He doesn't dream he can hold her forever; he has known her too long, far too long for that. Still he comforts himself with the dream, distant and sweet, and lingers in the pale twilight of the present for each moment he can stop from slipping between his fingers.
He has seen her in the pale dawn, the first rays of the sun brushing pale gold over polished ivory features. In that instant before she wakes, she is lovely as ever, but it is a distant beauty. Without those warm, expressive eyes she seems so cold, even her fragile smile just beyond touching. Then she wakes, in a dawn that eclipses the rising sun.
He has seen her in the morning light, vivacious as she dances down a flight of marble steps. Full skirts flutter about her as she treads the measures of a bright, spontaneous song. Her voice rings clearly to his hiding place, tucked among the bookshelves, and brings a smile to his lips. In the morning she is springtime, life reborn and hope awakened.
He has seen her in the noon day, when the heat is at it's harshest and a pale cloak protects her fair skin. Her face is caught in rare solemnity; worry and care, kindness and admiration. He notices again how intense her eyes are, notices how to call them emerald would deride them, for stone can possess no such life. He thinks that the heat of the noon-day desert can hold no candle to the warmth in her eyes.
He has seen her in the afternoon, the heat only slightly diminished but left behind for the sake of buried stone. He walks in comfortable silence at a smooth and even pace, while she flutters about him, filling the air with chatter and joy. The cicada's buzz is already audible, their drone a gentle undertone to the music of her voice. He thinks of summer's ending, and feels both glad and sorry.
He has seen her in the sunset, bloody scarlet splashed across the sky as if the gods do battle. The rose of the sky makes roses in her cheeks; sorrow that doesn't suit her is written across her face. He thinks again that she is always beautiful, that even grief that makes him ache with sympathy holds elegance in the twilight. He whispers a soft good-bye, and dares not look back lest he see her standing there still.
He knows he would see her, waiting for him, with open arms and an open smile. He knows he would hear her, calling his name in friendship. He knows the very wind would taste of her, of almond perfume and vanilla kisses. He dares not look back, lest he never again look forward.
She says that she will wait for him, but he is to old to believe that. Painful wisdom dictates she not tarry; bitter truth knows that some passerby will come along, and that secret smile will open for him. His summer queen was never meant to languish all alone, and someday he knows she will find her summer king.
Syaorin is trapped in winter.