The hallway was Theo-less tonight.  Thank you.  It’s not that I don’t want to see you—I do!  The time isn’t quite right, though, and I’m very grateful to you for understanding that.

To answer your question, I’ve already admitted that I do.  If I would say that it started the day I saw you in the courtyard, or when Francesca first told me about you, or even if it began after the CULL Day concert when you were just a boy to me rather than the Heir, it wouldn’t be true.  No. 

The truth is, I have always dreamed of you. 

I am standing on one side of a tall stone wall; it’s cold and I know that if I take a step back, it will be like crossing over the threshold of winter into spring.  In the distance, hummingbirds hover over honeysuckle and flowering quince.  At the wall, the wind is cutting; my hands ache from the cold.  I cling to its stone, run my fingers over its porous surface and shiver as I walk along it.  I hum a tune my mother always sang while rocking me to sleep.  Soon, another voice picks up, the notes matching my own as the melody plays out into the crisp air.  The voice is your voice, Theo, I know it’s you.  You are that reason I remember this dream. You are behind that wall, humming the same song from our mothers’ childhood—that same shared melody that lulled us both to sleep.

Your voice carries over the stone embankment as we walk along; I imagine that soon we will come to the end of the wall.  Then, quite probably, we’ll be able to see each other.  But the wall never ends.  We walk and walk, only to end up back where we started.  I am on the outside of a gigantic circle and you are within it.

Years later, after seeing your face and hearing your mother’s confession that you exist, I dream of you again.  This time you are in a room in the Tower, a room that I’ve never been in before.  A large map hangs on the wall at the front of the room.  You sit hunched over a book-laden desk with your back turned to me (I realize this must be your classroom).  I say your name, but you are completely absorbed in your studies—you won’t turn around.  I walk over to the map and gaze at the distant continents.  Kingdoms and countries and large swaths of unclaimed territories emerge from the brittle paper in faded colors.

When I turn towards you, your head is still down, just inches from the page you’re writing on.

“I have a thing or two to teach you, Heir.” I cross my arms and wait for a response.

Nothing.

“There’s more to the world than what this map shows.”  Your silence is infuriating; I storm over, ready to shake you—anything to get you to react to me.  You keep your head turned away, thick strands of dark gold hair obscuring your face.  Before I can lash out at you, you hand me the paper you’d been writing on.  Two words have been repeated in your careful script, over and over again: Free me.

My hands tremble as I read these words.  The dream ends before I can do anything more.

Again, a dream comes.  You are standing in a field of poppies.  The sun is high in the sky and, just like the flowers that surround you, you are turned to face it.  A small tuft of a cloud passes overhead; other than that, there is nothing between you and the sun.  That’s when I know: we already boarded your boat and set sail.  We are in the unknown land beyond the horizon—it is one of the faded pink territories on the map on your classroom wall.

“Merryn.”  I make my way over to you, treading lightly over the rows of delicate orange flowers.  When I reach you, I gently place a hand on the back of your shoulder.

“I told you I’d free you.”  At my words, you take a deep breath and turn towards me, a freshly picked bouquet in front of your face.  I close my eyes as you place the flowers into my hand and press me close.  Your lips are heavy and sweet.  Soon the flowers are forgotten; the field, the wispy clouds in the late spring sky, the horizon and what lies beyond it—everything falls away. 

When finally my lips leave yours, I see your face as it shines upon this world for the first time.