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(from play log, Iona and Jeremy)

She watched him nodding, and wow, what nods. Observant thing she was. "Ye must be a man o'few words." Seeing that he answered with nods, but not words. "Tha' flyer dinnae say he had t'work wit' th' metal or glass did" O'Malley ain't ever sure wha' t'put wit' things like that." Without a word, she silently asked for the flyer to look it over. Nope! All it said was he was willing to work. As he rolled his sleeves back, she reached out for his hand and turned over his palm to see what they looked like. Thumb rubbing over the mounds and low into the hills and valley to see what kinds of hands he had. Some men had soft girly hands, some had working man's hands. She was trying to see what kind of hands he had. She's not flirting or anything, Iona had a reason for doing what she did. Some people said they were willing to learn, but sometimes didn't. He looked honest, at least he had an honest face.

"The shop sign..." he started, pointing back to the entrance he had come through but realizing it wasn't to much point. She was right, that wasn't what the flyer had said. Jeremy's hands weren't that of someone who had done intense manual labor, like a coal miner's. He had done some farming growing up but his parents had moved onto sheep, so there had been more shepherding and some fence repair when necessary in his years. He didn't have the bulky build of a fighter, his build made sense for what he used to do. He handed the flyer back to her without hesitation, "So what did O'Malley want?"

Letting go of his hand and she motioned with her head for him to follower her. "Ye know this be retail, ye gonna have t'talk t'people, aye?" She was friendly enough. "Jeremy who wantin' th' job." Giving it some thought as far as he could tell. She already made up her mind. He was hired if he didn't run out by the time she was drilling him. Friendly drilling anyway. "Well, O'Malley is a strange one. Verra picky about wha' goes out o'th'shop...but fair. If ye work hard, wanna learn, an' do right m'sure O'malley will treat ye fair Jeremy, who wan' th' job." Leading him in the back where he could see the large forge, and a smaller furnace for the glass tools. Points upstairs. "There be an' extra room up there if O'malley hire ye, ye might nee' t'work nights. Ye against tha'?" Grabbing two bottles of water from the cold back, one for him and one for her. Tossing the bottle his way to see how quick he reacted.

Blue eyes looking him up and down while she opened the bottle of water and drank it down rather quickly. She'd been sweating being in the fire, but now was cooling off. "I can talk to people," That was a little bit of a embellishment. Jeremy *had* talked to people, but he didn't have the polished rhetoric of a salesperson, yet. If someone wanted to feel that they were dealing with someone straightforward without a lie, they felt comfortable with him. If a client needed that finesse, perhaps that charm for a purchase" Well, Jeremy might not have been that for them. he followed her when she motioned him and listened, watching his footing as if he were worried that the ground might give way at any minute. His gaze followed the direction of her point but he didn't seem phased. There was nothing to go home to, so what did it matter if he worked late" "Not a problem." Just in time to see the bottle and catch it when he looked at her. When she looked him up and down he pressed her again, "And what is your name" You worked here long?"

She owed him some answers. Motioning to a table in the middle of the back of the room. Using her finger, she pointed to the table if he wanted to sit. "Tha' good ye can talk. Ye dun nee' t'talk all th' time, jus' answer questions about th' wares...greet people when ye see them comin' in....tha' kinda thing. O'Malley dun pressure people, they come in fer th' products, it's pretty easy. Ye hands are good enough fer learnin'." Looking him up and down again. "As far as wha' O'Malley." She smiled."Ye reflexes be good. Ye pass th' interview." Stepping forward and offically offering hand to introduce her. "M'been workin' here since it opened. M'name is Iona." Shaking his hand firmly, but not over powering. "Iona O'Malley."

Oh just some" Room after room. He flt like he was being lead into the guts of a hive and only, momentarily, wondered how well he coul have escaped if all of this proved to be the trappings of a serial killer. The table was a place he welcomed the sight of and sat at it as soon as she indicated it to him. "I'll need to learn about the wares." That was a given, of course. She had looked him up and down twice, now, unabashedly, which was a somewhat exposing experience. It might not have felt that way had it been another man that was doing it instead of her. Instead, he felt that some sort of female bias was being applied. That he was quietly being ranked for something. He opened the water and drank, setting it down as she introduced herself. He stood up briefly to take her hand in introduction and repeated her name— either to remember it better or check that he heard her correctly, "Iona."

