Days passed with little to no response from the man Henry had taken to calling Captain, both as a nod to his rank and a need to call him something besides Mister. Regina supposed his deep sleep was a blessing, but she worried nonetheless, knowing that when he woke up-if he woke up-life for him would never be as it had been. A part of him had been permanently removed, cut away to allow for renewed life.

Of course, whose life remained unaffected by the hell being ravaged by one half of the nation upon the other? Had any American escaped the absolute devastation of this damned war?

She fell asleep in the chair beside his bed and dreamed of a life almost forgotten, one lived without a gaping hole in her soul, one in which Daniel still stood by her side and warmed her body. The ghost of his touch lingered on her skin, breaking through the realm of sleep, the rough tread of his fingertips branding themselves into her waking state until she realized they belonged to another man.

Marian.

Not Daniel then. The soldier. Their Captain. She jerked upright and blinked in an attempt to focus.

"I'm here."

God forgive her for the mounting stack of lies piling up at her feet, lies given voice to prompt him to fight both infection and the lure of eternal sleep. But if believing his love was sitting here beside him, holding his hand, breathing words of life over a man barely clinging to its frays, then Marian she would be.

At least she would be until he was strong enough to know better.

Doc Hamilton came to check on him daily, bringing along an extra flask of whiskey on his first return trip along with a supply fresh bandages.

"He's a Rebel, isn't he?"

Her voice caught halfway up her throat, leaving a mute nod as her only option.

"Thought so," the older man continued. "He's a lucky bastard he wandered into your barn, Mrs. Mills. Not everyone around these parts would have acted in such a Christian-like manner."

She shuddered to think what Captain's fate would have been had he collapsed in the wrong barn.

"You aren't going to report him?"

Doc Hamilton paused, rubbing his white beard before adjusting his spectacles. He looked tired, she realized, tired and worn down by the horrors of war.

"After working so hard to save his life?" He chuckled then, accepting the small jar of honey she placed into his palm. "I'm a patriot, Mrs. Mills. Not a monster. I hope he makes it."

"So do I."

The doctor nodded slowly before seeing himself out.

Henry took to reading to their soldier as he slept, preferring to dwell in passages from the Gospels rather than the Psalms.

"You reckon if I pray hard enough I can multiply our food the way Jesus did the loaves and the fish?"

Her hands stilled while dressing still-angry wounds.

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?"

The boy grinned back at her, licking his lips as an overcast sky muted the light drifting in through the window.

"I'd start by multiplying your apple pie. It's my favorite."

She laughed softly, reaching over to rustle her son's hair, noting to herself that the boy could use a trim and a good bath.

"It was your father's favorite, too."

His nose scrunched, accentuating freckles beginning a slow fade with age.

"I remember, Mama."

"I'm glad, Henry."

She hoped he would never forget. There were times now when she had to concentrate in order to summon his features, when they would blur into a face she didn't recognize, one she tried to banish so it wouldn't taint what little she had left of him. It was bad enough she'd lost Daniel in life. To lose him in memory would be an entirely new sort of hell, one she feared she wouldn't survive.

Their Captain's first signs of life arrived in a sob, one that woke her from her slumped perch in the chair strategically placed beside his bed. His fingers fisted into her head, pulling at her scalp, seeking his lower left leg just where would have lain were it still attached to his body. She yelped as he tugged on her hair, feeling him release her as she stood and backed away.

"Where am I?"

Her heart's hammering drowned out his words.

"Where in God's name am I?" These words were shouted, thrown with a hard desperation that struck her head on.

"Pennsylvania," she answered, her breath still racing ahead of her. "Not far from Gettysburg."

Eyes silvered by the moon narrowed in fear.

"Who are you? And why am I here?"

She swallowed past the thickness in her throat, watching as he tried to take in the small bedroom in which he lay.

"You were injured," she began. "We found you in our barn…you'd fainted..."

"Who are you? Tell me who you are."

It was a command, not a request, one that robbed her lungs of air and left her dry-mouthed.

"She's my mom, and the person who saved your life."

Henry stood in the doorframe, his father's nightshirt nearly touching the floor, covering lanky legs to the point where only his feet stuck out.

"You saved my life?" His words were more of an accusation that an inquiry. She stepped forward, lifting her chin unconsciously.

"I did."

The man stirred, trying to push himself up into a sitting position, wincing as he did so, prompting Regina to move to his side. She propped his pillow up behind him, feeling him jerk away from her touch as he swore under his breath.

"Are you also the person who took my leg?"

She met his stare directly, smelling the palpable scent of fear that radiated from his body.

"No," she stated, willing herself not to blink. "But I held you down while the doctor did."

The lines on his face creased, his eyes blinking back tears his pride demanded be kept private.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, moving to offer him a drink of water as he coughed. "If he hadn't taken your leg, you'd be dead."

"Better dead than a cripple."

The soft lilt of his accent did little to take the sting from his words.

"That's not true," Henry cut in, his face scrunching in disagreement. "If my Pa were still alive, Mama and I wouldn't care if he couldn't walk. We'd just be happy to have him back."

The man refused to meet Henry's eyes, staring at blankets that couldn't conceal what was missing.

"You say that now, boy. But caring for an invalid would grow old after a while."

Anger surged up from pits of exhaustion and fear, making her tremble with a force that almost frightened her.

"You've obviously never lost anyone you'd do anything to bring back."

His stare sliced her with precision.

"I lost my wife five years ago. My father died when I was thirteen, and I've watched countless men fall into pools of their own blood, some of them not even old enough to sprout a beard." He paused, inhaling harshly as he pushed himself up as tall as he could manage. "Don't presume to tell me that I don't understand loss."

Her spine straightened another notch as her own eyes narrowed in retaliation.

"Don't you presume to give me orders in my own home."

