Watching him as he sleeps

July 1, 2009 at 9:23 am (original poetry/prose, Roísín's History, the Muse sings)

She writes her words in darkest purple ink, a little looping script that tends to sharpen into points when you least expect it.  Holding her leatherbound journal over the tree stump that usually hides it, you feel more than a bit like a voyeur… but still, you read…

He seems so fragile while he sleeps. So vulnerable his body, so tenuous his breath.

Sometimes I feel it will drive me mad, knowing so keenly of my darling husband’s mortality.  Sometimes I find within me a little whirl of panic at the thought that some day, he will be gone.  Some day, Time will have its’ way and take him from me.  His skin which I love so dearly will grow cold, his eyes which sparkle into my soul will grow dull.

Times like these, I play with wild ideas that I know are foolish.  I think, perhaps if I work at it, I can brew a potion that will keep the years from aging him, an infusion that will protect from all ills.  I think, if my magik fails, then surely my Blood would not, surely my Blood would change him, warp him, kill him then resurrect him as forever cold and close to me.  Crazily, I imagine myself powerful enough to protect him from Clan and Ancient and The Beast itself.

Of course, I know these times I am half-mad with fear, and that any plans that might come of it are foolishness at best, and dangerously destructive at worst.  The only thing that can keep love from fading is memory… and that, too, is imperfect.

I never did wish to be taken out of the cycle of life and death and rebirth.  Given the choice those centuries ago, I would have refused… wouldn’t I?  I suppose I cannot be sure; even knowing how pleased I am, most days, to find myself still alive, would I knowingly go through the agonizing transformations again?

Probably I cannot know for certain.  What I do know is, I will not be responsible for putting another soul through all those awful centuries of darkness and danger: not beloved, not enemy, not anyone.  So much of who I am now is due to Fortune, whom we all know is fickle.  If tested, She is not likely to roll the dice kindly a second time.

And so I find myself again watching over him as he sleeps… he, who is so precious to me, I rarely speak his name.  He, who is so dear to me, I fear to sing of, that Fate notice him and tie tangles into his future.  The habits of centuries work prudence in me, to quietly protect all that I hold dearest.

I tell myself, be wise.  Do not fight Time for him, or Time and Fate might conspire to twist him and his life into something horrific.

But oh, what will I do when I am truly tested?  When his blood is spilt or his breath ragged… would I stay wise?

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