to his disability, she stepped heavily as she approached then gently touched the arm opposite the one the innkeep was still holding. He felt her shift - possibly nodding affirmation that she would care for him from here forward. Her touch was light, guiding him by gentle increases and decreases in the pressure of her fingertips. To passerby they appeared to be walking hand in hand, as a lord might with is lady, or a young couple in love.

He felt an immediate drop in temperature once they got beyond the threshold of the inn. It was fairly chilly , the hours of the day still young. He regretted not dressing fully. OUtside, he could hear the other patrons huddled and speculating. Some swearing that the place would erupt in flames at any second.

"You've given them quite a scare." She leaned in close to his ear to speak as she led him along. Diejuste could feel her eyelashes against the edge of his jaw, shifting against his skin as her eyes moved.

"They'll feel better for being stirred up a little." He assured his longtime assistant. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Barked shins and stubbed toes. No real injuries." She affirmed gently. "I tripped down the stairs, but caught myself."

"What were you doing on the stairs?" He hesitated and she stopped, satisfied that they were out of earshot. "Haley, you weren't-"

"Fleeing in terror, the same as everyone." She laughed. Initially the experience had unnerved her, but years in his company had taught her to laugh it off. "I was sound asleep."

"I'm sorry." He meant it - she had countless incomplete nights of sleep thanks to him. "At least, after my appointment today, we can go home."

He solely missed familiar surroundings, where he was able to move about on his own, navigating from memory and step counting. Haley's assistance was respectful and tireless, but he hated himself at times for his endless need of it.

"We still have several hours until you're due for that." She said, releasing his arm while she looked around. "Perhaps breakfast will keep us busy?"

"Haley," Diejuste reminded gently, "I'm in my dressing gown."

"Clothes do not affect your status as a paying customer." Her voice, dark and deep for a woman's, moved around him as she got her bearings.

"Ah, but I left my wallet with my clothes." He corrected. He hadn't expected to go far from the inn, but Haley was up and intent on eating it seemed.

"I've got it." She answered. A jingling noise proved her words.

"You stopped in your panicked fleeing to rob me." His tone was flat, though his words were teasing in nature.

"Not rob." She laughed. "I was protecting your money from those who might take advantage of the confusion -to- rob you."

"And you didn't see fit to take -me- at the same time?" He waited patiently, hugging his arms over his chest to protect his bare hands from the cold.

"The cook was doing a fine job of manhandling you down the stairs." Haley came back to his elbow and took it up again, though it meant he had to pull his hands from their soft nests in the opposite elbows. "Besides, I took you right after."

She led h im twenty steps to the right then turned down another street. He counted twelve steps until the aroma of cooking bread and eggs caught him.

Suddenly he was hungry, very much so. His aide held the door for him, and a cheerful voice bid them hello this fine and early morning.

"What time is it anyway?" He asked as she held his chair for him.

"Early." She said, gently. "But not too early for breakfast." Haley left his side to order.

Given an opportunity to reflect, Diejuste considered his situation - aside from sitting down to breakfast in a bathrobe. He'd come from his quiet home in Sanctuary for an appointment with Overmage Marissa. She had made no promises but had agreed to see what she could do for him. He had not been blind at birth, so there was some small chance that the damage to his eyes could be repaired. It wasn't the blindness that bothered him so much as the dependence it caused. His mind was endlessly curious, and his knowledge could only be added to when he was read to. When he was younger having his wardrobe picked out for him and going on faith that it suited him was fine. Recently, that sort of thing grated.

Haley was a blessing. She understood him well and was careful to aide and not coddle or smother him. She did not choose what he wore, rather suggested combinations of distinctly featured clothing he might wear. She read tirelessly aloud and was usually equally fascinated by the subjects he was learning. They could always find conversation or debate to engage in, only rarely arguing. In short, they were an almost perfect match - except Diejuste was blind.

He was unwilling to ask her to see him in an unprofessional way because he would rather be on equal footing with someone he loved. He deeply resented the fault he had for that reason, too. Not the sort to mope, he instead sought a solution. His father, anxious, had at last admitted Diejuste had not been born blind. Fire had claimed his vision and his mother, but left him mostly unharmed otherwise. The knowledge had laid to rest many questions.

"Fire was all you ever saw." His father had said, teaching him how to direct his powers. His family had sired many important wildcard mages. Long ago - before the disaster - his father had sat on the council of Overmages. It was partially that which had granted him this visit with Overmage Marissa. "Perhaps you would be able to create other illusions if you knew what more things looked like."

Diejuste did not doubt it. He held firm control over his powers when he was awake, but when he slept they would sometimes - as this morning - overcome him and those around him. He hoped that sight would change his nightmares to dreams.

"You're thinking." Haley observed, the clink of two plates and close smell of food revealing breakfast's arrival with her return. "You aren't having second thoughts?"

"Hardly." He felt carefully for the silverware, found it wrapped in a paper napkin at a traditional setting spot on his right. Carefully, he manipulated it open and settled the napkin in his lap. Only when he had a fork in hand did he think to ask about the food.

"What are we eating?" He queried.

"Breakfast." She answered cryptically. Her playful tone revealed a smile and there was no use pressing her.

Cautiously, he explored the texture of his food with his fork. One corner of the plate - spongy and crumbly - was eggs. The other half was bread-like. Toast from the way his utensil sounded against it's crisped surface. A simple breakfast, easy for him to manage.

It was considerate He worked some eggs around on his plate, shoveling them onto his toast in a practiced motion.

"There's juice to the left of your plate." She informed, about the same time that his fingers encountered the glass. It was a near thing, but it did not tip over.

"You seem anxious." She said, swallowing a mouthful of her breakfast. The sounds of her silverware indicated cutting, and he could smell the meat on her plate.

"Uncertain." He corrected. "I want to be hopeful, on the other hand I don't want to have false hope."

"I don't believe that hope can be false." Haley said, her motions pausing. "You can lose hope, but by it's very existence, it's true."

"Even if one believes in something impossible?" Diejuste was used to this sort of debate, and realized she was doing her best to distract him.

"It's not impossible." She insisted. "What you're hoping."

"Not impossible," He agreed. "But how likely can it be?"

"What will you do," She asked, suddenly changing topics. "When you can see?"

"Look."