Letting go of his hand. "Ye hired if ye dun have any problem workin' t'do wha' m'need ye t'do. If ye dun know how t'do it, ye gotta speak up an' tell me. M'will show ye. I dun expect perfection, m'expect ye t'work hard, learn an' do ye best. This work can be fun, bu' it also can be verra frustratin' if ye dun get things right. Like m'said...if ye can get beyond tha' an' keep tryin'...job is yers. It pays 300 silver weekly an' if ye work over m'will pay ye overtime fer wha' ye work." Iona was watching him to see what his mannerisms were and sizing him up in case he was someone she needed to be worried about. She was a good six inches shorter than he, but she was solid, it was all the working out and boxing. "Ye abou' six an' one aye' M'think ye'll do good wi' th' stockin'. My got some new shelves an' m'gettin' tried o'climbin' up on a stinkin' ladder t'get t'th' high place. Assumin' ye wan' th' job."

"Is the room mine, or just mine when I'm workin' late?" That was important to him. Though 300 silver weekly was more than enough to pay for his room and have something left over, he needed to know if this was a live-in apprenticeship of sorts or not. Her build was probably more solid than his, he had been wandering and surviving and that made for more of a survivor's look. "Yea," when she asked him about his height, the corners of his lips turned down when he nodded. When it came to shelving that was something he knew he could master, "Yea, I've done shelves before." Some of that barn work was gonna be in handy after all.

"If ye want it, ye can take it. Bu' me come in an' out too." There were two rooms up there, so he'd kind of be living with a girl, but there was a private area, with a sitting room, bathroom and a small study. "Tha' kitchen an' main room would be common. Ye wan' th' job or not. Ye ain't answered tha' exactly now ye know." She's not exactly sure what it was, it depends on what he wanted to learn. Iona was more than willing to teach.

There were worse things than living with a girl. She was nearly militant in the way she spoke and behaved so he expected that might reflect in her personal life, as well. Jeremy's dark hair was long enough to touch the crest of his cheek. When it did he finger combed it back as he looked in the direction of the kitchen. "Yea, I want it." Honestly, the room was the deal sealer for him. He didn't care if it was like a half protected dorm room. There wasn't much on him of value and he could hide what was valuable to him as well as the next person. "I'd like to learn," he added, as if to reassure her. She had made it clear that she knew he was somewhat green to the specifics of the trade. He shouldn't look like he was shrugging her off.

"S'good. If ye bring a lass t'ye room, put ye music on aye' Turn it up, m'dun wanna hear wha' ye be doin'." She smiled and chuckled. Iona was serious, but also friendly about it. Iona was pretty rigid when it came to the position and her business. She also loved to drink and drink a lot. "Weel, ye make o'th' job wha' ye want it t'be. M'da an' mum taught me when I was a wee lass. There be times m'be away fer a spell, when m'gone, ye watch th' place. Ye drink?"

"I'm gonna be here for a bit but I don't plan on staying." That's what he told himself, every night. That the situation was temporary. It made everything easier to accept. If it was all permanent then it might have been more upsetting. He cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his head, rearing the chair he was sitting back to it's back feet. His half grin appeared at her warning him about being quiet when he had female company, "That's not for a minute, yet. I just got here." And, truthfully, he was looking for something. When she asking him about drinking his hands unfolded and the chair dropped back on all four feet, "Yea, sometimes. It's been a moon though."

"Well, most people tha' say they dun stay here, tha' mean one o'two things...they be searchin' fer somethin' or they be hidin'." Standing up, moving to the cabinet and taking out a bottle of cheap Irish Whiskey and two shot glasses. Back at the table she plunked it on the top and sat back down. Cork pulled out with her teeth and she filled both, one pushed to her. "If m'were bettin' if ye were settled here or lookin' fer somethin' ...m'say ye'd be lookin' fer something." Lifting the shot glass. "T'findin' wha' ye wan'. Enjoyin' th' time ye have an' t'new adventures." Then she downed it.

"You'd have a good eye." He admitted. There was no merit in lying to her and so long as he didn't start talking about the weird stuff, she was liable to think him a sane and regular person. As far as she was concerned he was just looking for love and happiness. The click of his glass to her's and he downed the drink immediately after the toast. The harsh burn of it was unexpected though, sending him into a tailspin of coughs before he smiled and laughed, "So what is your story, then" You have a fair grasp of mine." It seemed only fair that she at least elude to it.

