Disclaimer: Cornelia Funke owns these characters; I do not.


Every night she dreams of him, and only then does she allow herself to hope. It's so much easier when he's right there beside her, tangible, touchable, so much more real than memories and a lifeless body.

The setting sometimes is different, varying from deep, leafy forests to wide expanses of plains to a beach with waves crashing upon the sand, but none of that matters; in fact, she hardly even notices. Because in these dreams, she and Dustfinger are the constants, and that's all that matters.

They clasp their hands, fingers gripping so tightly that it's almost painful, but she'd rather have that pain than the type that arrives as a side effect of releasing him. She has to experience that every single day in her non-dream life (she can no longer call it real, for now she has to believe that dreams hold a kind of reality in themselves). His hands are ice-cold, and she tries her best to warm them, to restore some kind of feeling into his body, even if only for this short time. He'll grip just a little tighter then, a silent gratitude and recognition.

He doesn't talk, and she follows his lead. Sometimes she thinks she might cry, knowing that she'll have to leave this haven soon, but she wants to remain strong. She wants to revel in every part of him, not wanting her sight to be clouded by tears. She traces her eyes down the scars on his cheek, sometimes letting go of his hand for a moment to run her fingers through his long ginger hair.

And although they have every night, it always seems as if their time is limited, restricted, that they must make the most of it. It's how they should have lived, she realizes; she was foolish to assume that they had forever and more to be together. She learned that lesson once, when he left the first time. Why hadn't she paid attention?

Maybe he's real and maybe he's not, but she has to believe in something now. Has to believe that he's somewhere and that he's still fighting, even if he can't return to her to at least touch her in small ways. And she wishes that she could touch him, so desperately. The fairies have a saying, that if you wish hard enough for something it might be granted, and she sees the sense in it. What other explanation is there?

And every night it ends, and that feeling of drifting, of leaving, never gets easier. If these dreams are something she can control, she must truly be insane to invite them again and again, but then she thinks maybe that's what love really is about: being with someone whenever you can, never mind the pain. Never mind the heartbreak.

There's just a moment, where their fingers still briefly touch before they pull away, a light brush, gentle and powerful all at once. She can't hear anymore, but she sees him mouth three words, and she knows what they are without sound. She says them back, and hopes that he understands.

And then he makes a promise, in the last few seconds, that she reminds herself of every moment, even if he has no way of keeping it. "I'll be back," are the words he ends with.

He'll be back, she repeats to herself in her mind, a wish and a hope she would never voice aloud to anyone, but that she treasures deeply all the same.