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He saw her like this more often than not, these days. She slept excessively, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath more or less the only movements she made. Her head often rested against the pillow with remnants of dark liner smeared under her eyes, and even when Denastien had taken warm, cleansing cloths to her face, Destaria often didn't stir.
However, every now and then the quel'dorei mother would stir and shift, rolling or quietly releasing a louder, shaking exhale through her nose, soft features just faintly touched with age in that graceful way so indicative of elven beings. When she moved, Denastien would lean to the side, left hand holding his book nearly closed, fingers sandwiched between pages. The right hand gently pulled fading blonde hair away from sleeping, fluttering eyes.
It was better this way, he rationalized. Sleep was preferable to the crying, the screaming, the clinging. Sun above, he couldn't abide by the clinging. If she could just contain herself for a moment or two, it would have made all the world of difference, and he often could see from many proverbial yards away when the pin would drop and her world would crumble.
It wasn't as though he had no compassion for her. Surely, certainly he must? She was his mother, a caretaker, the ... what did humans call it? One of the strongest bonds of love to ever exist. He was ... reasonably sure he felt that bond. All about the room, he felt it - in little ghosts of interactions, countless and varying.
The vanity mirror on the far end of the room, just nestled between the large wardrobe door and the curtained archway to the bathroom - why, that held an infinite and blurring number of memories. Memories of sitting on the stool before it, waiting as her gentle hands tousled and fussed over every one of his curls. Not-as-gentle pinches to his cheeks until he whined, but they never had enough color, the woman finding it thoroughly appropriate before long to apply powders in blushing colors on the child that he was.
Denastien marked the page in his book and set the tome aside, fingers gently brushing over the compendium of runic circles and spell-weaving basics with the same care that he'd taken to keep from stirring Destaria with. There was no point to reading, his mind was too full. By this point, he was quite used to the feeling. Thoughts belonged to the metaphysical, but nevertheless his head always felt as though it swelled with the rush of both mundane and fantastical flickers of words and whispers.
The wardrobe door lay half ajar, a peek at shaded colors and fabrics. She'd often tried making her own dresses with the help of the more thread-talented servants in the house. Those were always his least favorite, and were worn for a day or two, long enough to please her until some other interest caught her attention, and then carefully tucked away where she'd never find them again. He'd finally taken a bit of interest in his own stitchery, and she'd been nothing but overbearingly supportive.
In many of these quiet moments, he got a multitude, a whirlwind of studies, work, practice all finished. It wasn't the way it had been when he was a child, or even an adolescent. Fawning attention and constant supervision, constant picking and pruning and fussing until he wanted to scream but Sun forbid he ever so much as open his mouth without the angelic tones she'd come to expect.
His ears flicked, lifting and then tipping to opposite sides as Destaria turned with a sigh, holding still for a moment before words, strained and quiet, fell from her lips with breathy, exhausted tones.
"Go read in the garden, Dena-doll. Your page turns are deafening."
The fresh air might do his head some good. With a creak of the rocking chair and a shift of simple blue and silver robes, Denastien leaned over the bed and pressed an unfeeling kiss to Destaria's brow.