"M'story?" A small shrug and pouring another. He could help himself. By the time she started, three more shots went down. "M'pass through th' Nexus t'a place called earth. M'hunt unholy things there...things tha' hurt others. M'come here t'get away from th' life there, where most dun believe in th' ghosts, ghouls, lycan...witches...dreams an' th' like. S'all. M'work a lot." All of that the truth. Her story was more complicated, but for now, she gave him a peek as he gave her. "Ye dinnae tell me yer story...m'guessed, ye lead m'down th' path t'believe or assume it be true. Ye ain't said one way or another. If ye wanna tell me, ye can...if not m'not gonna press on ye." Iona knew and respected boundaries most of the time.

He did pour himself another. It had been a long time since he had a drink among friends. It felt like everything had been a rush. Everything had been a necessity. Now, with the relief of a job, he felt like he could take in a breath and relax, "You're a hunter?" it somewhat made sense. The militant impression he had of her was ringing more and more true. When she asked him about his story he didn't know where to begin, so he kept it vague, "Something was happening to me and I still don't know what it is or what it means. It is like if you woke up one day and your skin was all green and no one else's was." That was the best he could think to describe it. His problem was so commonplace here that most would have thought him mad to raise issue with it.

"Where m'from m'called an Agent. A fed t'be exact, bu' it be somethin' like a hunter. M'dun hunt anythin' supernatural livin' as they do, onlt th' most extreme an' who be hurtin' others." Knocking back another shot, then leaning back in the chair. "Seems like ye got y'self an' itch or might nee' t'find out wha' goin' on wit' ye. It can be unsettlin' t'have somethin' ye dun understan' change before ye." She said with a great deal of conviction in her voice. Rolling her shoulders and the bones cracked. "If ye new t'Rhydin an' nee' some advice on where ye may look, let m'know. Me might be able t'help ye or point ye in th' right direction."

"I am, he admitted with a sigh, looking away from her and then pouring himself another shot, "Been here only a few days and I'm still trying to figure out what to do with myself. At least, I guess, I got the survival part figured out." That was better than he had hoped for. There was no scurrying around on benches trying not to look weird or homeless. She didn't seem bothered by her profession— she didn't speak of it with malice though he knew that there must have been hurt there. No one was a fighter that long without loses, "So what are you doin' here if you're an agent?"

"M'retired, bu' they needed m'to go back. M'work fer a spell an' come here t'work at wha' m'love." She made it sound so simple. "Ye gotta find wha' give ye sanity, if ye dun, ye will go crazy." Standing up and going to get a wet, clean cloth. After a few swipes, the redhead's face was clean now. "Ye hungry?"

She looked younger without the smears of work on her face. As if she had wiped away years of toil and labor. She looked to be closer to his age, now that he spied her in that light. She she offered him food he could not help but tip his head in request, "If you're offering." Jeremy simply couldn't say no to any free food. That was the way to the heart, right"

In the cold box, she pulled out a rather large bowl and stuck it in the microwave. It'd warm up while she moved around to get some plates made out of paper and some silverware. The ding went off and she brought the bowl over and opened it up. Inside was some gumbo, with several kinds of meat, rice and some veggies. Not hot, but it was flavored with spice. "Help yeself." Iona was in her mid 20s. Sitting back down and helping herself to some gumbo. "Wha' ye lookin' fer then if ye only here fer a time?"

"Like I said, it was waking up one day like my skin was green and no one else's was," As the food heated up he swallowed. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he could smell it in the air. He pressed his lips into a tight line of anticipation before answering her a bit more, "Sometimes if you're different than everyone else it starts to freak them out. They thought I was getting a bit crazy." Now he was telling her too much. He might start losing the job he just got if he continued on that path for too long, "But you know, to each their own." That was about the worst way possible to be casual about what he just said.

Iona was observant and noted his body language and saw some worry on his face. "M'told ye before, m'won't press...about ye past. Dun worry about th' job or thinkin' ye'll scare me. M'have seen many thin' an' weel...very little surprised me anna more." He didn't have to worry. "Nothin' wrong wit' bein' a wee bit crazy, as long ye know why ye crazy." She smiled and dug into the food with plenty of manners and no chewing with her mouth opened. "Aye, t'each their own. Bu' ye should be strong in wha' ye need an' wha' ye wanna find fer yeself. It might help ye so ye ain't so nervous."

