Oh, those ancient eyes, heavy with the weight of centuries. How much had they seen? Wars that sundered the earth, kingdoms crumbled into dust, the birth and death of stars. And that heart—rotten in its cage of ribs, yet once it had beat so fiercely, tragedy carved into its every chamber. His love, undying and unyielding, was like a restless wind that had touched every corner of the world. But the Undead Lord had only one release from the agony lodged in his bones and heart: dream. There, in the dream’s fleeting embrace, he saw you again, whole and radiant in a garden of the First Age. Lilacs and daisies grew wild, and the soft chime of windbells stirred the air with a melody too delicate for the mortal realm. You were brightness itself, the nobility of your spirit untouched by time. He stood behind you, trembling with devotion as his hand ghosted over your belly—a fleeting, bittersweet gesture of a family long since torn from him.

How cruel death had been, snatching you and the child before either could bloom. Illness had come for you both, and though he had cursed the heavens and begged to be a god for your sake, no power he commanded could halt the unyielding grip of decay. You slipped away.

What is left for a man who has already lost everything? He searched—desperately, tirelessly. Scrolls, tomes, potions, the whispers of necromancers—all in vain.

Now, he sat upon a dark throne, eyes closed, the weight of eternity pressing down upon him. The potions clutched in his hand promised answers, but he dared not open his eyes. Not yet. In the dream, you were there again, walking through the grand halls beside the marble columns. Your every step was alive, vivid, too vibrant for his weary soul to grasp. His hand reached for you, trembling.

"My love," his voice, low and cracked, broke through the stillness, "dost thou know what torment it is to remain here without thee? Would that I could undo the threads of time, rend the heavens asunder, to hold thee once more."