When I woke up, he wasn't there.
Not that that was unusual. He often wasn't there when I awoke. He doesn't sleep much anymore.
None of us do really.
We all have our after effects of the Final Battle.
Most of us don't sleep. Too many bad, vivid, and incredibly painful memories surface when you're unconscious.
I pad out to the control room; sure enough he's watching the screens.
The screens have been dead since the battle. But he watches them anyway. None of us knows what it is that he sees.
I pad up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder, it's a completely absent-minded gesture, I'm puzzled for a split second when he jumps like a scalded cat.
Then I remember. The Final Battle left him in a permanent state of hyper- sensitivity, he doesn't like being touched because of it.
If he's in control, it's not so bad, then he knows what's going to happen. But when he's startled, he tends to revert to a near-animal mindset, fight or flight.
I hold my hands where he can see them, "Easy easy easy, it's just me babe. I didn't mean to startle you.."
He blinks at me, terrified, near-hyperventilating.
I continue murmuring softly, not moving, slowly I see realization cross his eyes, he blinks again, "Trin?"
I nod, slowly reaching out to touch his arm again. He catches my hand and presses it to his cheek, sighing and shaking his head, "I can still see it if I'm not paying attention. The code. The people behind the code. The battles, the bodies, all of it." He shudders, holding back a sob.
He hates us, any of us, to see him this way. He's supposed to be our fearless leader, the One. He's supposed to be the guy that ended the war. And in a way, he is. It just didn't end the way everyone had hoped.
He shudders again and I feel tears against my fingers.
All I want to do at this moment is hold him, take him in my arms and tell him that it'll turn out alright. But I can't. Mostly because that would hurt him more than one would think possible.
So I stand, letting him pretend that he's not hurting as much as we both know he is.
And maybe one day I'll be able to hold him without seeing the agony in his eyes, the old terror that we all have hidden somewhere behind our corneas now.
Maybe some day everything will turn out the way we hoped it would.
But that day isn't today.
Not that that was unusual. He often wasn't there when I awoke. He doesn't sleep much anymore.
None of us do really.
We all have our after effects of the Final Battle.
Most of us don't sleep. Too many bad, vivid, and incredibly painful memories surface when you're unconscious.
I pad out to the control room; sure enough he's watching the screens.
The screens have been dead since the battle. But he watches them anyway. None of us knows what it is that he sees.
I pad up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder, it's a completely absent-minded gesture, I'm puzzled for a split second when he jumps like a scalded cat.
Then I remember. The Final Battle left him in a permanent state of hyper- sensitivity, he doesn't like being touched because of it.
If he's in control, it's not so bad, then he knows what's going to happen. But when he's startled, he tends to revert to a near-animal mindset, fight or flight.
I hold my hands where he can see them, "Easy easy easy, it's just me babe. I didn't mean to startle you.."
He blinks at me, terrified, near-hyperventilating.
I continue murmuring softly, not moving, slowly I see realization cross his eyes, he blinks again, "Trin?"
I nod, slowly reaching out to touch his arm again. He catches my hand and presses it to his cheek, sighing and shaking his head, "I can still see it if I'm not paying attention. The code. The people behind the code. The battles, the bodies, all of it." He shudders, holding back a sob.
He hates us, any of us, to see him this way. He's supposed to be our fearless leader, the One. He's supposed to be the guy that ended the war. And in a way, he is. It just didn't end the way everyone had hoped.
He shudders again and I feel tears against my fingers.
All I want to do at this moment is hold him, take him in my arms and tell him that it'll turn out alright. But I can't. Mostly because that would hurt him more than one would think possible.
So I stand, letting him pretend that he's not hurting as much as we both know he is.
And maybe one day I'll be able to hold him without seeing the agony in his eyes, the old terror that we all have hidden somewhere behind our corneas now.
Maybe some day everything will turn out the way we hoped it would.
But that day isn't today.