Stephen found himself in the corridor of what was obviously a jail of some sort. The cells were all empty except hers. As the ceiling started to break apart he sent a bolt of energy straight through the lock and raced towards where she lay in a pallet in a corner, amid the filth of trash and neglect in a stench that made him gag.

He ignored it all. His eyes devoured her as he felt, like a homing, the bond reconnect, sliding into her mind, finding it's source, merging with it, seamlessly, effortlessly, easing, ending an agony he was so used to feeling he'd forgotten it. He bent and threw aside the coverings and then lifted her.

He held her in his arms, her weight a tangible reassurance, the slightness of it an opening to dread he swiftly banished. She was alive, in his arms, in his mind. Everything else would be fine.

She was unconscious, her face pale and thin, shadowed purple under her eyes, her lips chapped and cracked. Her hair, the long, sleek, shining chocolate-colored lengths of it he loved were matted and lank. Her nails were broken and jagged. She was dressed in rags, filthy and vile smelling. Her breathing was very shallow, very slow.

She was alive, here in his arms where he could hold her, feel her, know her…She was deeply unconscious, unconscious at a level he could barely penetrate, but he'd found her, familiar, beautiful, longed for…He had found her again, and he knew that he was as present to her.

He noted all that and more in the instant between reaching her and lifting her. Now, he tightened his grip and was gone.

He re-emerged into the room in the infirmary he'd asked Tabitha to get ready for her. And, as he'd made plain, Tabitha was waiting for them. He would trust no other near her, healing her. In fact, the number of people on the list of those he trusted absolutely had shortened significantly since he'd found out she was alive. The number of people, named and nameless, he'd cheerfully, happily kill if he could had grown.

He laid her gently on the bed and then moved aside, around it, so Tabitha could approach. At no time did he relinquish all physical contact with her; he didn't think he could. So he walked, his hand gliding over her arm, her legs, to the opposite side of the bed, his eyes never leaving her face. He sank into a chair and took her hand, where it lay on the bed, in his, his forehead coming to rest on it for a moment, content now to just wait until she awoke, so long as he could see her, touch her, know the joy of her presence in his mind, know she was alive.

He opened the bond wide, feeding into it all his love for her, all his joy at finding her, bathing her in it, making it a benediction, a blessing, and a balm. He sent his unswerving commitment to her and his vow to make sure, from now on, she would always be safe, for as long as he lived, no matter the price. A starving man just moments ago, he'd found a feast.

Tabitha, who had been waiting with something less than her usual serenity, first sent a probe into her mind, confirming the obvious but not life-threatening depth of unconsciousness then moved outward, checking everything while she stripped her with a thought, banishing the rags to the nothingness and covered her. She would bathe her later, and cut the hair too tangled to save as well, all before she woke up again. There was plenty of time. The drugs in her system would take a long time to breakdown and she wasn't strong enough to tolerate any acceleration of the process.

She was malnourished, slightly dehydrated, her muscles had atrophied to some degree, but not as much as one would expect if she'd been totally immobilized for all those years. There was scarring from pressure sores that had healed, while others were oozing and infected. There was bruising, contusions, some new and some yellowed and fading. All of which meant she had been unable to heal herself. She healed all of those and added an IV. As for the rest, that would wait until she woke up.

Despite repeated assurances from Tabitha that she wouldn’t wake for some time, Stephen had not budged from his seat next to Doni. He had kept her hand in his, ignoring the stiffness and the aching. He’d kept the bond open between them, overflowing with the pure joy and relief he felt at having her back. He’d willed himself awake, drinking coffee and refusing to give in to exhaustion. But finally he lost the battle…

It was in the small hours between moon set and the first false promise of dawn that Doni began to stir, moving upwards towards consciousness, fighting the journey, knowing the end of it was not just the living nightmare she escaped only in the drugged sleep she’d come to prefer to waking. Sleeping there was nothingness, no despair, no need, nothing of the nightmare she’d been living for long past her ability to count. Before that, she knew, she would have to endure the dreams that were the worst kind of torture she could imagine.

She preferred the reality of the nightmare that never lied to her to her dreams, drugged fantasies she likened to those of an opium user; false promises drawn from her deepest needs for a return to everything she’d lost, of an end to the agony that was the loss of Stephen...the comfort of his presence in her mind, his unswerving love and the surety of his commitment despite all her doubts and fears, all her attempts to prove to herself that he too would, like all the others, abandon her in disgust at her inadequacy.

