Author's Note: reminder - this segment starts immediately following the epiloge of She Was There II: Prayer, which is also posted here at Fanfiction.net. IF it is easier to fine, go to http://www.geocities.com/saimhe_lfn/saimhe/prayer5.html.

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December 24th, 1998

In his heart, Michael knew that he would never truly be able to let go of his love for Nikita. He had also accepted that, at least physically, she would never again be part of his life. None of that, however, made it any easier for him to walk away from the dream he still visualized standing behind him. Each step closer to the house, to his future was harder to take, his every sense screaming at him to turn around, that there was *someone* there.

As he approached the steps, he felt the wind shift around him as if someone was walking up to stand behind him. He could almost hear the sound of footsteps in the sand over the crashing of the ocean waves. Taking a deep breath hoping to steady himself, he inhaled the lingering scent of Samsara that mingled with the ocean breeze. The sweet sound of Nikita's voice whispering his name drifted to him. There were so many things he missed about Nikita, but the most tangible had been the absences of her warm, softly accented voice calling his name, the way she had accentuated the first syllable, as if by doing so she could stake her claim to his heart. He heard that same music now, calling him, "Mi-chael."

Gentle fingers brushed through his curling, reddish brown hair, lingering momentarily on the back of his neck. "You cut your hair." The words - spoken in her low, warm voice - hung between them as his eyes filled with tears. A groan squeezed past the contracting muscles of his throat, "Oh God." Inhaling sharply, he tried to squelch the pain in his chest, the feeling that, once again, he had disappointed - failed - Nikita. He failed to protect her, to find her and then hadn't even managed to keep one small promise. He tried to force himself to regulate his breathing, to focus on the steps in front of him and the house just beyond, reminding himself that it was all in his imagination. She wasn't really there, it was only the wind that had brushed through his hair. He had only imagined hearing her voice.

Yet the scent of Samsara grew stronger and the gentle touch of her fingers on his head drifted lower to his shoulder, becoming more insistent, gently turning him around. Warm hands cupped his face as he stared into misty blue eyes.

"I'm here, Mi-chael. I'm real.." Her voice washed over him, the lyrical sound breathing hope into his heart and soul.

This morning, everything had made sense. It had hurt, but it was real. He was coming to terms with Nikita's death. As he had done every morning for the past three months, Michael had sat at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee and conjured up her image in his mind. He remembered the sound of her voice, her laugh, remembered how her face could so clearly express her joys or sorrows. He did it not only to keep her memory alive and clear in his mind and heart, but to steal him against her absence, to prepare him to face the empty chair across from his desk or at the briefing table. He did it to remind himself of what he had lost, and what he would never lose.

This evening, when he had pulled into the drive way of the beach house, he had been glad to be back here. His memories and the sense of her continued presence here had comforted and welcomed him. So why did they torment him now? Why was his mind, his heart refusing to give up the illusion?

Unless she was real.

The warmth of her fingers against his face spread through his body - a kinetic pulse of realization. Overwhelmed and in shock, he stumbled away from her. Two steps and his calves connected with the deck causing Michael to fall gracelessly backward, landing with a thump. Sitting on the top step, he stared at her, desperately wanting to believe she was real. Slowly, he saw his image of Nikita change - taking on all the grittiness of reality as it shed the luminous glow of the dream.

The once beautiful blonde hair, which had appeared to be pulled behind her head, with loose tendrils floating and shimmering in the breeze, was neither long nor shimmering. It was cut in long, shag-like layers and reached to just below her jawline. It hung, dull and listless. Michael could see that someone had tried to shape and style her hair, soften the effect, but it still had a harsh "hacked" look that accentuated the pale gauntness of her face. And she was least 15 pounds lighter than she should have been. She looked frail and weak, two words he had never thought to associate with Nikita.

As he stared at her, not quite sure he could believe who stood before him, he watched tears stream unbidden from her darkly circled eyes. "Ni-ki-ta?" He whispered reverently, feeling his body shaking with fear and joy.

Her lips curled inward, as if she were biting them, and then slowly spread into a small smile as she nodded her head affirmatively. Taking small, faltering steps, she began to move toward him. For the first Michael noticed how unsteady she was; how, with each step, her body was raked with small tremors.

Slowly, he stood. She was there. The realization rocked Michael to his core - She was alive and she had endured hell to come back to him. The damn gates that surrounded his heart burst with the intensity of his love for her as it rushed through him, filling the spaces long empty. Hesitantly, he held out his hand, taking a step closer to her. He watched her face as it mirrored all that she felt - love, relief, joy.

She extended her hand toward him, taking the final faltering step that would bring her into his arms. With little warning and despite her seeming determination, her body finally gave into its weakness, her knees buckling under her. With a the quickness of honed reflexes, Michael launched himself toward Nikita, catching her body as it crumpled to the ground. Kneeling on the sand, he cradled her trembling form against his chest. Overwhelmed, he gently rocked them back and forth, murmuring nonsense softly to her, comforted by her whispering voice breathing against his neck, "I'm here. Mi-chael. I'm here." She was there; his Nikita was really there. Lowering his face to the crook of her neck, he inhaled her scent deeply, and allowed the silent tears of joy and pain to intermingle and course down his face. He didn't care if time stood still or a thousand years past, all that mattered was Nikita - alive.

He reveled in the feel of her in his arms again. Yet, even as he held her, he could feel her body continue to tremble. The tighter he held her to him, the more aware he was of how frail and thin she had become.

The slight chill of the December air began to seep through his sweater. Gently, he pulled back, shifting Nikita in his arms so that he still supported her. Tenderly, he stroked his fingers down her face, not caring that tears fell openly from his eyes. "Ni-ki-ta," he whispered her name as the prayer and invocation it had become to him. He trailed his thumb delicately across her lips before leaning forward to brush his lips against hers. The contact was light and brief, but in that instant, Michael truly understood what it meant to be free. Pulling back once more, his eyes locked with hers as he slipped his free hand behind her knees and stood, deftly lifted her in his arms.

With quick and sure steps, he climbed the steps and crossed the deck. When he reached the door, his eyes met hers, saw her smile as she reached for the keypad. She quickly entered the code that electronically opened their home. Maneuvering through the room, Michael gently lowered Nikita onto the sofa, grabbing the green throw from the sofa back, he covered her as he crouched beside her, his hands and eyes never breaking contact.

His hands slid over her body, then under her sweater and shirt, trailing lightly over her warm skin, as if reaffirming that she was there. He could see so much in her eyes, they seemed older, wiser, more tired than he remembered, but the strength - the light - was still there, stronger and more determined than before. And the love was there, as clear as ever for him to see.

The warm, beautiful smile that Michael had dreamed of spread across Nikita's face as she reached up to gently stroke her fingertips down his cheek. Turning his head into her palm, he brushed his check against her hand before capturing it with his own. Gently, he held her hand to his face for a moment before he drew it to his lips, kissing her fingers. Then, entwining their fingers securely together, Michael leaned forward to capture her lips with his. He felt the reassuring pressure of her response, the feel of her hands releasing his and sliding beneath his jacket to caress his back through his shirt as she pulled her body up to press against his.

She was there - warm to the touch - alive. He was torn between wanting to crush her to him or pull away so he could stare into the blue eyes he had missed so much. Gently he brushed gentle kisses along the neck, then pulled back so that their temples rested together - his lips close to her ears. This was a dream - one he thought he'd lost. Never again. Softly, he whispered the words he wished he'd said months ago when he'd had the chance.

"I love you, Nikita."