He sees her moving through the mist, a ghostly figure drifting slowly over the water toward the village just across the river.
No, not ghostly. A ghost would not be half so entrancingly lovely.
He steps forward, toward the bridge, all thought of his guards and safety and protocol forgotten in the wake of this new mystery, and his fascination is almost trancelike with the intense quiet that settles in his mind. He wanders after her like a fool child in a folk story, because that's what this is, what it has become, and his breath catches as he wonders just where it may lead, what end it may come to.
He can see a soft, gentle light flashing in the huts of the small village and it looks so unearthly reflecting in the mist that it sends a chill through him even as his heart begins to race. He stands in what passes for a street stretching between rows of modest homes, and she emerges from a nearby hut with that inhuman grace, and he tries to call out but his voice sticks in his throat and he can't understand why he's blushing and-
Her hands press to his cheeks, slide back along his neck and into his hair. Her lips press briefly just below his good ear and he feels her murmur something against his skin but the roaring in his ears drowns out her hushed voice and she pulls away and he can see nothing but her soft painted smile and she laughs, a small, whimsical, achingly beautiful sound.
And then she is gone.
