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He sat by her bedside, holding her hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her skin was paper thin, now, creased with age. Most of her friends, the women she had been a girl with, were long dead. Twenty, thirty years. Some of them even longer, lost in childbirth or to illness. Life was hard in the wilderness they were carving into, marking with the path of civilization that had barely arrived on the continent in the two centuries Europeans had been attempting to tame it. At 87, she was near-ancient, outliving all she had loved save the man now seated by her side, holding fast to the fragile hand where he could still feel a tiny pulse of life.
His eyes swept over her, shadowed and a touch lost. He had never known love like this, not been accepted for who he was since the boy he no longer allowed himself to think about. She had known him, accepted him, loved him, been faithful to him, and shown him there was still something good in the world.
And now she was fading from it.
He could still see the girl she had been, shimmering underneath the lines time had etched. It marked her in ways he would never know, taking its toll year after year, but when he looked at her, time's ravages were not what he saw, but time's blessings. She had fretted when they moved, telling people he was her son. She had cried when the story shifted, and they told their neighbors he was her grandson. Pretty girls, blossoming in their transient youth, had flirted with him in front of her, admiring his care for the old woman they dismissed with a glance, never noticing the way he held her arm, cradled close to him, or the near disdain in those ice blue eyes when they rested on the children flaunting their charms. He felt her tremble, overhearing their words, attempting to pry him from her side for a dance, a dinner, a walk in the moonlight, and one night, in tears, she whispered that he should go, that he deserved better, that she was too old for someone like him. He kissed away her tears and carried her to bed to prove her wrong.
What did lines in skin matter, when her soul still nestled inside of his own? Why would he flinch where muscle sagged, when she still smiled at him with that perfect acceptance, when the stories they shared, the life they built, sprawled out through decades like he had never known? His eyes filled with tears he was unaccustomed to shedding, coursing down his cheeks, and the sound of the sob he muffled, turning his head to his own shoulder, made her stir, opening her eyes to study him with a soft gaze.
"It's nearly time," she whispered, and the sob choked in his throat this time, even as he forced himself to meet her eyes. "Will you hold me?"
Swallowing back the tears, he gave her a smile, shifting to stretch out on the bed beside her and pull her into his arms, cradling her against him. "I love you," he whispered back. "Our marriage, our life...I have been happier by your side than I have ever been, in all my years of life."
She smiled at that, pillowing her head on his chest and lifting one hand to rest over his heart. "Promise me you'll find happiness again."
"Angelica..."
"Promise me." There was a sternness in her voice, even as soft as it was.
"One day," he finally allowed. "I promise, one day. But not...not for a very long time, I think."
"Well, I wouldn't want it to happen too quickly," she said, lips curving a bit. "Allow me a touch of selfishness..."
He chuckled at that, through the tears, and she pressed a soft kiss to the fabric of his shirt before closing her eyes, the faint smile still on her face. It was still there, even as he felt the gentle rise and fall of her chest cease, the beat of her heart grow silent and the heat of his tears as they ran down his cheeks unchecked.
He sat by her bedside, holding her hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her skin was paper thin, now, creased with age. Most of her friends, the women she had been a girl with, were long dead. Twenty, thirty years. Some of them even longer, lost in childbirth or to illness. Life was hard in the wilderness they were carving into, marking with the path of civilization that had barely arrived on the continent in the two centuries Europeans had been attempting to tame it. At 87, she was near-ancient, outliving all she had loved save the man now seated by her side, holding fast to the fragile hand where he could still feel a tiny pulse of life.
His eyes swept over her, shadowed and a touch lost. He had never known love like this, not been accepted for who he was since the boy he no longer allowed himself to think about. She had known him, accepted him, loved him, been faithful to him, and shown him there was still something good in the world.
And now she was fading from it.
He could still see the girl she had been, shimmering underneath the lines time had etched. It marked her in ways he would never know, taking its toll year after year, but when he looked at her, time's ravages were not what he saw, but time's blessings. She had fretted when they moved, telling people he was her son. She had cried when the story shifted, and they told their neighbors he was her grandson. Pretty girls, blossoming in their transient youth, had flirted with him in front of her, admiring his care for the old woman they dismissed with a glance, never noticing the way he held her arm, cradled close to him, or the near disdain in those ice blue eyes when they rested on the children flaunting their charms. He felt her tremble, overhearing their words, attempting to pry him from her side for a dance, a dinner, a walk in the moonlight, and one night, in tears, she whispered that he should go, that he deserved better, that she was too old for someone like him. He kissed away her tears and carried her to bed to prove her wrong.
What did lines in skin matter, when her soul still nestled inside of his own? Why would he flinch where muscle sagged, when she still smiled at him with that perfect acceptance, when the stories they shared, the life they built, sprawled out through decades like he had never known? His eyes filled with tears he was unaccustomed to shedding, coursing down his cheeks, and the sound of the sob he muffled, turning his head to his own shoulder, made her stir, opening her eyes to study him with a soft gaze.
"It's nearly time," she whispered, and the sob choked in his throat this time, even as he forced himself to meet her eyes. "Will you hold me?"
Swallowing back the tears, he gave her a smile, shifting to stretch out on the bed beside her and pull her into his arms, cradling her against him. "I love you," he whispered back. "Our marriage, our life...I have been happier by your side than I have ever been, in all my years of life."
She smiled at that, pillowing her head on his chest and lifting one hand to rest over his heart. "Promise me you'll find happiness again."
"Angelica..."
"Promise me." There was a sternness in her voice, even as soft as it was.
"One day," he finally allowed. "I promise, one day. But not...not for a very long time, I think."
"Well, I wouldn't want it to happen too quickly," she said, lips curving a bit. "Allow me a touch of selfishness..."
He chuckled at that, through the tears, and she pressed a soft kiss to the fabric of his shirt before closing her eyes, the faint smile still on her face. It was still there, even as he felt the gentle rise and fall of her chest cease, the beat of her heart grow silent and the heat of his tears as they ran down his cheeks unchecked.
