A small cabin, humble, kept warm by a fire the occupant had struggled to get up to stoke. A spinning wheel in the corner sits collecting dust, a loom half-warped before strength had given out. A shelf full of things that belong to a beloved boyfriend standing out, objects more ornate and less simple than the rest, hairbrushes and oils and ribbons brought back from city markets.
The dreamer himself is on the ground, gasping for air, the cough rattling his body deep and resounding, choking the life out of him. He's staring wide-eyed at the wooden floor, at the pool of blood leaking from his lips.
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A small cabin, humble, kept warm by a fire the occupant had struggled to get up to stoke. A spinning wheel in the corner sits collecting dust, a loom half-warped before strength had given out. A shelf full of things that belong to a beloved boyfriend standing out, objects more ornate and less simple than the rest, hairbrushes and oils and ribbons brought back from city markets.
The dreamer himself is on the ground, gasping for air, the cough rattling his body deep and resounding, choking the life out of him. He's staring wide-eyed at the wooden floor, at the pool of blood leaking from his lips.
But it's not Alfred, there in the dream.
It's Solin.