Dreams did not come easily to the undead; they didn't sleep enough. Still, as of late Malodore had begun to seek solace in sleep, and in dreams. Sometimes it woke with a jolt, staring at the walls of its room until it realized where it truly was... but sometimes the dreams were joyous, leaving behind a pang of bittersweet sadness upon awakening.

It was those dreams that the plague doctor liked most; it was one of that variety that currently occupied its subconscious mind.

They were dancing, twirling, its cool silver claws twined through her warm fingers as they moved together. Her eyes were bright, crescented in delight with every step they took, sweeping over and sometimes through the roots that curled over the floor here, in the subterranean forest. Though Malodore had discovered the grove in the real world, the place was strange enough to be well-suited to dreams - a small copse of trees, old and gnarled and dripping with moss and flowers, all bounded by stone walls as the upper branches warred with stalactites. She would love it, it was sure... and she did love it, her head tilting up to look at the trees before her gaze returned to meet its own.

She was silent, unspeaking, but Malodore was still happy, certain that the sense of contentment it felt was sourced in her as well. They had no need for words. They never had. It sighed and pulled her close, nuzzling at her shoulder as her body fit itself to the plague doctor's own. They moved as one, never missing a step, never tripping or touching in any way other than the purely intentional.

It was perfect.

Around and around they went; its hands moved to circle her waist, feeling the strength in her movements, the elegantly contained power her body possessed. Her tentacles were already wrapped around it in a way that seemed familiar (stone they had been, holding it tight). They did not shift positions at all (perhaps this should seem unnatural?), other than what Malodore's own movements required. A thread of unease touched Malodore's thoughts for a moment, but it shoved it away even as it twirled her through a trunk, the tips of her toes swishing through the bark as if either tree or feet did not exist. This was perfect. Of course it was.

It had to hold on to what it was given for as long as it could.

They swayed to a stop, and Malodore found itself lifted up, cradled as her head came down to press her forehead against its own - but her flesh was purple, warm, pliant to the touch. Not stone, not stone, not stone at all, it reassured itself over and over, drumming its claws on her shoulder and watching darker bruises form as it tested her flesh again and again. It had to touch, had to repeat the test; otherwise how would it gain data to cure her?

It leaned its forehead against her own, first gently and then harder, stomach twisting as it waited for the inevitable dull sound of bone meeting stone. Flesh-on-bone sounded different; it sounded damp, muffled. Her forehead bruised like overripe fruit.

Malodore jerked back when it felt the warmth of her blood dripping down its mask. A creeping horror came over it, and it tried to tear itself free; her shoulders were ruins, scraped and pierced by its own claws, flesh and not stone.

... Meat, and not flesh.

She was dying, rotting around it, not even granted the blessed permanency of calcification. The plague doctor made an incoherent sound as the tentacles slumped into decay, sliding down its body and leaving trails of rot behind. No, no, no- not again, not again-

It had no warning, unless the nightmare itself was meant as such. One moment, Malodore was struggling to free itself from the grasp of Riley's corpse - the next, the dreamworld shattered as a shriek of agony transfixed it, stabbing through its mind like a blade. With a violent shock, the plague doctor awoke, kicking at the blankets that entangled it-

-but the cry, the scream, went on. It was not dispelled by waking; indeed, it seemed to grow more intense. It could feel her, her, reaching out, a long and drawn-out thread of pure agony that it couldn't help but answer. Malodore threw every empathic sense it possessed wide open, straining as tension shot through its body, wings flaring as if they, too, could somehow reach for her-

And then, quite suddenly, it was gone. All gone, leaving the plague doctor feeling as raw and gaping as a wound. It slid out of its cot to collapse on the floor, shaking in every limb. A dream, only a dream. She had not rotted around it. It had not hurt her in unthinking panic. It had not made her scream...

... had it? That had felt so terribly real...

Real.

No, no. It couldn't be. Malodore drew its shuddering wings around itself, sheltering under them as it tried to make sense of things. The cry, that horrible pain... that had gone on beyond waking. With every passing moment, the horror of the dreamworld receded, but that cry remained, powerful in its memory as mere dreams never were.

Real-

"Aen'ryllis," it whispered, its throat dry. It reached out again, but its empathy had very definite and very short limits. Nothing met its senses other than its own emotions and threads of concern coming from its minipets - and it was evident from their reactions that they had heard nothing. There had only been thought.

"Oh, mia cara-" It wrapped its arms around itself and shook and shook, not sure what to think... other than one searing, terrifying hope that it dared not articulate, even to itself. To think such things and then be denied would be more than it could bear...

And yet...

It opened its beak, feeling as if every emotional scar it had sustained had just been torn open again. "Aen'ryllis... mia cara, ti ho trovato," it whispered, trembling anew at its own temerity.

"Ti ho trovato."