Night Vision

[11.07.01] » by Andrea Hartmann

     I may lie beside him, but seldom do I sleep. I've compared him to an angel, and by night he seems all the more radiant. Perhaps it is the immense power of the gods, or his naturally fair skin, but he almost seems to shine in the moonlight, standing out against the darkness of the rough blankets and sheets. Or maybe it is only that he is what I most want to see, and so I do. Such is my talent, after all.

     He cries in his sleep - quite often, though it is a very, very rare thing indeed when he is awake. Even then he is beautiful, he shines - his face does not contort in his misery. It is a silent, accepted distress that he suffers at night, and he has become accustomed to it after many years. Before he and I met, no one had ever guessed at it, for he kept his tears hidden. I feel privileged to be their sole witness.

     And so I remain awake some nights, and watch him as he lies asleep at my side, if we are not in each other's arms. Usually he is on his back; his metal limbs make it uncomfortable to lie on one side unless he has some kind of support, such as my arm, to carry some of the weight of his body. His head is tilted ever so slightly to the side, towards me, and by now I know every curve of his face by heart - I could trace the lines that his tears will follow before they rise in the corners of his eyes.

     When I do sleep, I usually have one hand extended towards him, or perhaps my arm lies under his shoulders or across his waist. I make it accessible to him so that he need not think too much before touching me. Otherwise, he might grow self-conscious before reaching out, as he used to... but then, there are some nights that I have been awakened by my whispered name.

     This is also why I seldom sleep the full night - his dreams are filled with horrors beyond what I can imagine. He has tried to describe some to me, those of the end of the world, but they are only words strung together, and therefore not so disturbing to me as they are to him. Fire rains from the heavens. The earth screams. Stars fall from the sky. Does hearing those words, especially in a soft, gentle voice such as his, inspire anywhere near the kind of terror it must be to witness such things?

     He is the strongest, most courageous person I have ever met, far beyond mortal concerns of physical safety, and yet he wakes trembling, and sometimes crying. Sometimes he gets out of bed and goes to the window, staring outside at the sky to reassure himself that the day has not come yet.

     He is a prophet, though, and I have learned to trust in his visions. He tells me that the day is fast approaching, brought about not by some whim of the gods, but the greed and duplicity of mankind. I've no reason to question this, for I've witnessed plenty of greed and duplicity in my twenty-odd years, and I've only known a small portion of the world. How much more sin lies beyond the confines of my perception? Someday that day will come, I've no doubt. Probably soon.

     Though perhaps not within my lifetime. We live in a dangerous era, and we of Müllenkamp are in more danger than most, for we openly rebel against the governing church of St. Iocus. We have our swords close at hand even in the night, and spells on the tips of our tongues. Many of our brethren have fallen already, and as a swordsman, I've come within reach of death too many times to count.

     He, though, is immortal. Even if a sword were to pierce his heart, it would matter little. He will certainly live until the day he has seen, and the world will go mad around him.

     ...Will I be at his side then? Even if I am, what can I do to comfort him when his visions come to pass?

     I am no prophet - I know not what the next day will bring. I must do what I can now, and that is to watch him sleep, to be ready to take him into my arms when he wakes, to hold him closely until he has calmed and can rest again. After all he has given me, I would do whatever I can for him, no matter how small.

     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.