He is with her when she cries. Her pain calls to him, even from great distances, and he comes to bear witness. He watches her, silent and invisible. He does not attempt to soothe her, for no one ever offered comfort to him. He simply watches.

It is not always tears that draw him. He has watched her many times. Once, he watched her laughter. He did not do it again.

Always, though, he is there when she dreams. The Spinner of Dreams, he neglects his duties to focus solely on her. Not for her the nightmares of children, rocks in hand. He offers her history, the side of the story untold in a land ruled by the victors of that great battle.

In dreams, she comes to understand that good is simply a point of view. Good and evil, right and wrong, are no longer as clearly defined as she had been taught. As she comes to understand, she begins to see him on the edges of her dreams. She can discern only the barest outline of his twisted body, wrapped in a black cloak. Stories were told about the horror of his face. Misbegotten, he was called. But she had not seen his face. No living man had in over one hundred years. The Rivenlost could have remembered, but chose instead to forget, as they always did when the Spinner of Dreams was concerned.

He has chosen her now, though. For what purpose, even he is uncertain. There is no righting the wrongs done to him.

Does he love her? He has considered that possibility as well, but can think of no reason why it should be so. She certainly intrigues him. She has begun to search for him in her dreams, and he is considering letting her find him. It is more than any other mortal has done since the great battle.

She pays little heed to her dreams anymore. Instead, she seeks the cloaked figure with a single-minded resolve that even he must admire as he moves always just out of her sight. He wonders what she would do if he came to her in daylight. He imagines the horror and revulsion in her expression after she has seen the damage done to him. He does not imagine her accepting him, for he has never had acceptance from her kind before.

Dreamspinner, she calls to him. Dreamspinner, where are you?

Amazing is a sunrise or a sunset. He is certain that he has seen hundreds of thousands of them, but each one is a new miracle. The sky is painted with beauty, and he has always longed for that which is beautiful.

He is always with her at sunrise, now. At times, he has longed to wake her so that she may share in his wonder. He finds it difficult anymore to tear his gaze from her sleeping form, to pull away from her dreams to watch the sunrise.

She feels him leave her this morning, and wakes immediately. She senses his presence still close to her, and she opens her eyes very slowly.

He sits in a chair beside her bed, staring out her window at the sunrise. She cannot see his face, only his cloaked form and the silvery cloud of his hair. Her room is flooded with pink and orange light.

Slowly, she reaches out and lays her hand gently on his arm.

"So," he murmurs, "you have finally awakened." His voice is low and musical, like the silver voice of her mother.

"You are the one they call Dreamspinner." There is a quaver of uncertainty in her tone.

"I am the one you name Dreamspinner," he replies.

"Is there a difference?"

"Perhaps."

"You have spun my dreams for a long time, I think."

"A long time, indeed, little one. Not so long for one such as I."

"An immortal."

"One of the Three."

"You are but One, now," she reminds him.

"Yes," he muses. "I am but One. All the companions I have ever had are lost to me, now."

"You are lonely."