"I don't know where to begin," he admitted, getting up to help himself to the gumbo, trying not to look as hungry as he was. Moving as if he was taking his time, not rushing when he took the first few bites. "I just knew that it wasn't going to get any better at home." But she was calling him nervous. It made him grin at her for the first time since they met, "I look it that badly, eh?"

"N'ye jus' hav' th' look like ye gonna lose th' job before ye start. M'think it would be ye mind...ye be in a new place wit' out knowin' a soul, look'n fer ye'self t'survive....an' maybe hungry....m'would probally do th' same thing. Bu' dun worry, m'not gonna ax ye t'day." Laughing. "M'know wha' it be like t'be alone an' figurin' things out."

"Well, I know one person, now," he took the liberty of pouring them both another shot. It was already evident that she had more practice than he so he wasn't going to catch up to the drinks she had surpassed him on before. He lifted his glass to her, "It's all about right. I could be here for years, you know?" Some people didn't retain jobs for even weeks, so that wasn't half bad. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice told him he might never go back.

Lifting the glass back and clinking it. "Ye jus' do wha' ye gotta do fer y'self. Be happy first fer ye an' m'sure it'll work out. If it dun work out like ye wan', change direction."

"Are you always so serious?" It was something he felt he just has to ask her. She hadn't meant to seem like such a drill instructor, but he was beginning to feel like she was. That, or that was just how she knew how to handle a stranger, someone that looked a little lost and in need of guidance. He downed the shot after she clicked with it. He could already feel the heat in his cheeks from what they had been drinking.

"Aye, unless m'gotta a reason not t'be. It could be ye perception too. Kinda like tha' beauty be in th' eye o'th' beholder sayin'. Ye know wha' ye see ain't always as it be. M'serious fer a few days after comin' back t'Rhydin. M'job there be verra....hard."

"You ever play drinking games?" he chuckled, taking a few more bites of the gumbo, "I'll challenge you to one, tomorrow night." She already had the lead on him now and he thought, maybe, if his body had another day of tolerance in it he could handle her better, "That's how yah get to the root of most folks, you know.

Iona laughed. "Ye won't win. M'gotta a special drink, we'll play wit' tha'." One shot and he'll be on his butts. She finished dinner and grinned. "Ye start tomorrow. If ye need th' room this eve, ye welcome to it. M'need t'get back t'work, aye." Standing up. "Ye welcome t'go upstairs an' see it ye want. Second door on th' right." Or he could come back tomorrow morning.

It was the first time he thought she was laughing outright than from some quiet joke that was being sputtered. It reassured him enough that it kept his grin. When she finished eating he was not long behind her. "I'll get my things from the inn and head over tonight." He stood up as well, feeling like he should shake her hand or something before they retreated from one another, "Thanks."

He didn't have to shake her hand. "C'mon m'walk ye t'th' door." Grabbing her hood and gloves when they passed the counter. "If th' door be locked, come around t'th' back stairs an' ring th' bell, m'will let ye in tha' way. Ye will wanna get some rest, m'gonna work ye hard tomorrow." That's a promise. She may or may not see him later, but either way he'd be able to get in to the room. She'd make sure he had instructions on the door and everything.

"Sounds good." He put his hands in his jacket pockets as they got closer to the door and further from the heartbeat of warmth that was the furnaces. The handle felt lukewarm when he opened it, turning to regard her with a smile, "See yah in the morning, Iona. Thanks for....everything." Even the fuzzy, hot feeling in his face and fingertips. But, especially, for the food.

"Ye welcome." When he was gone, she closed the shop doors and went back to banging metal.

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It was one of those nights that made it difficult to rest no matter how much he had occupied himself.

Jeremy had spent additional hours that night at the forge, attempting to make a weather vane. It wasn't that they were all that complicated, only that the design he had gone for was particularly challenging. It was a fish with fins, which required forcing the metal to move as though it were a thin piece of flesh gliding through water. While his attempt was not a bad one and might be interpreted as an artful representation, a trained eye would notice his points of weakness and where the metal had dictated its direction instead of him. It was a start.

When Iona had shown up he was at the end of the hour he'd spent working on his experimental creation. The letter and the discussion that followed, the impression of her lips on his thoughts and the unresolved need to 'think' when he was fairly certain that he didn't want to think at all. He was never as impulsive as a child or teenager, but when he got a notion in his head it dominated his thoughts. It was not unlike the time he had decided to leave home— once it was the conclusion he came to, few could have persuaded him otherwise. Jeremy was coming to other, unshakable conclusions.