She moved into the space between waking and sleeping, that half dreaming time, when reality is softened, drawn by the feel of hand holding hers, tempted, tormented into that place by the overwhelming sense of him, stronger than it had ever been and crueler in its deceit…a comforting wrap of love and safety surrounding her, seducing her into hope. It was a dream more real than anything she had endured.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, seeping slowly down, over her temples and dripping onto the pillows…but there were no pillows, there was only the pallet. She thrashed on the bed, fighting to be free of the dream, only there wasn’t a bed; there was only a pallet on the floor. There was no pain from the sores, not tearing at her wrists from the bonds…but that was the dream…her reality was the pain of those things, the hunger and the thirst, the degradation of filth.

She sobbed, railing at the cruelty of her dreams, helpless to resist the temptation; not of believing for even a second that it was real, but of allowing herself to experience the dream, so much more vivid and compelling than all the others, to capture it and draw close, holding it as protection from the absolute barrenness of her captivity...for just a moment.

She wept as she focused on the feel of the hand holding hers, of a mind joined to hers, pouring love and hope and joy into hers like a healing balm, the feel of the mind she sought, craved above even her own, the only mind in all creation so perfectly attuned to hers that the loss of it was like an amputation that never healed.

She sobbed uncontrollably at the feeling of him…longed for, hoped for even when she had no trust left in hope…reaching for her, pulling her close, caressing her with wordless sounds of love, promises of safety, his breath warm on her skin, his heartbeat a counterpoint to hers, easing the soul destroying bereftness of her unending loneliness.

She knew it was a dream, more wonderful, and so that much crueler, than all the ones before it and still she couldn’t resist sinking into it, sinking against the fantasy that was Stephen, clinging to him as he held her, whispering her name, soothing her back into a deeper sleep, where there was neither dream nor nightmare…there was only the nothingness she had learned to welcome as the only friend she could trust this living hell.

Stephen held her as she slept again, whispering in her mind that he was real, that she was safe, that she was his, that he would never let her go…promising her that the nightmare was over, that the dream was real…over and over again…until he slept again as well, still holding her, her tears still wet on his skin.

Doni opened her eyes, with no transition this time between waking and sleeping, to a room she didn't recognize, held by a man she had been close to believing she'd never see again, his presence in her mind a reality that brought tears to her eyes. She raised a tentative hand to his hair, silky and tangled, afraid that if she touched him he'd disappear.

He didn't. He opened his eyes instead. Grey and loving, they held her while he opened to her the gates of his heart and then released her as he bent his head and touched her mouth with his own in a kiss that made her throat clench at the love in it. When he raised his head she was crying, helpless to stop or to speak. So he drew her close again and held her, lavishing his love on her in every way he could.

When she started to sniffle he smiled and pulled back enough to see her face again, his hands still stroking her back, his love still flooding her through the bond between them. He reached across her and grabbed the Kleenex.

She gave him a shy, rather watery smile in return, mopped her eyes and blew her nose while avoiding his eyes. Then she picked a spot on his chest and buried her face there. She hadn't changed, he thought, she was still his Doni…hiding her vulnerability at all costs. He rested his chin on her hair content to wait, forever if need be, for her to remember it was safe to look at him.

Fortunately it didn't take that long. She eventually drew back enough so he could see her face keeping her eyes on the center of his chest. After a few minutes of that, without a word spoken, he decided drastic measures were in order. He tilted her face up and licked it, from chin to forehead.

"Yuck!" She yelled, wiping it on his chest. "You jerk!" She pushed herself away from him, pounding on him to let her go, demanding "How could you?"

Laughing softly, he stilled her struggles, tightening his arms around her, "Well sweetheart," he offered, "if you don't like that… how about this," and, lingering over every part of it, bent to kiss her, his movement slow enough so she could stop him if she wanted to. She didn't, she met him halfway instead, trembling…her mouth an offering and his name on her lips something between a prayer and a plea.

He could tell from the shudder that went through her as his mouth claimed hers that the contact rocked her to her core, beginning to crack the barriers between them. It also let loose a torrent of need that almost felled him in its abject poverty. Whatever the agony he'd suffered in the years they'd lost, he hadn't been alone. She had.

He opened himself to her then, every part of himself, mind and body, heart and soul, baring to her without flinching every feeling and every vulnerability he possessed and offered it all to her. It was an invitation to learn him anew, to explore as she would, a promise of freedom that gave her all the time in the world answering without words both the fear and the need she couldn't name just as he always had.

Feeling her pouring into his mind in response he jettisoned every plan he'd had, put his trust in Tabitha's advice and molding her against him, rolled her on top of him and gave himself over to her.