Despite the looming, hate-filled Argyle no longer filling her vision, it still felt as though his hands were clenching around her throat, causing Navia to continue to scream, not fully out of the dream or aware of her surroundings, until Théadan’s voice suddenly rose above all the panic. She hadn’t heard him the first time, but the second call of her name shook the final fringes of her nightmare out of her mind. His hands covered hers, yet after such a violent trek in her mind, she flinched and twisted in his hold, the residual sensations of entrapment and fear still coursing through her veins. It wasn’t until Théadan took her face into his hands and forced her to look at him that Navia began to calm fractionally. She was still wild-eyed, terror still bright in them as her gaze darted about, searching for the danger that had plagued her dream.<br/><br/>She saw no revenge-seeking Mes’Mo’Tanian crown prince however, no bloodied shirt and neck, no massive, garish gash or hateful eyes. The only hands on her were ones that had loved and cherished her every time they touched her, not threatened to squeeze the life from her. In fact if she wasn’t having to view and hear it all over the awful sensation of her bounding heart, Navia could have considered the scene around them serene. The moonlight was still bathing the fields around them in its glow, the<i>rajjana </i>were worshipping the moon, a breeze was stroking the wild grasses on the other side of the field, and the fire still burned pleasantly. The horses were shifting uneasily from her sudden outburst and likely from having been woken so abruptly, but other than that, all was right in the world. There was no prince back from the grave, no crisp streets in Mandira bathed in sunlight, no running children, no panicked family. Théadan was not—<br/><br/>“He…he…” Although knowing she was not in danger, that there was nothing wrong, the adrenaline still pumped through her, causing her to tremble despite Théadan’s reassuring hands on her, and Navia’s gaze turned panicked again upon remembering how real it had been to look past Argyle and see Théadan crumpled behind her. It caused her to surge forward, seeking physical certainty he was not lost to her. “He killed you—“ She started to say, hands gripping his forearms tightly as her near-black eyes searched his scarred face so he could see how much it anguished her to even dream of it happening. The fire was brighter than it had been the night before though; she could see from its inviting glow there was nothing wrong with him. “He<i>killed </i>you. You were on the floor and you weren't moving and you couldn’t—“ The words caught in her throat and before she could think of doing anything else, Navia was shakily crawling into his lap, needing Théadan’s comfort as the all-too-vivid memory of the dream blossomed in her mind.<br/><br/>She curled up, both feet to one side of him and hands taking hold of his face without the same gentleness he had afforded her, “You couldn’t save me. And he…he had the slit throat, but the blood was all dried up and he could still hurt me…” It wasn’t the most coherent explanation of what had happened, but Navia could not shake the panic that had come with seeing Argyle again. That reminded her all over of what had happened before she had been grabbed however, and Navia bit back a sob, her forehead falling forward to rest against his cheek as she uttered what she thought could be the most horrifying part of it all, “Then the child…they had his eyes…they had his eyes...” And what if they did when they were born? The blood in Argyle’s veins would partially flow in her child’s; it could happen. She could be reminded, tortured, every day of what she had done, simply by looking at what was supposed to be the happiest thing that had ever happened to her.