Chapter 7: I'm dreaming of a farm somewhere

Trace patted his horse and looked across his neglected fields. His brow furrowed in anger and frustration. It had taken him several days to ride home, and this is what awaited him.

What kind of king drafted farmers to war? It would do no good to win if the kingdom couldn't be fed when it was done.

Shaking his head, he nudged his heels into the animal's flanks. There was still some harvest to be had, even if not nearly what it could have been if Trace had been home to tend his crops instead of away for months in battle. At least it had not been years.

He closed his eyes against the memories of war, trying to focus on the present tasks and goals. Surely it would do no good to dwell on the past.

Still, the images of carnage haunted him, even trying to invade his perfect dream world at night. Maybe next time the king could just go to war himself instead of sending others to do it for him. There should be a deep understanding of war before condemning subjects to suffer it.

Trace sighed. Though the disputed territory was along the same border as his own farm, he'd been required to report all the way to the capital city, then be deployed with the troops, then report all the way back, only to make his way home now. The journey each way was not a short one, and he resented the gross inefficiency of the whole endeavor.

Couldn't he have been released long ago? He would have saved much time and effort by being left to his own. He'd struck out from his parents' farm when he became a man; his elder brother had already married and started a family, so there was no reason for Trace to work the family land as well.

He'd found his own plot to work. Built the house with his own hands, built the rough fences and started his life with a few of the animals he'd raised on his parents' farm. The equipment was a mishmash of his family's old, broken down possessions haphazardly repaired, and new things he'd purchased with his savings and profit.

And yet, it was all in disarray.

Still, he was home now, and that was something to be happy about. Riding across his land, he took his faithful horse to the barn. The building seemed terribly empty; He had divided his animals up amongst his nearest neighbors for care while he was away to war. Most of them had been forced to send a son to the army, so it was generous of them to take on the extra work of keeping his stock alive as well.

The fact that the drafting of soldiers was so widespread also provided him plausible deniability about the reason he had been taken to war. He strongly preferred to keep his secret. His ability wasn't a straightforwardly useful one, like the ability to instantly create fire or influence the weather, but his orders in the war had demonstrated that it could easily be used for ill.

Entering his house, he was torn between cringing at the state of neglect and sighing at how nice it was to be back under his own roof. It was the second best place in his heart besides his dream world, and somehow more precious because of the labor he'd put into it.

So his return was bittersweet. There was no welcome, but at least he was here. He had no time to dwell on the conflicting emotions of his homecoming; there was too much to be done.

He rolled up his sleeves, deciding that the barn should be cleaned and stocked first. He could bring back his animals later. He would also have to beg his neighbors for a little more help getting the harvest in before it rotted in the fields.

The barn itself was in exactly the state he'd left it in, and he sighed with relief. No one had come to look and wreck, and it looked like vermin had miraculously stayed away.

A single cat mewed a hello, winding its way between his legs.

"Hey, Scruffs." Trace greeted the animal. "I thought you ran off before I left. Kept the mice away in my absence?"

Mewing again, she sat on his boot. She certainly didn't look like she'd been starving.

"Good cat." He nodded. She was an excellent mouser, having eradicated the population so quickly upon her arrival that he'd been easily persuaded to let her stay.

Normally he preferred dogs, who could be trained to help herd the livestock and alert him to danger, and scare off predators and intruders.

Not that there were many intruders in these parts.

He went to work and quickly had everything in proper order. The rest of the day was spent visiting the neighbors to retrieve his animals and ask for help with the harvest. Most were happy to oblige; as a strong young man, they all wanted his help in return next time a barn raising or anything needed to be done on their own farms.

Out here, it was either help each other or starve alone.

It was gratifying that they were all so excited to see him home safe; if he had died in the war, he had no heirs to his property, and the animals would have been theirs to keep. Several even sent him home with bread and food since he likely had little to speak of still at home.

He should have stopped in town to stock up on some basics, but he hadn't been in his cellar to check what food that still lingered there was usable. He had preserves and salted meats and pickled vegetables that might still be good... maybe.

The day was long over when he fell into bed, exhausted but satisfied with the work he'd done.

Lying still, he made a mental list of things to do in the morning. Normal chores, of course, like feeding and watering the animals, milking the cows, and gathering eggs from his chickens, but he needed to get to work quickly on the harvest.

He'd drifted off to sleep before he realized what happened, opening his eyes to a brilliant orange sky. He sat up, watching a wind tickle fields of heady grain.

Sometimes, his dreams took on a mind of their own. Trace relaxed now as he watched it play out. The waves of the field were like an ocean, tumultuous and hypnotic. The sun rose higher, playing with the light as puffy clouds drifted across the sky.

Far off, too indistinct to be seen clearly, a woman with a sickle in hand was hard at work, harvesting the grain.

Trace frowned. He didn't have any people populating his dream world. What was his mind doing? He blinked hard, and she disappeared. That was better.

Though he could produce landscapes and feelings and weather with startling realism, any people created by his mind always felt off somehow. Pretend people were never quite right in the way they interacted and looked.

Real people were too confusing. He could call his mother or father to mind with remarkable accuracy, but then his real memories of them would get polluted by conversations he had here. It was a problem that wasn't worth the trouble.

And so, he was perpetually alone in his dream world, with various creatures to keep him company. It was very strange that his mind had conjured a woman to harvest the fields. She'd been too far for him to see her features distinctly.

He plucked a piece of hay to chew on and wondered at it.

"I'm perfectly fine, alone." He decided. "I have my neighbors when I need them, and my parents and elder brother to write letters to. I don't need anyone here."

He stood up and launched himself into the air with a mighty leap. Up from the field, an enormous bird made of wheat rose to catch him and carry him up into the sky, weaving in and out amongst the clouds and letting the stress of his day melt away. He soared and dove, the cool wind whipping at his hair as the sun warmed his back.

Trace had everything he could ever want here, so why did his mind conjure that strange figure?

He inhaled deeply of the fresh scent of hay as he mulled over the issue. Before he even came close to solving the mystery, he felt the gentle tug of consciousness pulling at the strings that held his dream together.

It was time to leave.

As usual, he had to resist the urge to cling to this place and the comforts it offered. With a sigh, he let it go and opened his eyes to the real world.

It was barely sunrise, but there was much to be done today, and little time to do it in. Stretching and yawning, he threw back the quilt his mother had made and stood up to face it all.