Wheeling Gull Isle Never does the dream come true.

It couldn’t be. Not Heda. Not his son’s mother —

He could not move. It was as if his world took on an opaque hue to it and the edges were fraying, everything peripheral falling away into black. And while he bid his legs to move they could only languish; as if the ghost of his motor function had slowly been eaten away here. 

Something in the corner of his vision.

 Heda?

He turned slowly, eyes widening while a soft gasp left his lips. 

But it was not her — just another vagrant, he guessed. Thin and rangy and —

Wait. 

Had she done this? Had she killed Heda?

Anselm felt an ember flare in his chest. Suddenly, his limbs obeyed him. He stood upright immediately, nearly unbalancing himself with the movement. 

Did you do this? His voice thrust to the wind, his teeth feeling a need to make his pains known.

But the vision was short lived; Anselm gave half hearted chase as it fled, but the spirit in him flagged in short order. 

What use was living without her in it? To raise his sons? To admonish him for his all enduring stupidity?

Anselm’s trip home was long and harrowing.