*coughs* Moving on.
Title: Voices Prophetic and Patient
Characters: Fraser, Dream
Timeline: Post Victoria's Secret
“This is the forest primeval,” Fraser whispers, as he stares up at the dark pines that tower over him and cast purple shadows across the snow. He is barefoot, but he doesn’t feel the cold.
“Yes,” the man beside him says, “it is.”
The trees grow tall enough to blot out the moon, and Fraser’s eyes travel along branches that seem to twine like fingers overhead. Pine needles shiver down, and fall all around Fraser, making patterns by his feet.
Fraser slants a look at his companion who is tall, with skin the same color as the snow and eyes of unrelieved dark that somehow seem to gleam.
“I know that I’m dying,” he states. Here the words sound small and unimportant, because the forest spreads out silent, endless.
The man laughs. “You’re not dying, Benton Fraser,” he says. His voice sounds like the wind that rushes above them.
Fraser doesn’t question this, and follows when the man begins to walk between the round, rough tree trunks.
“I was shot,” he says, and the man nods, black hair falling over his forehead. “It feels like I’m dead.”
The man shrugs. “You mistake momentary peace for death. You are sleeping, and healing in your sleep. You will wake in the morning. ”
“Ah,” Fraser murmurs, and then falls silent. He presses one hand to his chest and another to his back. He is naked and it doesn’t trouble him. The skin over his heart and spine is smooth and whole.
“Look,” the man orders, pointing to the ground before them. There is a scattering of paw prints, shallow in the new snow.
“Wolf,” Fraser murmurs, and the man smiles.
“If you wish.”
It isn’t dark, and it isn’t light. Fraser can see well enough, but he knows it is night. He pulls a twig off a nearby tree, and inhales the sharp, spicy smell. His eyes skitter across the forest floor, watching for wolves. He sees nothing, hears nothing.
“Are you dreaming as well?” Fraser asks, turning again to face the man. “Or are you a part of my dream?”
“All dreams are mine,” the man says, and his cloak flutters a little over his shoulder. “I *am* Dream.”
Fraser stares at him, at the infinitely familiar planes of Dream’s long, pale face. “I have seen you before.”
Dream nods, and places a hand on Fraser’s shoulder. “Yes, you have.”
“Does everyone?” he asks, curious.
“Some do,” Dream tells Fraser. “You more than most.”
“This place – ” Fraser breaks off, and turns his face up to the sky. “This place is powerful.”
“Come,” Dream says softly, drawing Fraser further into the forest, where it is close and calm.
“When I wake up, it will hurt, won’t it?” Fraser asks when they stop.
Dream steps back into the shadows. His eyes glitter, and when he speaks, his voice is less like the wind, more substantial, fuller.
“It will hurt,” Dream admits without emotion. “But you will remember this place. I will grant you that boon.”
Fraser closes his eyes. “Then it will be all right,” he says.
When he opens them, Dream is gone, but beside Fraser stands a tall, black wolf. He touches his hand to its head, reverently.
He says, “Thank you,” and the snow whips fast around them, falling soundlessly onto his skin.