Disclaimer: Based on The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien.
Rating: G

He knows that if he has any light at all it is a reflection of hers. She burns with a light and a heat that comes from within herself, as much a part of her as her well trained, martial grace. He, on his own, would be nothing more than a dark pool showing nothing, hiding all the world.

But her light exposes him, gives him a borrowed glow that he cannot help but cling to, even if that glow cannot show all of the things hidden in his darker waters. This should be solely a comfort, the knowledge that some things at least he may keep to himself, but it is not, for somehow he wishes himself stripped bare of veils, at least to her. He would like to be as naked and as vulnerable to her eyes as he seems to be to himself when she is near.

He wonders if she can see her own light in him, or if all that brilliance merely makes his shadows show themselves more clearly in form, if not in content. Her radiance certainly makes her shadows easy for him to see and read. Though perhaps that comes from long familiarity, as well. He has always found her darkness fascinating.

Hers are so clear. Against her blaze the dark patches stand out like the training bruises on her pale skin. He can see each one, and he knows how darken them how mark her soul (the only part of her he can find a way to set his mark on, for he dare not touch her, and bruise her with the force of his wanting) and thereby draw her nearer to him.

He does not know what will happen when they touch. He does not know if he will be burned to nothing by the force of having her light upon him fully. He does not know if she will be quenched entirely by his enveloping shadows.

He does not know. He does not care. He wishes only to be warm, for once in his life he wants to be warm. And he knows he will never be warm if he is not touching her, for he himself is cold, and will always be cold, even if he is near enough to catch some of her reflected glory.

And so he does not hide from her.