You knew for sure that some nights, you would wake up in the middle of the slumbering hours with the moon still high up in the sky, that you had drempt of her. Each and every time, you would simply lay there in the aftermath of it, and focus your cerulean orbs towards the embers of the fireplace that danced for you and you only, creating the most unique, comforting shapes and figures. They enchanted you, but nothing and nobody had ever, ever enchanted you to the degree that she had.

The fireplace would cast eerie shadows upon the four-postered canopy of your large, imposing bed. They, too, would dance. Just as the fireflies in the beginnings of summer would, when the two of you would sneak out in the dead of night to try and catch them. Memories like those would always squeeze the small, pumping emblem of France in your forming chest. And times like those, you could close your eyes, hide yourself from those dancing shadows of the brightest brights and the darkest darks, and try and call your petite reine back to you.

You would dream of those times together. Dream of the nights you would fall asleep in full view of your God and those stars that you both adored so much. Or dream of the afternoons where an impromptu pillow fight had been the catalyst to an all out war that had left the royal nursery in dissaray, feathers falling like snow on the dozen beds that lay in two rows of six on each side of the room. How you had felt her absence when you became of age to have chambers of your own. Sometimes, you would dream of the spring mornings when you two would run around the dewy, squishy grass after a night of rain, when the air was still sweet and fresh, small teardrops of ice still clinging to the small leaves of the orchard. When her dog would chase you around in circles and you both would laugh in joy.

You would dream of her disapproved scowl when she was chastised by a nursemaid, and would remember the shocked expression on old Nina's face when she smartly told her that she -a nanny of all things- couldn't tell a Queen what to do. Never mind the fact that she was Scottish, and the nannies would all be French. You would dream of your fathers approving grin when he saw the fierceness of the Queen that would one day rule his country and deliver her an empire. You would dream of her exited beam when she would gift you presents upon your anniversary of birth or at Christmastide, the anticipation of the glee upon his pretty face when he would open up the coffin to see a beautifully made sword from her homeland, or books that would keep his interest for hours upon hours, days upon days.

You had always ran faster than her, of that you had smartly gloated. And of that, she had always given that scowl in response. But when you drempt of her, she was always a few steps too far away for him to catch her. No matter how far you reached or how fast you ran, she would always be just a little too far away. Always her, a perfect image of her pretty face, close enough for his fingertips to skim across her pretty dress.

Then you'd awake, and you'd reach for her all the same. But she wasn't there.

Your mother -the Consort of France that had never scared the Regnant of Scotland in the way that her little ladies had trembled in sight of the madame serpent- had always told you how logical you were, never believing in superstition or myth. And it was true, the young Dauphin of France had never believed in silly matters such as ghosts or phantoms, but still, you were haunted just the same.

By a girl. A ghost girl with long dark hair and pretty eyes, who was so fearless and so brave, forever just beyond his reach.

It had been months now, and she was no closer to you than the day she left in a flurry of skirts and furs in the dead of night. You could still remember the shock that ran through your precious veins when your mother had crouched in front of you, Elisabeth and little Claude to tell you all that the Queen and her ladies would remain in French Court no more.

For her protection, your father had gruffed upon a rare day that you saw the King alone, you were both prohibited of contact of any kind to your playmate and betrothed. It would put her in unnecessary danger. So, here the young Dauphin was, pining for the girl who may one day never be his.

It was the lack of contact that brought an odd sense of closeness, however. You were forced to look upon each and every conversation the two of you had shared, no matter how long or short, big or small, impactful or unimpactful to try and find any words that had passed her demure, pouty lips that would not only bring comfort to you, but to her.

That's why the Dauphin had made a habit of escaping his warm bed during the night, and pilled a thick black blanket that she had gifted him over his building shoulders, and had walked to the balcony. Look up, she had once said to him, the night before she had departed for a visit to her homeland due to the regency being wavered and her mothers word not holding as much weight as it once did, look at the stars, her soft voice had said, the same ones blanket both you and I. If you remember that, my Dauphin, the distance between us will not seem so great.

And so, the young Dauphin of France, stared up at the millions of stars that glinted and danced for him. He had a feeling that -right now, wherever she was- she did the same thing, and he prayed that she wished to return to him as much as he wished for her to return to him. And so, the Dauphin of France could hope.