Oct 15, 2001
by BlackRose
He is not a child of the morning - he doesn't rise early or easily, most times, prefering to sleep late if he can. Rousted from bed, eyes closed, the strands of his hair tousled and tumbling about his face... he looks less then half his age. A slender youth, not yet a man, pale and wraith like in the morning glare.
He sleeps mostly upon his back, the heavy weight of his hands stretched safely away, fingers curled inwards. Watching him in the early morning I sometimes wonder how he slept before receiving them - as a child did he curl upon his side, the hands of a small boy pillowed beneath his cheek? Did his hair fall across his eyes then, as it does now? Silver and gold mixed strands of spun silk, heavy and fine. His face, in sleep, is so much younger; the hardness of his eyes hidden behind closed lids, the harsher twists of his mouth lost in the laxness of slumber. Does sleep make children of us all?
When I wake him, I try to do so gently - the call of his name or purposeful noise in the room around him. It is learned habit, imprinted rather keenly after my own folly in once shaking him awake.
He was quite apologetic afterwards but I dislike repeating my mistakes. They say appearance is only skin deep... but I prefer my skin unscored and the appearance of his innocence lasts only until his eyes open.
