In the wee hours of night, a lonely wanderer stayed by fireplace, always sketching a beautiful sprite. Sometimes just before dawn brings the light, he wonders if she was ever real, or just a figment of his dreams. Her face never changes, though his memory should wane, he reminds himself by viewing the pictures he's already drawn. They lay heaped at his feet on the floor, a beacon, a door to his past.
As the days wore on, his collection of her grew, but so few could capture her spirit, her soul, like the first. Eighty years have passed, and still he thirsted for his golden Leannán. Every passing night he's convinced himself he'll find her this time but he never does. His love's face he longs to see, but his hope is waning.
If she was out there, he thought to himself, he would have found her by now. His ink formed her supple body beneath his pen, a log crackled in the fire, and he muttered frustrated under his breath. With angry movements he crumples up another botched drawing, longing to once more meet her in his sleep.
But he has awoken. He has to be to find her, said the spoken rumors. It is as it was written.
The vampire smitten with the slayer.
His dream lover. His Leannán.
End.