Without
He whispers her name for what must be the millionth time. And for the millionth time, his hushed cadence aimlessly reverberates through the empty house. For the millionth time, she does not appear, she does not answer him. For the millionth time, he drops his head into his hands and cries.
He stands in the doorway of her bedroom. The air that circulates within the confines of the pale, light green walls is much colder than that which floats the length of the hall. It swirls before him, biting the skin of his cheeks, his nose, his hands. It grips him, weaving around his body as it seeks his heart. He feels the cold's icy fingers wrap around his very soul, draining every bit of his being until he is empty. Empty as the room before him.
He spends the morning hours staring at the ceiling through red, swollen eyes. His fingers tightly hold his cell phone, pressing it into his chest. His knuckles are white, his muscles sore, far beyond the point of cramping. Yet he has no intention of setting down the device until he hears word that she is safe. A flippant smile tugs weakly at his lips as he thinks his fingers may be forever fixed in this position.
He sighs heavily and rolls to lie on his left, facing the side of the bed she mainly occupies while she sleeps. The pillows, the sheets smell faintly of her lotion…lavender…gardenia…he can no longer recall. His mind, consumed by wretchedness, is unable to function properly. Regardless, he forces himself through a physically painful breath, inhaling the soft scent, searching for anything to ease the vile ache he has become.
He dreams terribly wicked dreams. In some, she stands before him, smiling, happy. In some, she bears the pained reality. Yet in all, she is whisked away prematurely, taken from him before he can reach her. He watches as the tree swallows her, as it explodes, as it spews fiery red light across the darkened cavern. As it continually replays the horror. His mental and physical exhaustion will not allow him to wake from his nightmares. They demand he suffer. And suffer he does.
He groggily makes his way towards consciousness, his eyes opening slowly to the world around him. The moonlight streams through the small gaps between the curtains and the window frame, leaving long, thin shards of blue light on the wall. He stares at them for a few moments before taking a deep breath. A fresh, inviting smell permeates his senses, and he closes his eyes, soaking in the comfort it instills. It takes far longer than necessary for him to realize he is not in his own room, rather burrowed in the warm blankets of her bed. The scent calms him no longer, mockingly bringing forth the memory of the previous evening.
He sits up quickly, frantically searching the blankets for his phone. After a moment of panic, after his eyes adjust to the night around him, he sees the shape of his device resting on the nightstand. He crawls across the mattress and retrieves the phone. There are no messages. There are no calls. There are no signs she is alive and well. He slowly shakes his head and in a heated, angry moment, pitches the phone across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying, shattering crack and falls to the floor in pieces.
He dreams. Again. Unable to wipe her image from his mind if only for a moment of reprieve. He stills in the doorway of the Archives, watching as she stands behind the table on the far end of the room. She gently sways side to side, humming softly as she flips through yellowed pages of an old book. The sun shines brightly through the windows of the wall behind her. It bathes her in a heavenly glow, focuses his attention on a treasure he has always cherished. He smiles and makes his way through the room to her side as she greets him, fitting her words into the melody she hums. She flips through a few more pages and uses her finger to direct his attention to the words. He cannot, however tear his eyes from her face. His hand finds its way to the back of her head, securing her attention. Before he realizes what is occurring, his lips connect with hers, his arm circles her waist and he pulls their bodies together.
He loves her. She is his constant in this still strange new world; she is his partner in this horrid war, she is his best friend. She is as much family as anyone he has ever known. As he lingers on the edge of the dream, tears flowing from his eyes, he admits to himself what he has felt the entire time he has known her. He is not himself without her. He is not complete without her. Yes, he loves her. Yet it is more than that. He loves her.
He dries the still warm drops of water from his skin and dresses as quickly as his sore muscles allow. He sleeps, he showers; he does little else. He has had company over the previous two days. They encourage his emergence from her bedroom, though he has not been able to do so. He is grateful they are here, though he cannot bring himself to be social. He sits on the edge of the mattress absently staring at the floor. They are hurting just as much as he is, but he cannot share his pain and heal with them. Not yet. A quiet knock at the door, a soft shuffle of feet along the carpet pull him from his reverie. An offering of warm, filling food enters his line of sight. He takes the plate with an appreciative nod, only to place it on the nightstand once his visitor leaves the room. He is hungry, yet his stomach cannot entertain the idea of eating.
He sits on the living room floor, immersed in piles of books from the Archives. He lifts his eyes from the pages and shakes his head. Nine days have passed since she walked into the base of that tree. Nine days. Nine days. Each of those nine days has broken him countless times more than the nine months he willingly removed himself from her company. He could not fathom how he survived nine months without her when these nine days have killed him. There had been a longing to see her from the moment he left. Yet with all of the changes that had claimed his life in such a short amount of time, he did not know how to process what the longing meant. He knows now, however, and nothing will keep him from finding her, from spending eternity making up lost time. With a renewed surge of energy and sense of hope, he studies, he researches, he seeks a way to save her.
