You are a patient creature, so waiting means little to you. You ease yourself up on one elbow to watch him wrench a cloak about his shoulders (too little warmth, you think, for his thin frame) and say nothing as he commands you to stay. What to say? You'll be there when he returns.

After he has ghosted down the stairs, you rise and peer out the window, only to catch his direction. Silvermoon is a great, winding circle, and you're uncertain you could find your way through it in the dark, but your compulsion overcomes your logic. You must know which direction he's gone. You must know which way to face when expecting his return.

You smile to yourself as you settle back into bed—that's easy. He'll return by the stairs, of course.

Your fingers work themselves in age-old motions as you let your mind drift. It settles on the topic of today, and today's conversations. You wonder, as you often do, what you said that started the motions, the gears, the ticking until the bomb finally detonates. You know that some of what you said was in poor taste, but you are nothing if not an honest creature. Honest in all your fares. You regret not one single word.

You know that you have no control over him, and you do not desire it. For you it is enough, and ever enough, to touch, to reach, to ceaselessly wait on the bank of a river and gaze at him across the other side. There is no bridge, but a ford, now, that you add to piece-by-piece, day-by-day. He cannot build, and so you do. Your progress is slow, but steady. The river churns, from time to time, and shreds away your effort, but still you do not stop. There is a safety on your side of the river, and you are determined to show him it. You are determined to demonstrate that it will always be there, once the way is bridged. You don't require him to stay. Your only goal is for him to know.

And so you wait, in the quiet darkness of the night. You know.