(no subject)
Ophelia looks like a child when she sleeps, all wild curls and flushed cheeks, hand curled innocently on the pillow. One can almost imagine that, when her eyes open again, she will be sane.
Yrael never bothers, because he knows she won't be, and he's never seen any point in hoping for impossibilities. But he finds watching her to be peaceful, perhaps because when she is awake, she is all frayed edges and nervous energy. She doesn't toss or turn as she sleeps - barely moves at all, in fact - and it's a startling contrast.
He comes into her room and watches her, sometimes. He worried, the first time, that his presence would frighten her, but when she woke, she just smiled groggily at him and held her arms out, and so it has been every time she has woken to a cat perched on her bedside table, or a pale young man sitting in her chair.
She likes to curl around him, to bury her fingers in his fur or fit her palms around his shoulder blades. She likes to know that she is holding a being of immense power, and that he will never, ever hurt her.
He falls asleep in her bed, sometimes, a surprising swath of fur or fabric or skin against her dark sheets, and she likes to watch him, as well. For an instant, sometimes, he looks impossibly old, or something shines beneath his eyelids, and she files each of those moments carefully away for later examination.
She suspects that he knows she watches him, just as she knows he watches her, but they never talk about it. They have each learned to take peace when it comes, and not to question its arrival.
Yrael never bothers, because he knows she won't be, and he's never seen any point in hoping for impossibilities. But he finds watching her to be peaceful, perhaps because when she is awake, she is all frayed edges and nervous energy. She doesn't toss or turn as she sleeps - barely moves at all, in fact - and it's a startling contrast.
He comes into her room and watches her, sometimes. He worried, the first time, that his presence would frighten her, but when she woke, she just smiled groggily at him and held her arms out, and so it has been every time she has woken to a cat perched on her bedside table, or a pale young man sitting in her chair.
She likes to curl around him, to bury her fingers in his fur or fit her palms around his shoulder blades. She likes to know that she is holding a being of immense power, and that he will never, ever hurt her.
He falls asleep in her bed, sometimes, a surprising swath of fur or fabric or skin against her dark sheets, and she likes to watch him, as well. For an instant, sometimes, he looks impossibly old, or something shines beneath his eyelids, and she files each of those moments carefully away for later examination.
She suspects that he knows she watches him, just as she knows he watches her, but they never talk about it. They have each learned to take peace when it comes, and not to question its arrival.