Reflections Of Angels

Between Dreaming and Waking

He awoke in the early morning light with Nyx resting softly in his arms. Opening his eyes, he looked over and saw his reflection in the glass lampshade on the bedside table, watching them.

"She's very sweet." The reflection mused, blackened eyes flicking over Nyx, asleep amidst a nest of midnight curls emerging from the blankets.

The flesh-and-blood one of them stared, unblinking, at the reflection, as if his hard gaze could physically hold the other back.

The reflection's eyes met his once again and he pulled a curious expression. "Are you sure she's okay?"

Yes. Why wouldn't she be? But the moment that thought entered his mind, it did as intended and stuck in there; tangled like a corruptive vine, spreading its coils and digging in with its roots.

The reflection continued. "She seems very still."

Because she's sleeping, the rational part of his mind told him, but still he glanced down, trying to spy the reassuring rise and fall of her breathing underneath all the covers. She seemed almost marble-like, her pale hand unmoving on the bed between them, so porcelain and fragile.

"She seems very cold."

Despite him knowing her warmth would be there at his side should he just lean in, in his eyes, she did seem cold; no flush of blood under her skin, her body like ice, the air around them that her breath should warm a bitter chill.

Unbidden, the image of her lifeless body rose before his eyes; that night, her limbs leaden and limp, blank eyes looking out into the unseen, blood blooming like scarlet flowers across her skin.

In a last-ditch effort, he lashed out, knocking the lamp aside. The reflection evaporated.

And then, Nyx became alive again; eyes opening, body stretching beside him, having awoken at the commotion. "What's happened?"

Slowly, he untensed and withdrew back onto the bed, laying his head down on her middle. "Nightmare."

"That's unlike you. Usually it's me that does that. ...Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."