This is the only time of day he seems fragile; the only time that my thoughts twist until I think I could break him. It's almost a temptation to try, do all the things to him that my former mistress wanted me to. But I won't. He trusts me - a humbling, honouring trust that I would never break.
He looks sick and fragile, almost like a child, without the guards and walls he maintains as a matter of course while he's awake. It lets the tiredness show through the cracks that are forming. He's always tired, now, on the verge of exhaustion, the black circles under his eyes a sharp contrast to his pale skin. The shadows on the bed beneath his body are hardly any darker than those circles, adding to my feeling that he about to fade away; simply fade away and leave me here alone. The morning light makes the dark sharper and the pale lighter, so his nose looks sharp enough to cut my hand on.
In a few moments, I remind myself, he will wake, and his strong presence will drive away the spectres of night and the half formed phantoms of the morning.
How can I help fearing him a little for the power he holds over me and my dreams? Nor can I help loving him for the safety he gives; for the knowledge, as I look at his pale face, that when he wakes everything solidifies and those wisps of smoke and dream hold no power.
