Sometimes she would dream. Those weren't normal dreams everyone had nor were they the prophetic kind she got occasionally nowadays.
No, these had started way before those had, she had been just a child when she'd had her first dream of this kind. Telling her parents had not accounted to much, an active imagination had been the explanation why their daughter dreamed of another world with alarming detail and frequency.
These were vivid, Technicolor dreams where she sensed everything and forgot there was anything else outside the dream she was having, for a night she was part of that world.
In her dreams there were brave and broken men, attempting to do the right thing when separating right from wrong seemed impossible; men lost in themselves. Men uprooted from their homes, without a place their hearts could call home yet yearning for one.
She dreamed of endless green fields, and forests so deep and dark that you could easily get lost in them without taking a single step.
Most of all, she dreamed of him. A loyal man with shattered beliefs. A man who joked to hide the pain gnawing away his soul, and the absence in the place of hope.
So cynical and hardened by life that it made her want to cry for him, a man who certainly wouldn't want someone to shed tears for him. Certainly would not want sympathy from a virtual stranger, something he would take for pity.
In her dreams she couldn't but stand and watch – forever watching from the sidelines. She was there for all of it, a ghost by his side. She was there as he fought, loved, and drank his way through life.
He was a passionate being. She couldn't help but admire how fiercely and skillfully he fought; twin swords dancing as he made his way through his enemies.
Often he was victorious, but there were times when he didn't walk off unscathed.
Whenever his friends couldn't watch his back she would always try to warn him of enemy steel behind his back, but no matter how hard she tried he didn't see her; couldn't hear her warnings.
Once, after one of the unheard warnings in battle, when he was lying on a bed with his side sliced open delirious with fever, she thought he could see her there, standing vigil by his bedside.
He had looked at her way, even lifted his hand like he was trying to reach her hand. He had opened his mouth to say something, but then the healer had come in giving him something that had made him sink into a deep slumber as the man sew his wounds shut and wrapped them in thick bandages.
When awake, she would wonder who he was, where he was. Often she daydreamed of what would happen if they met, but just as often the real life crashed in and broke her reverie.