@redheadedteas
He cannot remember what it was like to dream without hitchhiking off another’s slumber -- others had wondered how he had come to understand cinema, theaters, movies so easily, but tasting of others’ dreams had always been of a similar sensation.
Watching fantasy, present but largely incapable of any real influence on the world as it unfolded.
Candles flicker around them, cutting the otherwise heavy darkness, so opaque even his own eyes could not decipher without their aid. It’s fortunate he does not need sight to understand what is unfolding around him, the soft bed overstuffed and plush across the small room, hair as red as blood spilled across silk pillows.
Silk. Silk. Silk. He is sick to death of silk. Vlad dresses in it, lays in it as it lines his coffin... finds his prey in it. And she is prey, even if not of blood.
In this dream -- her dream-- he cannot smell her, cannot feel her heat from across the room as if she were a smoldering fire. These are not things the little cherry would think of.
Mortals think of so little.
His steps are careful, quiet. Pointless, he knows. She will stir in her dreams soon enough to spot him.
Is this a nightmare or pleasant? It is up to her, purely and completely.
