Heroes always get remembered
But you know legends never die
Ascended sleep was a complicated thing, not really anything close to the real thing but enough that Bastien still put aside time for it; this time though, it wasn't all that voluntary. In his delirium consciousness drifted around him and through him, left at random moments: one second he was laid on a couch in the Sanctuary staring at the ceiling and watching it move in spirals, then he was gone, eyes closed, head down.
When he 'woke' it was in a room he recognised well, but he had not been within for quite some time; his bedroom in Venice, in the attic of the Artist's Sanctuary there. A large window on the one side covered with thin, fluttering sheets, a large bed, endless papers and scattered notes, an easel in the corner and a fireplace opposite. Downstairs he could hear the sounds of his students waking and going about their days; it was probably about 11, he would estimate, from the sun in the window (which, given this was a dream of the past, did not harm his skin) and the sound of the merchants outside.
The bed he woke upon was luxurious, of course. He had spent well on it, a craftsman for each element: little wooden mice ran across the headboard, soft sheets adorned the thick mattress and a series of beautiful embroidered blankets covered it. More important than the bed though was who he shared it with: Rexanna lay next to him, softly sleeping, his entirely human wife in Venice, where she had always been with him. Leaning over to kiss her cheek and stroke her hair, wake her, he couldn't help the fond smile on his face.
When he 'woke' it was in a room he recognised well, but he had not been within for quite some time; his bedroom in Venice, in the attic of the Artist's Sanctuary there. A large window on the one side covered with thin, fluttering sheets, a large bed, endless papers and scattered notes, an easel in the corner and a fireplace opposite. Downstairs he could hear the sounds of his students waking and going about their days; it was probably about 11, he would estimate, from the sun in the window (which, given this was a dream of the past, did not harm his skin) and the sound of the merchants outside.
The bed he woke upon was luxurious, of course. He had spent well on it, a craftsman for each element: little wooden mice ran across the headboard, soft sheets adorned the thick mattress and a series of beautiful embroidered blankets covered it. More important than the bed though was who he shared it with: Rexanna lay next to him, softly sleeping, his entirely human wife in Venice, where she had always been with him. Leaning over to kiss her cheek and stroke her hair, wake her, he couldn't help the fond smile on his face.
mortal kings are ruling castles
Welcome to my world of fun
BASTIEN
