Dawnlit Reflection
He's sleeping now.
From here I can just catch the tip of his ear before it dives into the sheet covers—he wouldn't believe me when I told him it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I suppose when you've been alive as long as he has you have more of right to such statements than a mere mortal, but then I've seen some fair things in my time. My time is his.
But his hair—now that transcends the ears. This is the only time of day when you can catch it tousled…not messily so, just whisked across his face as if some divine wind blew it there and left it, a piece of breathing art. The sun just coming through the palace windows lands in squares of nine on the bed and one of these, the topmost one, falls across the wayward strands of hair, igniting them. Well, perhaps "igniting" isn't the right word. He'd know, but even if I woke him he wouldn't answer, not for himself. He's very gifted with words, you understand, but he wouldn't sort through poetical devices to describe his own hair. Or even his cloak—I tried that once, subtly I thought, when attempting to compose a little ballad about him during the long winter months. Once he wheedled out of me what it was I was doing, he just laughed. He has a gorgeous laugh, like flutes.
There—oh, he rolled over. So much for the patch of glowing blonde. Oh, well. I wonder if he's awake and can feel my eyes on him. He's awfully alert, even for an elf. I wonder if he can sense me sweep my gaze up and down the long creamy length of him in the half-light of dawn, greeting each smooth inch of skin as the familiar homeland it is.
No, I'm quite sure he's asleep. If he could feel the approval of my eyes he could feel the approval of other senses, too, and if that were the case he wouldn't still be lounging in the bed—and I certainly wouldn't be tucked into a chair wearing only my cloak from Lothlorien. Marvelous garment, it is, particularly when you want to leap from the shadows to surprise your yawning lover as he blinks the sleep from his eyes in a blanket of sunlight. I do wish that sun would hurry up. He looks so inviting just lying there, half in and half out of the tangle of sheets (sky blue to compliment his eyes; my doing), and I don't know how much longer I'll be able to sit like this making rational observations.
Even when you don't take all that in—the vale of tendon, the knoll of cheekbone, the curve of lip caught in a dream—even when you don't take that in (if it's possible to do so), I'm not sure I'll be able to keep on like this simply because of my position. I'm stiff, my bones ache, and at my age the ability to "tuck" yourself into a chair is a very rare talent indeed, and meant to be used sparingly. The sun is almost fully up now; its fingers are already catching the tops of the battlements and the tip of the Tower of Ecthelion. He always, always rises with the sun. Maybe if I just stretch my legs out, maybe he won't notice…maybe, just set them so gently on the mattress—
Oh. Hello. Pale fingers trailing over ankle…
So he was awake.