Forty five minutes at the punching bag downstairs. When he unlaced the gloves and ascended the staircase, Iona had already left for the night. While he suspected that it was to go to the tavern, he wasn't certain. She could be disappearing from the shop again for days. He went to his room and pulled his worn, long sleeved grey shirt over his head and wiped his face with it before throwing it in a wicker basket he used for his laundry that he kept stationed near the door. Everything felt covered in sweat, grime, smoke and metal. Tomorrow was going to be difficult, he could already feel the burn of fatigue in his arms as he finished getting undressed to slip into the shower. He had worked additional hours and the forge and then spent what could have been misplaced energy at the punching bag.

No matter how much he tried, there were bits of black beneath his nails he could not seem to scrub out. The film of sweat was now stripped off of him and made his skin feel light, as if it were able to breathe again. He dressed in just a pair of pajama pants and went without the shirt. Could someone even have a dream after being so tired? He tried reading a book to settle his thoughts elsewhere so that his mind could recollect. His bedside lamp was still on when he fell asleep with the book laying on his chest, skewed with a few of the pages getting creased by the awkward splay of the pages against his skin.

Some dreams didn't need interpretation.

It was strange to think that he had spent the night next to her because of how far away she had seemed to him when they first met. Jeremy had scarcely thought that he could touch her arm, let alone lay next to her. He had thought that she would always seem aloof to him and was surprised that she didn't. There was a comfort in it, the manner that she spoke made her easy to trust. They talked about the value of honesty, of the need to forsake the affections of others while they began to understand each other. They spoke of the understanding that this was a beginning, one they wanted to be clearly grasped by both of them.

She did not seem like the sort of woman who would have appreciated roses. They were conventional and, honestly, had a dark history to them. Jeremy had read once that a rose was given as a token of affection from one man to a woman he was having an affair with, unbeknownst to his wife. How it managed to no longer embody that transgression, he didn't know, but he still thought of it every time he saw a man giving a woman roses. Beyond that, it simply wasn't a gesture that he thought was right for her.

It required a lot of cutting, more than he was used to. The metal did not have to be sculpted into the same artful curves as the weather vane. These cuts could be made in a sheet, welded together and then curved upward. The first one took him the longest to forge, cut and create. After that he had the method of its creation down. The copper was a softer metal than the steel he was used it.

When would she return? Maybe that night. With his metal creations cradled in one arm, he climbed up the stairs and entered her room. The comforter was stripped off her bed and folded at the foot of it. The sheets were a soft blue and he wrinkled them, doing his best to create gentle waves of fabric across the body of her bed. The pillows were made to slouch low so that they would not call attention to themselves. He carefully placed his metal creations, water lilies, on top of her bed, fitting them with small electronic lights that flickered like real candles. Nothing ruined a thoughtful gesture like setting her room on fire. It could be hours, or even days, until she was home to appreciate it. Pausing at the doorway he shut the lights off and left it, the copper water lilies flickering on the watery impression of her bedsheets.

He didn't know if she cared about valentines day or even wanted anything of him. Either way, it felt like the right gesture to make. He shut her door behind him and climbed down the stairs, cleaning up the scrap metal and relocating the tools of the shop back to where they needed to go. http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2013/100/4/d/copper_lily_by_ksphoto-d613wqv.jpg

Dream Entry #4 It was a massive shipwreck in the middle of the day. The water was so blue that it looked fake, still managing to make a contrast against the bright, cloudless sky. The weather was warm, they must have been somewhere tropical.

The ship had been a formidable one, yet it had still fallen, strewn into pieces that floated like kelp on top of the water. There weren't any bodies of other people or blood in the water, just Jeremy and Iona holding onto the same piece of debris that was about the size of a kitchen table to keep themselves afloat. She was opposite of him, squinting past his shoulder to try to see something beyond.

"What is it?"

Her eyes ticked and then settled on him, nodding past him, "I think I see land over there. Are you ready to swim?"

His eyebrows knit and he looked over his shoulder and then back to her, "What happened to you accent?"

She frowned at him, "What happened to your's?"

He couldn't respond to her question but turned, one hand keeping him anchored to the floating piece of ship as he looked behind himself. On the horizon was the rise of something that promised to be land. There was even a speck of green on it.

