Just like children sleeping

[The camera catches Poland standing by the broken pieces of his mirror, staring at them in shock. There are faint sounds coming from the shards--fire and cannon blasts, gunshots and the clash of steel, the roar of something distinctly inhuman.]

[That's not what's got Poland's attention, though. What he's focused on is the red pooling underneath the broken glass, on the top of his vanity. ]

...Maybe someone's like, finally turned on her...

[Still not noticing that he's being recorded, the boy drops to his knees and takes his crucifix from around his neck, beginning to whisper in what a few people might recognize as Church!Latin. If the battle comes to this side, he wants to have asked God's favor beforehand.]

[Poland is going for a walk. Pretty ordinary, except that he's at home. And that the dream keeps switching at random between a bustling city--I don't suppose anyone's been to 15th-century Kraków--and a calm, quiet countryside, seemingly endless fields of late-summer rye dotted only sporadically with settlements, homes, and barns, spanned over by a clear blue sky. The scent of the rye permeates the dream, even the city part.]

[Oh, and besides Poland, everyone's a pretty pony--the workers in the fields, the nobles with their fancy saddles, the peasant girls with flowers in their manes, the merchants lining the city street, everyone. Yay, ponies! His dress is super-pretty, too. Totally the height of 1410 fashion.]

[For some reason--he can't remember why--it feels like a huge relief to be able to feel all of this, his cities and his land and his people, the steady heartbeat of everyday life and the sense of his fields turning from green to gold, getting ready for the harvest.]