On the twelfth day of Christmas, my dear muse said to me:

"I give up! Write what you want!"

A companion to day three.

- - -

She knows he has nightmares, and wonders if his dreams are like hers.

She wonders if he dreams of walking through a long, silent hall, with bodies on biers on either side: her father, her mother, her uncle, her cousin, her brother. Him. And at the end of the hall is an evil wraith and her steps bring her to it against her will.

And then he kisses her, and in her next dream, someone walks the hall with her, and the darkness falls back.

Love is not sharing dreams, she thinks. Love is being willing to share the nightmares.