When she wakes, it is just before the hour of the lion. It is mid-winter, near two years at this point, and the sun does not yet rise. On her feather bed, it takes her several agonizing moments to know she is not still in that dark well.
Only the smoldering ashes in the room tell her that she is no longer in that dark. And she realizes that it is not the first time she has lost her life.
It is slow to come to her. Like all things.
It's like the fog, the memory of her first death, of another life, a world away. It seeps into her like a cold mist, as she breathes harshly, water still seemingly clawing down her throat. She sees a warm coat of wool, a ridiculous scarf of TARDIS blue flapping in the wind, and a drizzle that is not quite snow yet. A slick road. A bakery bag clutched in her gloved hand, a craving of chocolate spurring her to leave her warm flat for too expensive a treat from down the road. 'Dragon's breath' escaping her chapped lips steadily even as she hurries along. Work is waiting for her, work and the warm snuggle of her beloved Aslan. Walking down that sleek road in hurry to reach her flat in a faraway place, a horn- an obnoxious car horn and two bright, bright lights swerving stupidly in the road, sliding on the black ice-
Melara- Am I still Melara?- breaths in the fresh scent of the dead fire of last night, and the cold sea air from her open windows. She is in sleek, sweat-soaked linens she has known for about a year since mother and father died at sea in a storm…
Melara does the only sane thing then, as she remembers other rooms, other places. Another life before Melara Hetherspoon.
She breaks.