Short drabble inspired by Darius Rucker's song. Thought I'd try my hand at a little KW angst :).
Don't Think I Don't Think About It
But don't think I don't think about it
Don't think I don't have regrets
Don't think it don't get to me
Between the work and the hurt and the whiskey
Don't think I don't wonder 'bout
Could've been, should've been all worked out
I know what I felt, and I know what I said
But don't think I don't think about it.
Motto.
That was their unspoken motto from the very beginning: don't think. For the first time, two logical, cool-headed people abandoned their honor and their pride in favor of something fiercer.
The first time she woke up in his bed, it was just before dawn, and she didn't know where she was. Lying there, stiff, eyes wide in the darkness, she listened to the unfamiliar breathing, a little bit frightened. Eventually, she fell asleep again.
His arms around her woke her up, and then she was falling back into ignorance. If she didn't think about it, she wouldn't know that it was wrong, what they were doing. He was married; she was a lady knight whose every private movement was considered and ripped apart by the Court conservatives. If anyone found out, their careers would be over. But their infrequent nights together always wiped her mind clean of doubt. He was passionate, incredibly so, and it fed her tired soul like nothing else could.
Break.
The last time they slept together was in Corus, at the first of many parties celebrating the war's end. His wife was still at their fief, though not for long. It was their last chance to trace every scar, re-memorize every muscle and stretch of unbroken skin before the end. The end, when it came, was oddly easy. She had grown used to his touch and his kisses, and missed the warmth at her back at night, but she had always known it could never last. That last night, they made love more than they slept, determined to make the most of their final hours in adultery.
Letter.
She got the letter while stationed at Port Legann, helping to fend off raiders. She was the infamously single lady knight, but unlike her old knight-master, suffered no endless parade of matchmaking mothers. This suited her fine. She threw herself into the gritty, muddy work with relish, welcoming the brute labor and never thinking that she was trying to forget him.
But it couldn't last. The letter came from Raoul, asking her to come to Corus. Her old training master, her ex-commander, her one-time lover was on the border of life and death. She rode harder than she ever had before, but didn't make it in time for the operation.
When she walked into the healing ward, Duke Baird stopped her. He wanted to see her, he said, but she might not want to see him. We had to amputate – it's not a pretty sight.
She went anyway.
Heartbreak.
Nothing else ripped into her like this did. It was as if someone had taken a glaive and sheathed the blade expertly into her gut, only to yank upwards to spill her soft parts onto the ground. He was pale and still on the bed, eyes closed, aged a hundred years. The fever was gone, but its ravages had left their mark. The worst part was the abruptness of the way the sheets fell over his legs. They stopped too soon, and she realized then what the wheelchair in the corner was for.
His eyes opened, and so did his hands. She sat on the edge of the bed, clinging to his wasted hands and feeling the wetness run unceasing down her cheeks.
Funeral.
She attended Lady Vivienne's funeral because he asked. She was in Corus in between assignments, and it was only a few days' ride to Cavall. It was the first time she'd seen him since the operation. He looked much the same, if she could ignore the wheelchair, and the way his legs ended at the knee. The lap rug tamed him, made him more pitiful. She whispered a condolence and fled, unable to bear the sight of him so broken.
Midwinter.
Somehow, she was able to keep in touch. With the sight of him in the chair, face stern as he fought the pain that plagued him every day, she wrote letter after letter. He wrote one for every two of hers, but that was as it should be. Running a fief was all he had now, and he threw himself into it with everything he had. Some days, he said, he barely remembered that he was wheelchair-bound. But she did. Every day she remembered, and tried not to weep for the loss of Tortall's best knight.
The years passed, and her infamy grew. Before she knew it she was thirty-five, commanding a unit of the Own and preparing to take over from Raoul, who was becoming a family man more and more. That winter, he came to live at the palace. With all of his daughters gone, the loneliness had become unbearable. And yet even at the palace he remained sequestered in his rooms, receiving visitors, but refusing to wheel himself along the halls he had one walked with pride and strength. When she joined him for chess or just to talk, she found him more cheerful than she had remembered. Watching him feed his great boarhound strips of jerky, or joke with Padraig haMinch on the state of his new pages, she felt her heart lighten. That Midwinter, she spent the balls in his rooms with a select few, laughing and joking and reminiscing about past battles. It was the best Midwinter she could remember having in a long time.
Birthday.
The day she turned forty, she killed four men. Bandits, raiders, whatever the realm might name them, she only saw the despair and fear in their eyes as she cut them down from horseback. She didn't really care that her leg and arm were bleeding freely, or that she had little idea of where she was. Sleep was too inviting.
Dogs found her there, and raised the alarm. A young knight, with curly brown hair and earnest gray eyes, brought her back to his home slung across the front of his saddle. Gaheris of Jesslaw and Cavall saved her life that day. Sometimes she thought she might not have minded that much if he had not.
Don't Think.
He was turning sixty-five, and his friends insisted on throwing him a party. By now he was at home in his wheelchair, and in the empty halls of his castle, but he did not begrudge them a chance to celebrate. There were too few excuses these days, with hurroks and warlike centaurs combing the lands in search of prey. She was there, of course, her arm still in a sling from the attack she had recently survived. He watched her idly as she made her rounds, talking with friends and laughing at the recent news from Corus. But behind the joviality was something darker, something that seemed to sag within her. She was unhappy. His heart twisted, and he looked down at the punch in his hand, wondering.
That evening, they found themselves playing chess on the veranda. Neither were focused on the game, and finally they simply sat back and watched one another.
"Don't think I don't think about it," he said suddenly.
"You think about it too?"
"Every day." His smile was wry and twisted across his face, matching hers.
"Sometimes, I wonder…" She trailed off, and looked away.
"As I do." He leaned forward enough to take her hand across the table, and they sat that way for a long time, watching the sun set behind the hills.