It would be easier if she was dead.
It was harsh, and unfair, but it was true. But to know that she, or her consciousness at least, could be alive but she would never again be allowed near home and those who loved her? It wrenched at his very soul.
When she was alive he could dream- and yes, he thought of her as dead. Not because he believed she was, but so that his heart would not splinter further in his chest.
She had known that he loved her, for she was a perceptive woman and he'd refused to let himself hide it from her, but she had never said as much. And he was glad of that, because by not acknowledging it, she could not bruise him. Perhaps she could have loved him in time, for she was not one for the epic love story with a rakish daredevil in which most would place her, but she had accepted her solitude.
He had had many dreams then. They had achieved some through the years- they had fought back those who haunted them, they had returned to what had been home once and soon they would go back to where they belonged. But first he had something to do.
He gathered her many friends around him, and they dropped roses from a balcony of her beautiful city in her memory. Petals floated on the current; yellow for parting, black for sorrow and his solitary red.
Then he went back to work, ignoring the ache within him, knowing all too well that being closer to her in her immortal prison would just make it worse. But of all the pains her absence caused, the worst was the hope. The hope that they could recover her, bring her home. And it was the hope that pierced his core every day.