Disclaimer: I don’t own any of them, Marvel does. They have money. I’m a college student writing fanfic late at night. If you do sue for some reason, I hate to say it but you’ll be out of luck. No profit made except writing something that actually got finished.

Summary: Late night musings. Very very short, but I’m hoping it works at this length. I think this theory has been tossed around a lot; here are my thoughts on it. I’m going to rate it PG-13 for an almost slashy thought that worked itself in. Don’t know why, it just fit. Please email any and all comments, positive or negative, I love em all.


To be loved…
Kaylana

 A chunk of my own matted dirty blonde hair is hanging in front of my face, blocking the view of my surroundings. Not that it matter of course. There’s not enough light to see and I have this retched dank cave memorized. Three feet behind me two heavy iron bolts fasten my chains to the wall. My chains are clasped not on my wrists and ankles, but one around my neck and one around my waist. If I go as far as they allow me to I can almost reach the exit. I can get close enough to gasp a breath of fresh air. That air is so unlike the fetid stench of my prison.

 All of my powers are gone. All that is left is my inherent abilities. I’m too weak to use them though. I doubt I could summon a stepping disk if I tried. He’s not too cruel of a warder really. I’m fed, if not clothed. None of the lesser demons bother me. Sy’m only beats me if I try to hard to live. The dankness of this place is his greatest gift to me though. Enough water has dripped into one place to make a pool big enough for scrying. That, I can still do.

A drop of water falls into my pool and the waves disturb the picture of a young woman in a college dorm room. She’s crying again.

 Her curly brown hair hides her face from me. She blames herself for his death. Deep sobs wrack her body and she clings to one of his old white dress shirts as if it were a lifeline.

Today, she cries for her ex-lover. Tomorrow a painting might spark a memory that makes her cry for my brother’s noble death. Next week her tears will be for my replacement, her time-tossed friend. Or maybe she’ll cry for our last great innocent. He died in the field saving one of our own. I doubt Rahne’s forgiven herself either.

She doesn’t cry for me anymore. Then again, she doesn’t know I’m his prisoner, much less alive.

But at night, when her room mate pretends not to wonder why a dirty dress shirt means so much, and her tears still streak her face when she falls asleep with the shirt wrapped around her like a security blanket…at night she dreams. And while I could probably control her dreams from here, I don’t.

 Her tears flow freely for them.

 Her dreams make her wake missing me. Missing my messiness, and my poster, and the warmth of my body next to hers. At night she dreams of me, and I know that I will always be loved.