A/N : I was trying to write the next chapter of Our Little Secret, but my mind got all wandery and I wrote this instead. I'm not sure where it came from...reviews will be appreciated though. Set somewhere way into the future, make of it what you will...
ETA : Re-formatted so it's easier to read.

From the ground, the people might think she's a ghost. In some ways she is. A shadow of her former self, a faded watercolour where the sharp picture used to be. She doesn't mind that the light has left her life, or that the day break would be her downfall.

She walks in the night, at one with the dark, since the day. She knows that in his eyes he had to, she never really blamed him anyway. The cold wind against her face means nothing to her dead skin, yet the sensation of his presence brings warmth she should not feel.

He remembers too, she senses it, she knows. Neither will ever forget, though forgiveness came and went so long ago, when the children and the father, so full of love and power but at a loss to understand, were left behind. Now they were one with a light she'd never see again, and though she does not fear the dark, a part of her fears the coming of the end and the anti-peace it will bring.

It is only quiet when he is there, like now. The howling wind is silent to her ears, the rustling of the leaves as small a sound as the silken fabric of her dress about her pale legs.

He moves closer, even with her eyes tight shut and her back to him she can see him. She's memorised his every feature, knows his scent and his body as well as her own, maybe better. He promised they had all the time in the world. He never lied, not to her, not ever, but this he couldn't control. Strong arms wrap around her waist, a chin on her shoulder. She sighs with breath she does not really possess and leans a little into his embrace.

He says that he missed her these last few hours, when he woke up she was gone. She doesn't answer, just nods her head slightly to acknowledge that she heard, as the wind whips her fair and dark steaked hair into her eyes. He loves that hair, always has. It had changed as she had, blonde and bright when she lived in the sun, now stained by the darkness as her whole being was, her heart and soul.

He gave up apologising decades ago, though he knows he'll never stop feeling it. He rationalises that he had to, and she says she believes. He knows deep down she'll always harbour resentement for what he did to her, what he took from her, but there is too much love now for it to matter anymore.

But it's why they're here, barely three feet from the edge of a precipce, physical and emotional for both. It's why her eyes shine bright with tears and his do the same. They cry for what he took, for what she lost, for what cannot be given back. They hold onto each other as if their lives depend on the embrace, and yet life surpassed them both so long ago, in lands that time forgot and times best left un-mentioned.

They look as they did in their twenties, care-free and innocent as children, though they've seen more than any person ever should. But they're not people, they're creatures of the night. They're called legends and myths, conjured up in bed-time stories, written off as hallucinations when seen by the townfolk, once a year on that cliff top.

She goes there to remember the life she lost and the existence she gained. He goes because he knows that she mourns and celebrates, once in three hundred and sixty five. And the breeze carries his guilt and sorrow that can never really end. And the rain that softly starts to fall is her tears that will never truly dry. And soon the sun will rise over the hill, and they know without speaking a word that this time they'll stay.

Everything has been done, everything has been said, nothing left to win, only lose. From hunters to hunted and yet through tears they smile. They'd promised so long ago this is how it would be, the battered ring upon her finger, a testament to the vow. His cool lips brush against her cheek as he closes his eyes and pulls her tighter to him. She's not afraid when he holds her, never scared when his arms are protecting her, but enough is enough, and they both know.

They are Romeo and Juliet doomed from the begining. They are Rose and Jack at the head of a ship born to die. They are lovers, they are believers. They are demons, they are freaks. Their unbearting hearts and fractured souls belonging to each other. They will be one with light once more and then they will be gone.

But they'll be there again next year, and the year after that. Though the dust is settling where their feet were once planted it will never be over. The dance was not designed to end.

And the people below might think they are ghosts, and maybe this time they're right, but they were so much more than spirits, and no-one but the two of them will ever truly know.

The End

(Disclaimer - characters belong to Joss)