by Twinkledru J.

Tyron's dreams hurt.

He'd never had this happen before, and he didn't understand it, and he refused to go to Halfrid for help.

It was the only way he could think of to describe it -- his dreams hurt. They weren't particularly scary, nor had he any sense of scry contact upon waking, and he knew that his room was warded against any other sort of dream magic.

So it had to be him.

This was frustrating -- he'd never worried much about morpheomancy or morpheomagics beyond the theories behind them. Wren was the one who leaned towards divination and scrying talents, despite the fact that nearly all she learned came relatively easily to her. If any of his friends was troubled by dreams, he would've bet his title that it'd be her.

And yet.

He lay curled in his bed, staring into the darkness of his room, and wished he could just fall back to sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Andreus.

Magicians were known to have lovers, of course, but emotional attachments were rarely encouraged except in the cases of other wizards.

(Although, for some reason, most magicians couldn't stand the company of other magicians.)

So he was familiar with the basics of love's Physical form, having spent enough time with the other boys in his year sneaking texts on ancient fertility rites and love spells and aphrodisiacs out of the library in efforts to better understand this mysterious concept of Sex.

But he couldn't understand why he might remember Andreus's touch on his face years ago and try to imagine those hands on his body.

He remembered the wizard-king's cold steel voice and tried not to shudder when, in his mind, Andreus whisper-moaned his name.

Tyron spoke of the dreams to no one, and avoided all possible contact with Idres Rhiscarlan, and in time, they faded.

He only hoped that they weren't a sign.


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