Not all of them. I have some normal dreams, that operate by regular dream-logic. But more and more of my dreams are... different.
Sharp. Clear. True.
I wake up remembering the feel of untanned leather against my skin. The calm of the moment before I loose the arrow.
The colors of the glass as I blow and it expands.
The heat of the bonfire shimmering over me. The smell of her hair as I hold her, half on my lap and half on Teague's.
The heat of the musket.
Names. The girl with the long brown hair and the green-flecked eyes called me Kai; I was building a wall, I don't know what for, and she was braiding grass.
The man with the amber eyes called me Richard, as we prepared for battle.
And I wake up, and everything here and now seems like a pale imitation of my real life, my real lives.
Lives? Yes. I've never believed in reincarnation. I'm agnostic, really. All I know is that I don't know anything.
But lately I feel that these are not dreams.