It became a routine for Serran.

In the morning, he would prepare for the day. He would do a quick exercise after waking up, before cleaning himself up, changing his clothes into a fresh ones, and braiding his pale hair before tucking it inside his cowl. Once he was sufficiently dressed, he would head to the galley in search for breakfast.

After breakfast, he would head to the healing cabin to heal the strange Dreamer. The Dreamer made a great progress too, but there was still some internal damage that was too stubborn to heal — mostly because neural pathways were just so delicate, it would be a disaster if they were healed wrongly.

As the hours went by, the other Tribesfolk would come in for various injuries, from minor ones such as knife wound to major ones like starburns. Serran would tend to them until late in the day. Then, after a quick rest, he would head to the Mender’s quarter and assist her however he could — mostly with correspondence.

At night, he would eat with his friends and then try to heal the Dreamer some more before he went to sleep.

His Dreams were different day by day. Sometimes he would sit upon purple sand as crystal-clear water lapped at his feet. Sometimes he would wander on the grassy hill where broken arches stood and flowers sprouted as he danced. Sometimes he met the Dreamer. One time, Serran gathered his courage and asked his name.

“Velis’en”, the Dreamer answered. “My name is Velis’en.”

Eye-Swallower, in Old Alven language. There was one particular tale about an infamous Eye-Swallower — the God of All Dreams, the Betrayer who swallowed Treemother’s Eyes. Caretakers would often tell the tale to scare errant Tribeschildren, that the Malevious Owl would come and peck at their eyes if they refused to nap.

“Well, my old master clearly had some wicked sense of humor”, Velis’en laughed, but it was dry. Humorless. Intents were hard to hide in the Dreamvoid. Serran blushed when the Dreamer easily guessed what he was thinking.

“Was it hard…?” Serran asked, no longer able to hide his curiosity.

“Being a slave?” Velis’en asked back. Serran nodded, and Velis’en gave him a long thoughtful hum. “I think the hardest part is to reclaim what one lost. Dignity, dependency. It is… hard, to rebuild what was completely destroyed.”

“Who were you before you were enslaved?” Serran asked.

“Who I was died when I was first chained”, Velis’en answered, shrugging. “It’s no matter. I am who I am today, reborn anew.”

Serran couldn’t understand it.

The next time he Dreamt, Velis’en showed him less-than-bloody Dreams. He showed an ancient city, millennia before the Cleaved Sun War. The forest seemed to meld seamlessly into the city, like there was no separation between nature and Alven-made creations. Buildings grew from trees, spiraling staircases and arches from its hanging roots and branches. They reached out to the golden sky above, and they were glittering, glimmering in the ever-present daylight of the twin suns, as if each leaf was made out of jewels.

“Kalmaya”, Velis’en whispered in Serran’s ear, before pulling him into the dancing crowd.

The dancing Alvon crowd.

Among the trees, the Alvons — Treeroamers — danced freely. Free of burden and free of chains. Free of one millennium of suffering and enslavement. There was no time for sorrow, no reason to. And their Magic—

There was, in fact, Magic everywhere.

Even in the Dreamvoid, Serran could feel it. It seeped through the cracks on the ground and tangled with the wind, wild and untamed. No one feared Magic and no one feared Dreams, because Magic was normal as breathing and Dream was common as air.

“This is—” Serran breathed out, gasping for air once the dance stopped and Velis’en took him aside to rest.

“Weird?” Velis’en asked, worry clear in his face.

“Breathtaking”, Serran corrected it for him. “This is the capital city of Alvamar, right? The Slumbering River-City, Kalmaya?”

A small smile curled on Velis’en’s lips. “I’m glad you find it beautiful.”

“There are Dreamers everywhere”, Serran marveled, lifting his hand to gently touch a glowing mote of a Dream. It shattered into a thousand smaller pieces, each carrying different Dream within it.

The next night, Velis’en showed him a parade of some sort, where Treeroamers dressed in rich and colorful clothes lined the streets. The city was darkened as the sun was eclipsed away, but lanterns made out of glittering leaves floated in the air like thousand little suns. The light coming from it didn’t seem to come from fire, but from Dreams.

Wherever Serran looked, everyone was smiling jubilantly. There was music too in the air, odd, yet somewhat familiar — like half-forgotten lullabies. None of the Alvons wore head-shroud too, their hair braided intricately and bejeweled with hundreds of glimmering seeds.

Serran couldn’t help but feel slight jealousy. The Alvons presently wore cowls to hide their Alvon ears, preventing them from being immediately recognized. For Dreamers, the cowls also served to protect their head — and thus, their connection to the Dreamvoid — from those who wished to harm them. For the Alvons in the Dream to bare their head free — it was luxury.

The Alvons in the present day truly had lost much.

“Serran, you okay?” Ithiven asked one time, when Serran was having lunch under the main mast. The sails were folded and the Tribeship was anchored on an asteroid. The deck was deserted with so many of the Tribesfolk away to play at the beach, so Serran picked the place to… think.

More like staring off into the distance, it seemed.

“I’m alright, Ithiven”, Serran replied, offering his friend a slightly stilted smile.

His Dreamwalk often left Serran restless upon waking up. He wanted to tell someone about his Dreams, about their ancestors, the Treeroamers before their time. And yet, he was… unsure, if his Tribesfolk could accept what he saw in the Dream. Dreams had quite an awful reputation after all, not only for its connection to the God of All Dreams, but also for its allure.

In the Dream of Kalmaya, everything he saw was grand and beautiful. Already he wished to live in the dream and never to wake up. But wake he did, each time, and he resumed his duties and routine activities as normal.

Life went on.

And that was the worrisome thing, wasn’t it? He always worried for his patients, he always did, but Velis’en’s case was different. Serran had sufficiently healed his body, but  Velis’en still showed no sign that he would wake soon. Serran worried what it would do to his body, and even more so, to his mind. Serran wondered if Velis’en was trapped in the Dreamvoid, and wondered how to get him out if he did. He wondered what if what he did was not enough to save Velis’en’s mind. He wondered if death was the only way to save him.

One night, Serran braced himself to finally confront Velis’en in the Dreamvoid.

“Why don’t you wake up?” he asked, as soon as he found Velis’en in the Dreamvoid version of Kalmaya. The ancient city still glimmered behind them, a static noise that was preserved from ages long gone. Serran ignored its allure, the temptation to dwell.

“I healed your body”, Serran said. “I fixed the damage to your temporal lobe. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

“I am… still very weak”, Velis’en answered. “Before… before I was captured by the Soldiers, I wove a very difficult Dreamspell. It drained me, weakened me to the point of incapacitation.”

Serran wondered what kind of Spell that could drain someone so badly, but he decided not to pry.

“Please wake up soon”, he said instead, not even bothering to hide his worries. Something odd flashed in Velis’en’s eyes, something that Serran couldn’t quite decipher. But he inclined his head, in the end.

“I will try”, was all he said.

When Serran woke up in the morning and headed straight toward the healing cabin, Velis’en was sitting by the window.

He looked thin, his skin ashed, but when he turned his face to Serran, he was smiling tiredly.

He was finally awake.