She was sitting, much like she had been in the waking world, beside Rand. Yet now, the guitar was gone. He sat, cross legged, hands in his lap. He was still, frighteningly so. She found herself sitting stiffly in response to his tense posture.

"Rand?" she whispered, for fear of disturbing something.

He glanced up at her, his dark eyes vacant. He held his hands up, the network of scars that traced from his fingers up his arms began to glow. It was a warm, golden glow, yet despite the comforting golden hue, it seemed to eat at him. She stared in horror as his hands began to dissolve, pulled apart by the golden light.

With a gasp, and a start, she awoke. Rand was there, but real, normal. He stared at her, setting his guitar on the ground beside him. 

"Ellette, are you okay?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice. He furrowed his brow, giving her a hard look before turning away. He went to the shelf lined with books, retrieving the wooden case on the top shelf. "You're sure you're okay?" He asked again, cradling the simple, worn case. She nodded again, a sad smile tracing her lips. Once the flute came out, his evening was pretty much over.

He returned to his place beside her on the couch, case across his knees, and flipped it open. It wasn't much to look at, this old wooden flute, but it meant the world to Rand. Playing it, though, was a practice in futility. His fingers no longer worked the way they once had, and it pained her to watch him. She'd never seen him play before -- before his hands had been so brutally crippled. She still caught glimpses of the skill his hands had once possessed. The passion, that was undeniable. His love for music shown in so much of what he did; the obscure music shows he frequented, the fact that he knew ever busker on the street between his work and home, and the way his fingers always seemed to twitch to the rhythm of a melody only he could hear.

He put the flute to his lips, and the first flitting notes were pure heaven. Ellette sighed despite herself, enchanted. She listened, fighting back the images from the dream just moments before. His fingers danced across the long wooden flute, and she watched mesmerized, until the notes began to falter and slow. She could never really tell if there was notable improvement in the amount of time in which he could play before his hands would stiffen and cramp.

He stopped and sat staring at the flute. A Nay, he had told her it was called. He retrieved the case, settling the instrument in it with quick efficiency before returning it to the shelf. He stood, stiff and white knuckled for a moment before turning back to where Ellette sat on the couch. A slightly forced, bittersweet smile traced his features.

"Longer each time." He told her. The slightest hint of a tremor in his voice let on the doubt about that statement, but it needed to be said. He would fight for that hope, as false as it might be. Each time he would play more nimbly, longer, without hesitation or fault, in his mind if not in reality.

He sat down lightly beside her, scooping up remote. She only allowed him to fumbled with it for a few moments before she caught his hand. She scooted closer to him, gently massaging the hand she held. After her day, and this all too sombering ritual of his, she had no words of comfort or encouragement for him.