"We could make it," he said, "but it's going to be close."

She sucked in a breath and nodded. Her smile appeared, "I won't drown if you won't."

He opened his eyes, his arm wrapping around her, bringing her back against his chest again. They had drifted apart when they slept but he wanted her nearness again. Deep breath. Hold on tight. He still felt the sway of the world, of the ocean around them, as if they were still holding onto that piece of wood from the shipwreck.

Dream Entry #5 The butcher shop was off-putting because of all of the flies. Inside, it was ill maintained. Many of the blades behind the counter looked rusted and marked with blood that wasn't wiped off, stuck to the wall via a magnetic strip. Someone was chopping up the meat here, but they were being sloppy about it. He felt like he had been standing at the counter for hours when he leaned over to ding the shiny silver service bell again.

Behind the plastic flaps that lead to the back came the butcher. It was his father, looking like he did the last day Jeremy had seen him. His face was serious. The grey in his hair looked as if someone had finger combed the color in through the sides, from the temple to the nape, running out of bleach as the hands reached the back. Beneath his eyes were the deep marks of age on a more tired man. What he remembered the most about his father was how strong he seemed. Even as an older man, Jeremy had thought his strength remarkable and unreal for his body. There was some padding to his stomach and a thick, dark mustache that was untouched by grey and white hairs. That made it look fake, like he were wearing a disguise.

"What's your order number?"

"Um, it's five. My slip is somewhere..."

"It's in your hand, boy."

After hearing his father's gruff response he looked down, seeing that the yellow slip of paper with the inked in "5" was in his palm. He set the paper on the counter, trying to avoid touching the butcher. It didn't work. It was snatched up, his father's hand brushing his when he did so. The flesh was cold like he had just come from the meat locker.

"You want the pig's head?"

"It's a delicacy, isn't it?"

The butcher looked at him, under heavy brows and a head of hair that was wrapped in black, food-safety netting. There was doubt, as if he didn't believe that Jeremy was sure of his order, "Is it worth it?"

"Is what worth it?"

"Killing the pig so you can have the head?"

"No, I just want the head."

His father snorted, flattening his order slip on the counter as he looked at him, "You can't keep ordering heads, Jerr. Sometimes you need to know when to take the bacon."

"What?"

"Is destroying it worth the single purchase you'd be getting?"

After he woke up, the scene of rusted knives and debates about the meat order with his father lingered in his mind. It was good that he lived so close to the marketplace, it made it easy to find the little strange objects he was sometimes in want of. Wandering through the shops helped redirect his thoughts. At first the idea that came was hazy to him, he was still grappling with the imagery of what he had seen with what he felt.

Once he had purchased everything he needed, he went home. The shop opened and closed, Jeremy was the poster-boy for pushing Iona's business. No one could have been the wiser to know that there was a hiccup, something that was unnerving him. After work hours, he wasn't forging. He was folding paper and swearing profusely.

It was the second day, after many failures, that he got it right. This was a different sort of forging.

"Iona," he sighed. One part of his thought was complete, but it was time to focus on the second part. The writing, which was infinitely more difficult. It was what he spent his night doing. Writing on a notebook back. Scratching out. Repeating. The list went on and on and finally it was honed into something that made sense to him. Something that he liked. First, Jeremy did the writing on delicate squares of paper. Then he forged them into creations not with fire, but with folds made by his hands. By the fifteenth one there was a more polished look to it. The folds of paper were more confident, more crisp. By the final one, the thirtieth one, it was a creation which was delicate, impressive for an amateur.

It was the third day.

Placed in her room, rather carefully, were thirty origami koi fish. They were different colors, some more expertly crafted than others but all featuring the appropriate head and tail. He set a note up on her pillow, seeing that it was still unmoved from when she had left those days ago. Iona,

I have thought of everything that I might ask you, the questions that I would like answers to but feel I shouldn't ask. I wrote down thirty of them and I have turned them into these paper fish. Your names means island. If you are an island, then I will be the fish that swims around you. I will be like the fish and ask more questions of you the more you open me up.

Each night you are home we will open one together, if that's all right with you.

