He is kind before all else - I knew that from the moment I met him, from the moment I looked into his startled eyes and read his heart. So often he lies awake at night, keeping watch over me as I sleep, hoping to protect me from the nightmares I cannot explain, or at the least to be there holding me when I wake, to bear silent witness to that which no one else has seen.
But he is more mortal than myself, and thus must have his own time to sleep.
Even in slumber, his features seem to bear a look of determination, and his arms around me remain protective. But then, perhaps it is only my perception of him. One talent of mine since childhood has been the ability to see the energies that a person draws. Each living creature is attuned to certain of the elements, stronger in some than others, and that power surrounds them as a faint fragment of a rainbow in the mist. His strongest affinity is that of Earth, firm yet nurturing, but beneath the calming tones of green and brown lie undercurrents of angry red; Fire is kept buried below the surface. It is perhaps why we find each other so companionable, yet so often frustrate each other, for if my aura were not now eclipsed by the Dark, one would see the pale, cool tints of Air streaked with the deep blues and teals of Water.
I see his Fire escape from time to time, in small measures. Outbursts of anger, the intensity of his eyes when in battle, and sometimes in lovemaking. But these are only hints of what lies beneath, miniscule flickers that might be allowed to reach the surface only for the sake of keeping a larger eruption in check. More often he appears stoic, a perfectly steady arm for those around him to lean upon, should they have need. Even those who barely know him find it not difficult to place their trust in him, for the Earth gives him a comforting presence, almost parental. Sometimes, even I cannot help but play the child in his arms, when the visions come upon me.
No one else would know from looking at him that he suffers his own terrors in the night.
His dreams are filled with dim light and cold stone, with the helpless solitude that nearly broke him. He never speaks of them, and in fact if I had not the talent to read hearts, I might overlook his reactions entirely. When I wake from my nightmares, I am often trembling, and I draw him closer, to reassure myself that for the time being, all is well; the world is not burning, my people are still safe, and he is still here, a firm physical presence filled with the steady rhythms of breathing and a beating heart.
But he is my polarity, and so when he wakes from his nightmares, his tendancy is to turn away from me in an instinctively casual manner that could be mistaken for simple restlessness. Lying on his side, he curls his legs against his chest, his arms drawn in tight between as if for warmth. He lies huddled into himself as his half-closed eyes focus on his surroundings, forcing himself to remember that he has left the place of his dreams far behind him. Despite his considerable height and the roughness of his features, he looks childlike to me then, and very small.
I would take him into my arms to comfort him, as he so often does for me, but another emotion covers even the melancholy that he wears like a shroud after such a dream: shame. For this, there is no comfort to be found in others; in fact, to acknowledge his distress would be to sharpen it. He neither asks nor offers anything, and I know better than to do anything but pretend I have not noticed.
When the dreams come upon me, we take comfort in each other - he asks of me to be allowed to reassure, and for both our sakes I allow it. But when the dreams come to him, we lie side by side, in the same bed and utterly alone.