He is here in that he is here. More mind and space than figure in the Fade, unspooled around her as soft ash, shadow, distant light.

Whorls of particulates all shift like a school of fish when she calls his name, nerve-struck and sensory. Then, a circling touch around her wrist, familiar in a way that recalls the darkness after the candles have been snuffed and there is a space between where they're lying, bridged by their touch, but when she looks down, there's no hand, save for maybe a sooty smear of a touch on her skin.

He'll always know her.

This vague grey place continues to stretch all around her, but seems pliable. Shapeable, in the way the sleeping minds of non-mages are more so than their lucid counterparts.

Fire eating the wood, cracking it open, sending upwards a shortlived swarm of embers. In the background, a song, quiet conversation. Bridles. Trees swaying above.

Shadows press in from all that smoke, nearby trees defined by the darkness behind and the splash of firelight in the fore. There are enough stars and moons in the sky to cast a nearly invisible shade of silver overtop of depthless black, showing thereby nearly showing the outlines of the distant Vimmarks. Tonight, when she went to sleep, it was a rare cloudless evening.

He's there beside her, casual in his sit in the dirt. No armor, no coat or scarf, down to lightly layers of clothing, hair undone, and already speaking, quietly, as though a conversation had already started.

"—have heard the sound: a song in the stillness, the echo of your voice," is as much spoken to the fire as it is, quietly, to the woman beside him. As though a recitation of the Chant was mildly interesting news. "Calling creation to wake from its slumber."

He stills, silent, when she covers his mouth, and there is the breath of an unspoken echo: How can we know you?

Gently, Marcus pushes her hand away, but then holds it in his. There is that expression, the troubled confusion that is shared between the infirm, the elderly, the newly made Tranquil, and those mortal dreamers who have no natural ability to navigate this space alone. It clarifies, when she studies him so intently, but only slightly.

On his knuckles, greasy red. A split across the bone. It looks fresh. A hard strike.

"I don't want to wake," he says. "Not when I've been trying to sleep."

And the clink of chain. Manacles on his wrist, both his wrists.

It's a mild confusion, that crosses pale eyes that are normally so intent. To sleep is to see her, and to be awake—is as well, and it's a difficult thing, to resolve these paradoxes when lucidity slips from your fingers.

But Marcus trusts her, conscious or not.

This place they are in, his form sitting with her, the light of the campfire, sinks back into that grey fog, but it no longer obscures, as loaded with memory and sensory experience as the Fade is dense with potential. There is a memory, as she holds his hand, of fingers digging into summer-warm earth, raking through it. Forest path, the gloom of dawn or dusk. A grasp, clutching shoulder, shirt, hair, from behind.

Turning, and a closed fist, his own, raking across—metal, a steel visor, only shadow in the eye slits of the familiar helm. Retaliation is swift, a gauntleted hand curling, and—

More grey.

An intersection. She can move forward, or glance back.

The fog of churning memory parts in gusts as she sifts through, finding memory, fragmented.

Sunlight. Morning, judging by its quality, and coming in at a hard angle through a narrow, barred space. It's warm, tomb-like in confined space, and through the hypnotic haze of the barely conscious, there comes the sensation of movement, vibration, creaking wheels. A prison carriage, of kinds. The clink of chain at movement, and deep breathing.

And before that, pressure, the earth pressing up, something bearing down. The view at an angle of another crumpled figure, and it is mainly the channel through which Tsenka experiences this memory than immediately being able to identify him on her own that she knows without doubt that it is Enchanter Julius being loomed over by figures in heavy plate.

And then the sense of a rush, of being dragged away, of struggle.

Something about it sharpens whatever latent consciousness exists in her perusal of memory. A stubborn grasping onto the memory, clawing after it. Then, the most cogent spark:

"He isn't with me," Marcus says, by the fire.

Focus splits apart again, but if it had any intent behind it, it could be considered helpful. A sort of surrender, to allow her to sift through recent memory, find whatever it is might be useful.

There is much monotony, which is of benefit. Easy to dismiss six hours of a dark box. There are flashes, moments of violence—dawn strikes across the Vimmarks (to the south—) and Marcus slings manacled wrists for the jaw of a man who made the mistake of coming too near without his helmet—followed by odd stasis, of staring, and a distant ache. It might ring familiar, these long moments of cottony sedation. The bitter taste of it.

And then a piece of something, as she feels over these few days. The mention of Val Chevin, when we stop at, offers something of a trajectory.

"Please don't,"

spoken dryly, quietly. Cognizant, perhaps.

They are back at the fire. There is no blood on his knuckles, no manacles on his wrists. There is also no scar on his face, and his hair is cut short. His clothing is scrappy leather armor. The dark expanse around them conforms to the shapes of the odd northern Orlesian wilderness outside Andoral's Reach, the distant Blasted Hills, and the two moons show much of it.

A familiar setting to welcome her with. Another place and time.

"I can't think that you would go along quietly."

Circles can be comfortable. Soft. Candlelight and fire tamed into hearths. But even if Marcus were feeling so nostalgic as to summon these memories, they have even less appeal than usual now. Not that he truly anticipates that another Circle awaits him.

This place smells of smoke and dust and horse and sweat, sense memories strengthening this one. He is not at full capacity, magebane threatening to drain away his lucidity with a single stray thought in the wrong direction, but he is trying, focusing, this place, this person.

Julius has your horse, and the phrasing may trick a bystander into thinking that they are only talking about his horse. Some held tension, tight and angry as a fist, is released, Marcus breathing out the air in his lungs and letting his head hang down below his shoulders. Linking his hands behind his head, holding there where he sits on dry earth, a near-decade younger version of himself.

Not answering, just yet. Focusing.