A smile on thin lips. Black eyes, bright, unafraid. An offered, bony hand. She beckons me to rise from the grave. This tiny dancer with the dark hair and swarthy skin is no angel. Neither am I. But in her face, I see redemption. I see no fear. I see warmth. Maybe love. And for a second chance, I rise. Erik is dead, but I live on—the soul without his own true name. I've nothing to offer, but she wants to give me everything I've lacked. And I accept warily. I grasp her hand and follow into the unknown.
A/N: The first of many more Merik drabbles to come; I hope you enjoyed it! Please read and review.