The Radiance of a Dream

The Radiance of a Dream

He had traced every contour of her face with charcoal and parchment, but he had never grazed the softness of her skin. He had memorized the curve and shape of her lips, but he had never heard them utter a syllable. He had regarded her eyes, glazed with sleep, but never become lost within their depths. He had sketched her waves of dark hair countless times, but he had never taken a silken curl between his fingers. He had stolen there, night after night, and regarded her sleeping, but he had never met her in wakefulness. He simply sat upon the tree that adjoined her window, and stared, regarding her ethereal beauty as she slept. He had seen her dancing at festivals and observed her from afar, but he had never approached her, being forced to remain at the high table and play his role within the order of things, but in a way, he was glad.

To him, she was perfect. A vision. Part of the reason that he had never approached her was the fear that she would ruin his perfect vision of a radiant beauty, tall, graceful and slender, with a deep richness to her voice and a melodic lilt. He had never met her, nor even heard her name.

But he had already named her. Faeniel. Radiant dream.