He's deathly pale, and in the moonlight paler still. His footsteps totter back and forth unsteadily as he makes his way across the room, and his pallor gives him the appearance of some wandering spirit, lost in the desire to remember when it could move in a mundane fashion. Even the sounds of metal on metal, joints and digits clicking slightly, bring to mind thoughts of chains rattling. Those limbs seem to keep him similarly grounded in this world for the time being, for although he's long since accustomed himself to their weight, tonight he is exhausted, and having difficulty balancing beneath their heavy sway. I have to wonder why he chose to leave his bed to pour himself a drink, rather than asking me... he knows I would not object. He knows I would aid him as well, but we've been together for long enough now that I've learned not to bother.
Those limbs, far too dark and real for a being so pale and ethereal, clatter faintly as he lets himself down upon the bed once more. He's been unwell more and more often of late - not that he's changed his ways in the slightest for all of it. I wonder if he had so little regard for his wellbeing when he was only a man, and not immortal.
...I often wonder what he may have been like when he was mortal. Was he once something unspectacular? Something perfectly normal? It seems an impossibility to me now, but if he was always something so strange and so special, that might mean that he was fated for this from birth... and fate is not a matter I will allow myself to think much upon. Better to think upon him.
If he is not already fast asleep, he is well on his way - lying where he collapsed with his hair spread across his face, moving slightly with each shallow breath he takes. Even as far gone as he is, he still flinches a bit as I pull it back from his lips, but either this time he recognizes the gesture as one of kindness rather than attack, or he is simply too exhausted; either way, I am not punished. I can't help but wonder if he has such trials in the flesh because he does not belong on this plane any more than another wandering spirit in this city might.
But for now I can see him, I can touch him. As I pull up the sheets around his shoulders, they retain their peaks and folds, conforming to the shape beneath them. They rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing, and after a time it evens out - the evidence that he sleeps spelled out in angles and curves of light and shadow and the tight weave of the fabric.
As for myself, I intend to stay awake, lest this restless spirit rise from his bed again with no one to behold his wandering. Unlike the scores of others in this place, he has a place and a purpose to return to - and as I live, someone to see him there safely.