He passes vaguely through three more days of preparing before he finds himself in the bowels of Hell, facing the most disgusting of creatures. Singed hair, torched and bloodied skin greet him. He accepts the challenged issued, knowing he must cross the beast's path to reach her. Large, strong paws swipe at him. Pointed, razor-like claws rip at his clothes and burn his skin. Yet, he presses on, stinging the beast with the sharp edge of his sword. The creature is fierce, stronger than he is, and it is not long before he is on his knees and at its mercy. He fears all is lost, that he has failed the team, failed all of humanity. Failed her. And he cannot forgive himself.
He hears her voice. It is soft, scared. She begs him to rise, to run, to save himself. He refuses. He will not run. He will save her, even if her salvation means his demise. He stands, sword tight in his grasp, and as he prepares his stance for a final swing, he damns all of Hell. His swiftness catches the beast off guard and his sword connects with its neck, severing its grotesque head from its unearthly body. He stands over the collapsed corpse and with a scream that echoes every bit of the anger he harbors, plunges the sword into the beast's heart.
He jumps over the disintegrating, foul creature and ascends the stairs, two at a time. He desperately wants to look at her, to meet her eyes and drown in those dark orbs. Yet if he does…if he does, he knows he will be forever lost in her. Right now, he needs to liberate her from the chains that circle her body. She is not safe until they have escaped this seared, loathsome underworld.
He sits on the forest floor, leaning against a large, thick tree trunk. The dampness of the foliage seeps into his pants, though he pays the uncomfortableness no heed. She is in his arms, draped across his body. She is uninjured physically; he cannot make the same claim regarding her mental state. She presses against him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. He reciprocates, internally vowing never to let go. He places his cheek against her temple and whispers soothingly near her ear until her ragged breaths calm some and they begin breathing in unison.
He stands patiently in the hallway with her pajamas folded over his arms, as she hurriedly shuts herself behind the bathroom door and purges the terror, the anger, the worry, the rush of adrenaline from her system. When she opens the door, he enters and immediately draws a warm bath. He leans against the edge of the pedestalled sink, averting his eyes as she disrobes and steps into the bathtub. The shriek of metal curtain rings against the metal rod signals that she is appropriately hidden behind the vinyl. He pulls a plush towel from the linen closet next to the sink and waits.
He gives her no opportunity to roam throughout the house, despite her vehement verbal protests. He simply takes her hand and leads her to her bedroom. She says nothing as they reach the doorway, though she pulls back instantly, refusing to enter. He cocks an eyebrow at her and after a moment of thought, pulls her the rest of the way through the hall to his room. She poses no argument as he leads her to his bed. He turns down the sheets and motions for her to take residence.
He does not bother to turn off the light; he is not certain how she will respond to the darkness. Instead, he rounds the end of the bed, his eyes maintaining firm contact with hers, and takes his place on the opposite side of the mattress. He pulls the blankets over both of their bodies and extends his arm in a silent invitation. She accepts, sliding as close to him as physically possible. He encourages her closer until her head is on his chest, their legs tangled. His arms tighten around her and his fingers trace lazy comforting circles along her back as she cries.
He wakes some time later, relieved that she is still in his arms. He shifts carefully and watches her as she sleeps. Fear still shows on her face. Her brow is furrowed and he is certain she is dreaming of her entrapment. He would give anything to take that from her. Anything. All he can do is offer whatever comfort she will allow. He lifts his hand and brushes the hair from her face, shushing quietly as she stirs beneath his touch.
He makes a small breakfast of pancakes and strawberries. She has not eaten much in the three days since her rescue and though he understands, he cannot allow it to happen any longer. He plates the meal, fills a mug with fresh, hot coffee and wanders through the house to his bedroom. She has showered and he is pleased to see she has returned to bed as he ordered. He sits on the edge of the mattress, facing her as she gingerly takes the plate. Though her first few bites go down slowly, he can see the respite in her face, in her posture. Her appetite is making a return.
He shares a few small stories as she eats. He tells her of the terrific thunderstorm that travelled through the area during her absence, of the leaves and branches that littered the ground in its wake. He talks of her sister's wonderful recovery and of her budding romance with a certain young man. He draws gentle laughter from her lips, a beautiful sound of which he will never grow tired.
He places her empty plate and mug on the nightstand and shifts closer to her. He whispers her name as he gently cups her cheek. He apologizes for not preventing her from entering the tree, for the terrors she experienced. For not finding her sooner. She apologizes for… His hand slides along her cheek, his finger gently covering the center of her mouth so she cannot say another word. He shakes his head, admonishes any need she has to apologize. He will hear nothing of the sort from her lips.
He meets her eyes and finally allows himself to drown. He whispers her name again. He speaks of all she causes him to feel, the good and the bad, the hopes and the fears. He shares every revelation those feelings have conjured. Her eyes tear as he talks. The apprehension and uncertainty she has always carried in her heart begin to melt away. He finishes his very eloquent soliloquy sighing through a half-finished sentence. Words are no longer adequate to express his feelings. There is only one thing left to do.
He leans his hands against the mattress to either side of her thighs and presses his lips to hers.