@fighting-instinct
It is snowing over the Fields of Theama; restless flurries that wax and wane with the shifting of the wind and manage to find their way into Dogma’s robes no matter how tight he pulls his little cloak around his shoulders. He’d gotten Sasume out of bed far earlier than he really had any right to, noting the dreamcatcher hanging by her head with resignation--at some point in the night before, sleepless despite his best efforts, he’d gotten it into his head that if they reached the Fields early enough they might catch it by surprise. For the first stretch of the labyrinth, it had actually seemed like he was right. Glass had stayed glass, and the priest hadn’t caught a single glimpse of anything better forgotten.
(Maybe, in hindsight, the way he lowered his guard after long minutes of peace was the reason for the worst of it. Maybe he should never have let himself breathe easy.)
He’d worn the letter thin through folding and unfolding, forced to leave it tucked under his pillow back at the bunkhouse, but he knows he doesn’t need it, every word memorised like scripture. Travel well, search well, believe well. He doesn’t know what he’s following, exactly, only that there’s a cord wound tight around his heart pulling him deeper in. The draw of the final looking glass, perhaps; somewhere different, some other spire--he doesn’t recognise any of these paths from Sasume’s trial.
“I don’t recall us venturing this deep last time,” he grumbles after a while, giving up all pretense of optimism and good cheer. “Honestly, had I known, I would have packed us both lunch...”
(Return to your graves.)
Dogma jumps, startled, steps closer to Sasume and grabs blindly at her hand. They’d started off with fingers intertwined--like before--but when the Fields showed no sign of hostility, he’d let her go, content to have her at arm’s length as they meandered through the glass. “Sasume--did you--?”
(You are already...)
The voice seeps out of the ground underfoot, mingles with the snowflakes and lays itself down on every patch of bare skin it can find, and everywhere the snow falls blooms red, fever-hot. His head is starting to ache. Deep breath, Dogma. In and back out, a sigh like he’s taking the weight of the world on his shoulders. “...Never mind. We should not let this trickery distract us. Surely we should be close. Around that corner, perhaps...”
(Dogma. Don’t you want to see her one more time?)