AN: To clear up one little thing, I'm fairly sure I'm going to write down the words as a freak occasion. I'm usually a hopeless romantic, and always believe at love at first sight, hence the instant speaking. For now though, I think we'll have to say that all the confusion and stress of life, along with her decidedly muddled memories, has literally stolen her voice away.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

As soon as the words had popped from her mouth, that magical connection had been broken. It was as if she had been snapped out of a trance. But something still lingered there, and she was able to think and function a great deal more like a human. Still, it had been too long since she had trusted a human, and that part of her that had been scarred forever by those men took over. She yanked her hand away, falling clumsily to the floor, matted curls instantly shadowing her face. Her eyes became a more reserved color, carefully guarded, the eyes of an uncertain animal calculating the friendliness of a newcomer.

"Don't you trust me?" The man asked. She just looked at him for a long second, and then opened her mouth. But nothing came out but a rusty croak. She looked horrified, and then attempted to do so again. But nothing came out. She was once again mute. Suddenly it all seemed to come together. The men in the white clothes had given her voice back, only to take it away again. Anger rushed up. What sort of sick joke was this? Were humans really this heartless? She glared at the man, who took a half step back. Her eyes were no longer a neutral blue gray, but almost burned with intensity, asking him, How could you do this to me? She crawled away to the far corner, against the wall. The message was clear. She no longer wanted to talk to him.

Numair was bewildered. Everything had been going just right. She had even spoken, even if it was just a meager three words. But as soon as they had been uttered, something had changed. Another part of her, the frightened part, took over, and she had become fearful. And when she had been unable to speak…he had seen the horror on her face, and had seen it transform into anger. He understood too, deep inside. She was angry not just at him, but at the whole world. Her mother, her only family, had been snatched away in the space of an hour, and had been killed before her eyes. Then she had been carted away to an odd place that was uncomfortable, scary, and unfamiliar. She had been looked at by calculating eyes, not debating how to rescue her mind from the depths of despair and anger within her, but rather how to successfully cage her up in a way that was comfortable for her…but unbelievably stifling as well. And then she had been given her voice back for just one second, before it had been viciously torn from her throat yet again.

No, Daine wasn't just angry at a person. She was angry at the world, how it had unjustly taken everything from her, leaving her broken, battered, and unstable.

As soon as he had left, she had relaxed, letting herself mourn in silence about her voice. It was like a sliver of sunlight on a stormy day. Wonderful, unexpected, and elusive. Thinking about sunlight, her thoughts turned to the outdoors. It had been so long since she had seen the sun. Here, light was provided by fluorescent lights, in an uncomfortable white that hurt her eyes. In her mind, it would not compare to the mellow golden sunlight she often saw in summer and autumn. She remembered going with her mother to the country pastures, and the pony called Cloud that refused to let anyone but her ride. She remembered picking apples in a huge orchard, the sweet juice in her mouth when she bit into it. For Daine, nature had always been like a medicine to her. She loved fresh air and clear skies. But here, her sky was a dull white ceiling. Her sunlight was a bunch of bulbs. Her grass was a plush carpet. She was trapped in a small cube, surrounded by strangers. It finally became too much, and her body allowed the emotional exhaustion to take over.

She sat up in a meadow of wildflowers. It was her favorite kind of day, only a light cooling breeze, mild warmth in the air, with a promise of wonderful weather. Beside her she noticed someone else in the grass with her. "Mother?" She asked in disbelief.

Sarra smiled at her kindly. "Yes, Daine, it's me. How has my little daughter been." She held out her arms as if Daine was five again.

Daine jumped into them, hugging her mother tightly, the words rushing out, "It's terrible," She babbled out to those hazel eyes. "I can't talk, they locked me up in this cube mother. All I see are these men in white coats. And when they send someone to talk to me, he gives me back my voice, and then he takes it away."

And so it all spilled out, how she felt as if she was in a madhouse, and how she couldn't even control her own body half the time, and she didn't even remember the events.

All through the time, Sarra just sat and stroked her hair, and finally interrupted. "Daine, honey, calm down. It can't be all bad."

Daine nodded furiously. "It can. All they're doing is toying with me. It's as if I'm a little guinea pig. They give me my voice and then just take it away, just to see how they react."

Sarra looked at her sternly. "Veralidaine Sarrasri, I thought I taught you better. Think about it for a second. Can someone just give you a voice?"

"But—"Daine protested.

"No buts." Sarra said briskly. "It's impossible, and it's harebrained of you to think so."

Daine nodded weakly. "But I still can't speak." Her voice was amazingly childlike and plaintive, the voice of one who didn't know what to do or whom to turn to.

Nothing lasts forever though, and this dream didn't. Already, Sarra was fading. "Don't leave!" Daine begged her mother.

"I'm sorry Daine, but I must. But remember, I've always believed in you. When the time is right, you'll know what the right thing to do is. You always will. Goodbye, my daughter." And as her image faded away, She dropped something in Daine's hand, closing her fingers tightly around it.

Daine jerked into consciousness, rubbing her forehead. She sighed at the thought of the dream. It had been such a nice one. But then she felt a definite solid object in her hand, cold to the touch. She gently uncurled her fingers, and lying in the palm of her hand was a locket. So the dream had been real. Daine couldn't find it in herself to be surprised. These last few days of her life had been so surreal; nothing was a true shock anymore. She found a latch, and popped the locket open. Inside, it had a bit of writing. It said:

Hope is a living dream

Daine smiled at the locket. It seemed so classical of her mother to remind her of the phrase she had often told her, a quote from Aristotle. But it was true. After all, hoping was a bit like a living dream. You could never be sure whether or not to trust it all, and it was like a leap of faith. It showed that you were willing to risk yourself being hurt to take a chance at it all. And now the only question left was, Am I willing to risk it?

AN: So… how was it? I don't think it was really my best, but I had to do all of this to set up for the bigger picture. Hope you enjoyed it, and review!