He’d fly to the valley, and through the portal.
And to her.
Though he wanted that, just that, more than he could say, it struck as too much what he’d done with Shana.
An itch to be scratched, a need to be met. Mutual, aye, and yet…
He wouldn’t fly to Breen for an hour or two, the pleasure of a tumble, the comfort of her body under his or beside his in sleep.
She meant more, and while that was a tangle he needed to unknot, she simply meant more.
So he wandered his rooms, a cat in a cage, and considered the council meeting he’d called for in the morning, the Judgment that waited for Loga’s arrival, the patrols, the training, and all the rest.
For his own curiosity, he stood still, closed his eyes, and let himself drift into the mild trance self-levitation demanded.
His focus arrowed in, then arrowed out.
He was the air; the air was him.
He let the heat flow in, the cool flow out.
In and out, all around, and under.
He felt himself rise, an inch. He held his arms up, palms up.
Another inch, and one more as he poured himself out, drew himself in.
He opened his eyes, found himself level with the top of the candlestands on the mantel, so pushed and floated up another foot.
Though his mind stayed clear, his heart began to pound, his breath to labor as it might if he carried a heavy weight up a very high, steep hill.
He felt the sweat of it ride its way down his back as he fought to hold that focus. But it broke, and he dropped easily six feet. He stayed in the crouch as he’d landed until his breath came steady again.
“Well, bugger it. That takes a toll. We’ll practice that until we’ve sharpened that blade. It could be useful.”
He poured water rather than ale and drank deep.
She had Sidhe in her, he considered, but then so did he. The nexttime he tried it, he’d do what he could to draw on that part of his blood and see where it took him.
He stripped down, lay on the bed with the mural of Talamh overhead.
He found the valley on it, and missed it with a physical ache. He wound over to the Welcoming Tree painted above him in full summer green.
He imagined himself going through it, and to her cottage. Did she sleep now? Surely she slept, the good dog by the fire, as it was late.
He thought of how she slept, her hair loose fire over the pillow, how if the moonlight slid through the windows, it would glow on her face.
Seeing it in his mind, he drifted.
Then she was there. Not in her bed sleeping but standing by his.
“I’m dreaming,” she said. “Are you?”
“I was awake. I thought of you.”
“I’m dreaming, and dreamed of you. Am I here?”
He sat up. She stood in a pair of the pants and baggy shirt she often slept in. Certainly not the stuff of dreams.