Jeremy.

http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com/thumbs/28/76/28769488cd4da2487578c6ea78675a0f_m.jpg

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Dream Entry #6 The sky was impossibly blue. He was home, but exactly the age he was now as if he had never left and come to Rhy'Din. Wedged between the branches of a coffee bean tree, toe toes of his bare feet gripped the still moist, slightly spongy bark of the tree. His weight was leaned against the upper right of the wishbone divide of the tree. His sister was below him, looking up at him with one hand over her eyes to keep the sun out of them.

"You've gone up too high, Jeremy. If you fall you're going to break something."

"What?" He laughed at her, his right hand circling the branch that was too large for his hand to close around. He hung forward to hear her better, "I never fall."

"People have died falling from those heights before. I wouldn't joke around so much about it if I were you." Her dark, manicured eyebrow lifted up as if to tell him he was being foolish. Jeremy laughed and reached for a bunch of berries, finding that they weren't berries at all.

"See!?" She laughed at him, her hands on her knees as she grinned with satisfaction, "That's what you get for being cocky and not paying attention."

"Bananas?"

"Well, sort of. If you would just pay attention to what you were doing you wouldn't be grabbing them."

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It was a far cry from New York. The city that was more cement than trees. When he eyes opened he wondered how there could be places like the coffee bean farm and places like this city.

It was going to be his first hunt. His hand cut through his dark hair and he sucked in a breath. In principle, he knew what that meant. Even Jeremy wasn't stupid enough to think that the principle would match reality. The noise of cars elbowed him like the dream had.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he replayed the previous night.

His breathing had seemed impossibly loud. He had tried to make it quiet and even and not hold it. The building was dark, the halls and everything about it seeming abandoned. The double doors at the end of the hall were smeared with blood. Behind the doors were dismembered body parts. Blood pooled everywhere, the smell crawled in his brain and wouldn't let him go.

Messages in blood and the sense that they had been far too late. Iona became like steel, set on her pursuit. Teri's voice buzzed in his ear not to let her go. The situation was one he had imagined in all the war books and books about soldiers that he had read. Now he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Iona was technically the commanding officer, with her experience. She never spoke of her rank, though, and he had thought that they approached the situation as equals. She had him take point when they entered the building.

He hadn't known what to do. His mind still felt like it was stumbling over body parts.

Still, he wasn't sure how he had convinced her to stay with him in the hotel off the side of the road. It was one she had known. She wanted to drop him off at the shop, or back at the camp and go ahead. Iona hadn't spoke about what had happened but her reaction to it all seemed unusually angry. This was her job, he was sure she did it often enough that she must have been somewhat numb to the outcomes. Not this one. Or maybe she never got numb. The idea she might still be sensitive to what she saw was a small relief. Steel could be unforgiving, seeming to have no room to become an alloy with something else.

Morning crawled into the window of their room. He was grateful to open his eyes to it, it was better than images of the previous night going on replay. Sometimes he wondered if some of the details had been exaggerated by his mind. Except he didn't have that sort of gorey imagination. If his mind was going to play with the memory of something, it might have been the feel or exactly what was said. It was not often that what he saw in the dreams altered that much.

The closest experience he had ever had to what she talked about was with leaving home. There was the sensation that he needed to leave and that if he didn't, relationships there would become bad. He'd seen it before, he'd known that when people started to isolate you from the group that it was the beginning of getting expelled. It might have been years later that it actually happened.

This way, he'd left when everyone still thought of him as being part of 'them' and he could return to it, someday. Maybe. Sometimes he was wondering if he ever wanted to move back. Maybe just visit.

Emotional carnage. His pushed his fingers through his hair and sat up, coughing to clear his throat before he spoke, "You ever think about quitting and just running the shop?"

Jeremy felt that her answer would be no. It followed her, it pinned her to the wall and wouldn't disappear just because a gun wasn't in her hand. He wasn't sure what she'd gotten the shop for, if it had been for money or if her hobby had grown such that it needed a building and a focus. He couldn't imagine with the passion that Iona had that she would ever walk away from that job— but it bothered her, it was the most upset he usually ever saw her. He couldn't say that it made her laugh. It all seemed like a duty, a need, and not one she would abandon.

"Can I do anything for your carnage?" Other than be there? He looked at her over his shoulder and then his eyes looked at the phone. No room service. He sighed. It seemed like he was slow to get dressed and ready just like her. In the room, with her in that momenet, it felt like the rest of the world couldn't impact them. He liked the quiet moments, the ones that he selfishly thought of as being his and that nothing, and no one, mattered.

It wouldn't be long until all of the other important things leaned in for an interruption.