He doesn't understand the mirrors well enough yet to know whether it's a dream, a memory, a hypothetical, a present reality, or anything in between. He'd only been looking for a way home.

But like everything about this elf so far, the way he reminds Simon of home is very, very much a double-edged sword. If before he had been blooming with life and good humor and the kind of magic that would be at home in the Emerald Dream, this, then, is the Dream's horrible mirror, and he dodges one of those hungry fuzzy-edged voids the way he would any manifestation of the Nightmare. It doesn't occur to him that they're merely a reflection of Myr's blindness.

He doesn't know where these ruins are supposed to be, or how he got here, or what they mean to his new elven friend. But he knows, somehow, with soul-deep certainty that wrenches at his stomach, that the digging is futile. There's nobody alive under that debris.

"Myr--" His voice is gentle, apprehensive.