#long overdue lil Drabble for my dearest Anne

[medusanova]

Andylind + sharing dreams while Rosalind is in stasis 🤭

The guard passed the imposing form of Rosalind Hale, proud and oppressive even in a stasis within the depths of Alfea. Quickly glancing away to avoid the shudders of dread that would spread along his arms if he stared at her for long, he continued forward.

The first time it happened, it was without warning. Without any effort or intent.

It was a jarring feeling, going from being barely aware of one’s existence — from swimming within a trance-like state of consciousness inside, more or less, a mason jar for fairies — to appearing, lucid and tangible and whole, in a room.

Though it wasn’t the first time Rosalind had dreamt since whatever happened to her (sometimes she remembered, sometimes it was murkier than swirling ink), it was the first time she’d dreamt anything so.. vividly.

She usually dreamt in monochrome. Muted grays with flashes of dark-toned colors to spotlight whichever tragedy or nightmare she was scheduled to witness.

This dream, however, was saturated in color. Splashes of jewel tones and pastels with outlines and detail. And with none of the usual sense of haunting menace that usually pervaded her dreams. Only something bright and warm that danced around her, wrapping around her like a warm cloak.

She was sat on the sill of a cottage window, the green fields behind her an out-of-focus sort of mirage that redirected her focus to the clarity of the room she looked into-

And the man inhabiting it.

Andreas had been undoing the laces of his boots but stopped abruptly when he noticed Rosalind. They stared at each other for a few moments before he narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not really here,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Rosalind raised a brow. “You don’t normally notice.”

His eyes narrowed further before he shrugged, going back to his boots. “Dream of me often, then?”

She pursed her lips, thought about moving away from the sill but.. she didn’t really mind this dream. And she didn’t want to risk changing it into something else. Disturbing its peace.

“Don't get me wrong, General, I’ve dreamt of you too,” he added, discarding both boots, “But usually you appear less irritated, less talkative, and more… unclothed.”

Not able to contain her eye-roll, she asked, “So you dream about objectifying the greatest leader of your time?”

Andreas snorted. “The you in my dreams is also much funnier.”

Rosalind raised her brows. “And the you in my dreams is normally more dead. You didn’t answer the question.”

Andreas huffed and stood. “If anything, you objectify yourself. What with your…” He waved a hand in Rosalind’s general direction.

Rosalind, in all honesty, had no clue what was happening. The Andreas in her dreams rarely spoke to her at all and even if he did it was more like an abstract essence of his voice, like the rumble of a conversation through wood, rather than words he might actually say.

This Andreas of Eraklyon though, he was exactly like the real one. Arrogant, slightly amused expression. Imposing, sculpted figure. Unwavering, sage green stare. Maybe a little less cagey, a little less… biting. Maybe how Rosalind imagined the real Andreas might be if he hadn’t been ordered to live a life of solitary vigilance, of a duplicitous caretaker faced with constant danger.

And maybe she should’ve been uncomfortable with that sudden shift, should’ve questioned this glimpse of a carefree Andreas surrounded by the soothing sounds of the countryside, the domestic comfort of his home.

Rosalind didn’t want to question it though. Her mind had been floating adrift in an endless desert of non-existence for.. she couldn’t remember how long — this was the first time in a long time she’d felt something familiar. She was going to make it last.

“You alright?” Andreas asked, approaching her window. “You look- don’t know. Odd. Usually you’ve stripped at least 3 articles of clothing and are topless by now.”

She’d dreamt up a whole range of nightmares and horrors by that point. After all, what else was there to do? But she’d never, in any plane of existence, thought she’d dream that one of her soldiers, especially Andreas of Eraklyon, would want her to strip for him.

Still determined to capitalize on this reprieve from limbo — and never one to back down — Rosalind challenged, “You want me to strip for you?”

“Usually how it goes, yeah. But,” he leaned down, face close to hers as his palms rested on the splintering sill on either side of her. “All of this is yours, right? So do what you’d like. I’m not in control here.”

She paused for a breath, trying her hardest to conjure up his sound. His scent. His essence, and pull it into her lungs. Store it away for a time she needed to remember how great she’d been. Who she’d inspired and molded in light of her mission. The depth of the dedication she’d amassed.

But she couldn’t. It was a dream, and logic, physics, gravity, nothing worked like it should. And her opportunity was lost.

With that harrowing thought, Rosalind stood up slowly. So slow the front of her brushed against the front of him. So slow her hand wound into the hair at the base of his neck. So slow her eyes locked onto his, going up and up until she could almost imagine the brush of his breath against her lips.

The next time the guard hazarded a glance at Rosalind’s still form, she was smiling.