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Cleo dreams of teeth at her throat. She jolts upright to the drumming of her heart.
“Are you alright?” Pearl peers down at them. Her expression is inquisitive, friendly(, not twisted into a snarl)—lit by a dying fire instead of the winter sun.
Cleo exhales and slumps, turns to the softly crackling fire (the sound of howling is already fading.) “Yeah. Just a bad dream.”
Pearl hums. “Yea, I get those a lot. What are yours about?”
“... Things that never happened. You?”
Pearl shrugs. “The cold.”
“Makes sense.”
"... Really."
Cleo studies the hills stretching into the night to avoid Pearl’s narrow-eyed gaze. Pearl is sharp, dangerously so. Cleo can understand why another version of them would try to run, even if it was too late. “You wouldn’t happen to have any pets, would you?”
“Eh… I used to.”
“What happened?”
“Mages’ court. Then they decided it wasn’t enough punishment, so.” Pearl shrugs. “Exile.”
“... Sorry.”
“It’s alright. I mean, it’s not like you killed them. And you weren’t at court then.”
Cleo tilts her head in acknowledgement.
Is it wrong to feel a little relieved? At least when—if, she reminds herself, if —Pearl turns on her, Cleo won’t die to her wolves. They’re getting a little sick of the dying-to-wolves dreams.
They glance back at Pearl, who’s leaning back, hands planted on the grass, staring up, up, into nothing at all. “... do you miss them?”
“Well, yeah, obviously. I don't really do well alone, and... they never left me.” Pearl glances at her. “Where’s all this coming from? I thought you weren’t interested in small talk?”
“Just curious. You ever think about getting new ones?”
“Why would I?” Pearl flashes a small, lopsided grin. “I mean, I have a new travel buddy now, right?”
Cleo looks away. “Yeah. Sure.”