“‘Tis only a dreaming thing. The true King still sits on the battlefield, dying of her wounds. The King has sailed away. The King walks among you. He has risen—he never was. Only your dreams may make the truth of it.” Erin understood this even less. But the dreaming self in her knew exactly what to say. “So he’s only a story?” “A story made flesh. In this world, and others. How many times will you mortals tell it? Ah, but they are all worthy in their small way. But he is not here for you to wake. Not in dreams, anyways.”
