________________________________________________

Moonlight kisses him like a silver ghost, and yet he sleeps, unknowing. I watch, still, shrouded in darkness beside him. I hardly dare to move, lest I disturb him. I scarcely breathe, that he might sleep on.

He is so precious to me, and sleep is so precious to him, now, that his dreams have become sacred. Wild and treasured chalices, they fill this night, like so many others. I become stone so that his dreams might not spill over into waking. He fills my cup with purpose.

For so many years I wandered aimless, a shadow of a soul. He was the light, and I the darkness; he the moon, and I, its greying. Darkness without light has no purpose, and neither had I, for so very long. We had been together once, a thing and its shadow, until we were rent with bitterness and misunderstanding. Gods, we were children... too young for the loss of innocence we endured. Some might have said that we lost our purity in one another, but in him, my innocence had been maintained. I found peace in his gentle untamed eyes, his scholar's touch, his calm. I was the storm, then, and he the subtle wake. He was feather-lightness, I: all awkward beak and talons. He was all, and I reflected. I shadowed his being, and I loved with all the hard angles of my self. We have lost, he and I, in life. Both outcasts, never understood. He in all his quiet wisdom cannot learn the deepest wholeness of humanity, and I... I close myself. I erect walls, reflecting his openness. And yet, walls or no, we are tangled in lies, both of us. We have lost years, he and I, and those years were spent not even empty, for one must be whole in order to be filled with nothing. We existed, incomplete, aching with the bitterness of time.

We have found one another, now, despite forests of lies and chasms of pain. We have wounded one another too deeply; loved one another too much. An ocean of regret and longing lies between us, still. And yet, he shines upon it gently; transient moonlight.

I am the cold depths, desperate for his touch, reflecting.

I watch him sleep, kissed by the beautiful curse. The moon hangs full and round, shadowing the curve of earth. His pelt glistens with silver, mirrored irony. I ache to see him each month, watching his eyes gleam with pain in his beloved face, watching his mildness consumed by the beast. But even the beast is old, now, grizzled and weary. I smile, watching as he shifts in his sleep, nestling his shaggy head into his paws. He frightens me not, for I love him as I have always, even when the love dripped with the bitterness of hate. He is my lightness, my being, this wild thing of golden eyes and dusky fur. This gentle man with hazel eyes and grey-streaked hair... He is my all, even in his duality. He is mine.

I long to reach out and stroke him, to bury my fingers in the coarseness of his pelt and cling to him. I long to feel his teeth at my throat, his hot breath against my cheek.

He is so alive, so free; he infuses the coldness of my soul with passion, all heavy fur and musk and sweat and tangled limbs. He is so beautiful each month, a creature of the night, all sharp teeth and lean muscles and a killer's instinct. He longs to run free, and yet he stays, curling up beside me and resting his heavy paws upon my arm. He could tear my throat out in an instant. He is beautiful always, and I adore him.

Sometimes, I think that death at his hand would be merciful indeed. I would submit, for once, kneeling in front of the beast and baring my throat to him. My blood would taste salty, flow hot, and he would ravage me with teeth and savage claws and a whirlwind of silver fur and tawny eyes. He would be beautiful, in that wild dance. He is beautiful now, sleeping. I would die for him, have died for him, for I was never alive without him. He has given me my life; it is only fitting for him to take it. He is a predator, and I, his willing prey.

I am a predator, also. I hunt him, stalking the castle. I find him in his office, or in the library, and I watch. I burn him with my gaze, sear his flesh with my embers. I drag him to my lair, coldly, for I am not a creature of fiery passions. He is mine, in these times, a meek and willing victim. He always smiles as I take him; never flinches when my skin meets his. I am tainted with regret, marked, and yet he gazes at me wordlessly and touches, feather-light. I shadow the moon; I long to howl at him in love. And yet I remain silent, simply caressing him and losing myself in light. He shines, and he burns through my soul, cleansing my shadowed depths. He burns, and I am cold.

His hot flesh sears me, warms me; I plunge his depths, explore him with my touch, delve him with my tongue. He tastes like summer, always. I am eternal winter; I touch him and dream of gold. I watch him now, longing to touch him, aching with need. I long to ride him, to own and be owned. I yearn to be rent apart by his claws, to die in his arms, to bleed until all that is left is untainted love. I could kill him, for weakening me so.

I could kill him, and he could kill me, and yet we balance on the edge of the knife; a dangerous liaison indeed. I watch him now, thinking of love, as the light of the setting moon kisses him faintly, like a lover taking a reluctant leave. He sleeps, unknowing. I lie still, shrouded in darkness beside him. I hardly dare to move, lest I disturb him. I scarcely breathe, that he might sleep on. In a moment he will shudder and wake, wracked with the agony of change, and I will watch, still, helpless. He will lie shaking in the aftermath, and I will hold him, touch him, and whisper words of love that I could never say, except in the grey moments out of time between night and dawn.

I watch him, longing to stroke his fur and tell him that I love him. He sleeps on, and I ache to hold him. I lie still, however. For him, I have waited almost all of my life.

For my Lupin, I can wait awhile longer... And so I watch him, darkness dreaming of the moon.