His dreams had haunted him, in the years following Ko's death. They had wrapped around his neck, choked him, these dreams of summer and light, of mountains and seas far away from home, of a child who used to follow at his heels until Bariyan had finally turned his back on him, forever, for good, and when he walked away the shadow of death had thronged forwards and swallowed his boy up to carry him home. But his dreams had borne his son back to him, turned his nights into cruel deceptions; ones that he would not give in to. As much as it hurt to do so, he had always mistrusted his dreams.

As he mistrusted this one.

But he unfolded, all the same, the muscles of his back coiling and shifting to pull himself up. Still on the ground, still on his knees, shoulders hunched forwards, looking up unblinking and unflinching at what he was sure was delirium. Could not be otherwise.

He hung his head again. This light, this warmth, this call to him; all nothing, of course. All would turn to ash as soon as he woke from this delusion.

His fingers curled into the chains of the medallion.

Though he knew better, he spoke.

"I sent you home."