[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]
For a few moments, he lay there, staring at the ceiling and listening to his son breathing, the rhythmic sound of the infant sleeping far more soothing and comforting than he ever thought it might be. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if his son needed more than just to be comforted and held, though he assumed he would have found a way to handle it—Marin wouldn’t have left the baby there if she hadn’t thought Thom was capable.
Of course, that also assumes that she wasn’t thinking that she’d only be gone for a few minutes. That’s also a possibility. Thom closed his eyes. It had been more than a few minutes, which led him to believe that the former possibility was far more likely than the latter.
He tried not to think about the dream that wasn’t a dream, but of course it drifted through his thoughts soon enough as he lay in bed, silent and alone except for the infant sleeping against his chest and the cat that was once again curled up on top of the blankets over his feet. In the dimmest recesses of his mind, he knew it had been real, those moments so long ago, memories his soul dredged up. There was a part of him that would have rather seen visions of the future in his dreams that day rather than glimpses of a long-ago past, but that was something he had no control over.
Not yet, anyway.
He exhaled a quiet sigh. He told himself not yet, but the truth might have been not ever.
“Why now?” he murmured to no one. “Why see that now?” There was no doubt in his mind that it meant something, he just wasn’t sure what. It was more than certainly a warning of things to come—his gut could get him that far, at least—but what was it warning him about?
Why dream of her coming with her army?
After all, Cyhyraeth was dead.