When Nathaniel dreamed, he wasn't sure if what was happening was reality or not. It was something he had never been clear on. Being in a bottle for centuries made it near impossible to decipher length of time, or reality, or fantasy, or just magic. But right now images flashed in his mind, or people and faces and bright colors. It wasn't a restful sleep because he knew that Remington was angry with him, and when they got back to where his bottle was, in 2019, he would have to go back into it. He knew he would. Remy would force him in.
But the man in his dream wasn't Remington, it was someone else. Bloody, and broad, angry, with a beard. A thick black beard and a gleaming sword, and silent footsteps. The lookout of the camp didn't hear him, and he was dead before he could even cry out for help. And there were thousands on the field marching this way.
"Dead!" Nathaniel gasped, bolting upright and grabbing for Remy. "He's dead. He's dead, and they're almost here... I think... am I dreaming?" He was a little panicked, but he thought definitely it wasn't a dream, or maybe it was. He hoped it was because otherwise they were in grave trouble.