[b]At the Command Post (After battle)[/b]

Emily didn't know she ought to feel. She didn't know how to decide what to feel, either. There was (literal) blood on her hands, from somebody she'd just killed. The word "murdurer" flitted through her head. She dismissed it. Of all the things it had felt like, murder wasn't one of them.

There was the pleasurable edge - the spirits liked it when she was destructive, she thought. And it had been what she'd had to do. There was no question about that. Below that feeling was the shock, disbelief she'd been capable of taking those men down, and willing to. Beneath that was grief, maybe a little anger, a little vindictiveness. They had been trying to kill her, after all. Would they have felt this way now? Of course they would have. They were people. That couldn't really matter; everybody ever killed was a person. It wouldn't happen so often if personhood was terribly important. Finally, beneath all those layers, there was... not comfort, but understanding. A feeling that this was tolerable, even if it wasn't preferable. Emily wasn't a murdurer. She'd done what she'd had to do. She'd protected her friends. 

She wasn't a murdurer, but she was a killer.

She guzzled a bottle of water along with the rest, but didn't say anything. She avoided Remi, especially, mostly because she didn't know what to say to him after what he'd just done. There were other soldiers there - the men the base commander, or whoever he was, had suggested they talk to, as if they'd be of some help. The man had no idea. Emily wasn't fit to give anyone a pep talk, let alone older, more experienced soldiers.

She found a quiet corner of the base, far away from the sounds of fighting and preparation, and slept soundly for the first time since graduation.

-- 

[b]Eight years ago[/b] 

She hadn't slept in days. Her father knew. She tried to hide it from him with makeup (which she wasn't really supposed to wear) and smiles and affection, but he could always tell. Alexander Whitehall knew his daughter too well, and he certainly knew when she was trying to trick him. That night, he'd pretended to go to bed, but instead laid awake, waiting for the sound of the back door. It came about half an hour later.

He found her on the veranda, sitting in the large wooden swing they'd built together not long after her mother died. It was probably his only fond memory from that year. He remembered how vibrant she had been, happiness overcoming the anger and sadness they'd both felt in the weeks after Margie's death. But Emily wasn't like that now. She had become more serious as she'd gotten older, but especially since the nightmares started. He told himself it was just part of growing up, losing childlike innocence and replacing it with worldly knowledge. He didn't believe it for a second. Something - not her mother's passing, not the war, hopefully nothing to do with him or the family - had changed Emily not very long ago. Alex didn't think she could be changed back... and if there had been a way to do so, would he have done it? Would it have been fair to impose himself on his daughter's mind like that?

It was the end of summer, and it was chilly outside, but not so cold you needed a jacket. Emily was sitting forward, arms folded, staring out across the yard. Alex closed the screen door behind him, took the blanket they kept hanging on the back of the swing, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She reclined a little bit.

"You told me the dreams stopped." He said.

"Yeah," Emily said. 

Alex came around to the front of the swing and sat down next to her.

"I guess they came back?" 

"Yeah."

She slid alongside him, resting her head on his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, baby." 

"It's not your fault." Emily said.

"I guess I'm glad you feel that way," Alex said. "Are they still just as bad?"

"No. They're longer now. But they scare me less."

"I'm glad about that, too. Nightmares are just nightmares. No reason to be afraid of what's not real."

Emily jerked away from him, back to sitting upright. He could hear the trees waving back and forth in the wind at the far end of the lawn.

"They're real." She said. 

"I know they feel that way, Em, but--"

"No. They're real. I know you don't understand, Dad. But they are. I don't think my brain could have imagined them. I don't think anyone's could."

"Why's that?"

"The dream place is made of nothing. Nobody can imagine nothing." 

Alex was quiet for a while. The night was quiet, too; it was late in the season for bugs and crickets. Off in the forest, there were more noises, but they were too faint for either Whitehall to take notice. Eventually, Emily rested on his shoulder again. A few minutes later, she put her head on her hands and curled into his lap. He stroked her hair - black, but with a few streaks of blonde growing in. 

"You know what?" Alex said, just as he thought she was about to fall asleep.

"What?" 

"The thing about dreaming is you always wake up. Even if there's nothing in there, there's something out here. Okay?" 

"Okay." Emily said. 

She had the dream that night, and nearly every night afterwards, but her father was right: There was always something to wake up to, so that was what she did.