Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even that snippet of Florence + the Machine lyrics I threw in there. Just in case you were curious.
She comes to him in dreams, a beautiful young tempting thing. He knows he is nothing she needs, nothing but blood and death and anger and vengeance, but she refuses to leave.
Rather, she smiles and takes his hand, gently leading him away from the darkness of his soul into the light of rebirth. With infinite patience, she showers him with affection that his deadened hearts have forgotten how to accept, cleanses him from his wrongs. She makes him better.
Under her tutelage, he grows and becomes strong. Though he is the one with the means to travel all of time and space, she is his guide, and, through her eyes, he sees the universe anew – all its joys and wonders, its terrors and mysteries. He learns to appreciate every moment, every second of his life. He is amazed by her, how imperfectly perfect she is, how human and flawed and just what he needs.
She creates something within him, something he never expected to feel again. Every time he grasps her hand and tells her to run, he feels it, the first fragile flutterings deep in his hearts.
With daft ears and blue eyes, he loves her even then.
…
She comes to him in dreams, a goddess, an oracle, his lost salvation. She stands before him on the sands, the wind whipping her blonde hair around her shoulders, giving her an unearthly ethereal glow. She is as beautiful as ever, forever young in his memory, all pink and gold and glittering.
He can hardly believe it. He has waited so long, spent so many days and nights wishing for this moment and praying to any deity who would listen that she might somehow be returned to him. She calls his name and he runs to her, falling at her feet, wrapping his arms around her legs and burying his face in her soft belly. He weeps into her stomach as her fingers comb through his hair. She whispers, soothing, and holds him as he cries.
He tells her everything he never could say. How he misses her, how lonely he is, how he loves her, has always loved her, will always love her. She kneels with him on the sand and says she knows, has always known, will always know. She kisses his brow and whispers her forgiveness against his skin.
With broken hearts, he loves her even still.
…
She comes to him in dreams. Hot, human dreams of sweat and skin. With her eyes impossibly dark and her lips curved in a gleaming, wolfish smile, she is sex and power and beauty and everything he thought was lost to him forever.
She is so real, so tangible as her hands and lips and tongue do unspeakable things to him, wicked things that cause him to flush right to the tips of his ears. His single heart hammers in his chest, blood racing through his veins, desire coursing through him until he cannot resist the urge to touch her. His human hormones take delight in these fantasies and leave him aching for her in a way he never has before – a need to a need to touch her, claim her, possess her.
She is soft and warm and so completely bewitching that he forgets the pain, the loss, the heartache of his life. She erases it and replaces every sensation with herself, flooding his senses, until he cannot differentiate between what is him and what is her. She makes him whole in a way he never thought possible.
With all his body and soul, he loves her even more.
…
She comes to him in dreams. Once more, she stands on a beach, lovely as ever, but older, wiser. She bears the heartaches and joys of living a life, day after day, with elegance and grace. She is beautiful.
He fiddles with his bow tie and shuffles awkwardly before her. He holds out his hand; she takes it, just as she has always done. He still feels that sense of completion as their fingers mesh. He blinks back tears. He knows why she has come, that this is goodbye, but it's too soon, always too soon.
She embraces him, whispering in his ear how happy she is, how she hopes he is too, how she loves him. He holds her tightly, unwilling to lose her.
He hears a voice on the wind and realizes they are not alone. Behind her, he can see the lanky silhouette of his former self. A child holds his hand, calling for her mother.
He lets go of her carefully, deliberately. She presses her lips to his cheek and whispers goodbye before turning back to her family. She is not his anymore.
With a sad resignation, he loves her even to the end of Time.