She'd ushered Henry out of the room with a flounce.

"He's hurting, Mama," Henry had reminded her just before he set out towards the barn. "Don't be too hard on him."

"He's not the one I'll be hard on if there's not fresh milk on the table in a few minutes." Henry shook his head as he shrugged and walked out the door.

When she later returned to the bedroom, their captain hadn't moved. She walked to his bedside, lips tightly fastened, his silence as telling as her own. She felt his forehead, measured his pulse, noted the nearly empty glass of water sitting by his bedside.

"So you decided to drink," she grudgingly observed, wiping a strand of fallen hair from her forehead. He shrugged, studying her in a manner she found disconcerting.

"I was thirsty."

"Oh."

Her gaze faltered first.

"You never told me your name," he uttered, his tone softer yet still tinged with assumed authority. She continued to straighten his blanket, tucking it in around a body he now considered disfigured.

"That's because if you're going to curse me for saving your life, I'd rather you keep my name out of it."

He sighed in a mixture of frustration and shame.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his expression still dull. "Especially for acting that way in front of your boy. My behavior was inexcusable."

"Yes," she said, standing up tall and straightening her worn skirt. "It was." He swallowed, fisting the quilt that covered his stump with a grimace. "But it's also understandable."

He stared down at where his leg should be.

"And it's Regina," she added, trying to distract him before he tumbled back into a pit of melancholy.

He looked at her directly then, his eyes more gray than blue.

"Regina," he echoed, testing the name on his tongue. "I'm Robin."

Robin. She nodded. It suited him somehow.

"We've been calling you Captain," she volunteered. "Henry wanted to be able to call you something besides Mister in his prayers."

"He prayed for me?"

The surprise on his face was genuine, yet his entire body deflated when she nodded, and he sank into the bed, allowing the quilts and mattress to swallow what parts of him they could before turning his face towards the wall. "He should have saved his breath."

Anger welled up again, hot and anxious to surface.

"He didn't consider it a waste."

"That's because he's a child."

"A child who knows the value of life," she shot back. "Something you seem to have forgotten." She then turned on her heels and started to walk out of the room, fuming at the death wish he seemed to harbor, pressing back the sting of angry tears. How dare he value his leg over the woman whose name had escaped his lips in the throes of fever and pain? How dare he think death a better option when her Daniel had been given no choice in the matter?

"Was it the war?"

Her feet froze in place before her mind could catch up.

"Was what the war?"

"That took your husband from you?"

His words flew at her, stabbing her in several places at once, making her wince as she took a step back.

"No," she breathed, straightening her spine. "Smallpox. Nearly killed Henry, too."

The words gushed from her until they stopped, those that escaped pooling at her feet in a tide of memories she'd rather forget.

"I'm glad he lived-your Henry."

"So am I."

She left him then.

It was the crash that brought her running back nearly an hour later, only to find Robin sprawled across the floor, muttering obscenities that ceased the moment Henry bounded into the bedroom.

"What are you doing?" she cried, kneeling to work her way under his shoulder, hoisting his arm around her neck. The sweat of exertion dampened his shirt and skin, mixing his own scent with the mustiness of a garment preserved, calling forward memories of Daniel and a most inopportune time.

"Trying to stand," he answered through gritted teeth, muscles tensing within her grasp. Sweat dripped from his nose as Henry took a matching position to hers on his opposite side, helping Robin place his good leg under his body to give them extra leverage. He cried out as they moved, whether from the pain in his shoulder or his leg she couldn't tell. It was probably a combination-God knew his body had been through more than the Creator had intended, and they nearly collapsed back to the floor in the process of standing, a combination of grit and sheer stubbornness keeping the three of three of them upright.

"If you need something, ask. Henry and I can help you."

He was panting when they finally sat him on the edge of the bed, his teeth bared and clenched.

"I have to relieve myself, Miss Regina," he managed, shame coloring his face a shade of crimson that matched her mother's prized tulips. "Something for which I'd rather not have to ask for your assistance."

His mortification deflated her ire on contact. She nodded, her eyes locking with her son's, avoiding Robin's .

"I understand," she stated, unwinding her body from under his wounded shoulder as carefully as she could. "I'll step out and let Henry help you." His wince was pronounced but controlled, and she wondered if the gesture was for Henry's sake or for her own. She brought the bedpan to the edge of the bed, moving to exit only after receiving a smile of reassurance from her son.

"I'd prefer to do this in private, if you don't mind. There's no need for young Henry to stay behind."

The prospect of a child helping him urinate was as painful as the notion of her doing so, it would seem.

"It's risky," she returned. "You could fall again-"

"Please, Miss Regina. I need to do this."

He stared back at her, his eyes the color of a stormy sea straining to skim a shore just out of reach. She swallowed, fighting down an instinctive urge to straighten his hair, to touch his cheek, to let herself simply feel the flesh of a living man, even if it didn't belong to the man whose memory reached out to her in the form of her ten year old son. Hands fisted into the folds of her skirt in an effort to keep them in their place.

"Alright," she agreed. "Just yell if you need anything. Don't try to do too much all at once."

"I don't think there's any danger of that," he stated, gesturing to his bandaged stump.

No. She supposed that there wasn't.

She'd been out of the room all of three minutes when all hell broke loose.

He'd slipped, fallen directly into the side table and bumped his head, managing to slosh urine out of the bedpan all over the floor and himself in the process. The room stank, and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from cursing in front of her son, but it was Robin's cry of fury that had scorched both her skin and spirit. She'd banned Henry from the room once they managed to get him back on the bed, instructing her son to heat water for a bath while she checked his shoulder and leg thoroughly.

"Are you alright?"

His jaw tightened until she feared it might snap.

"What do you think?"

He was baiting her, calling her out for his tragedy, a game she wasn't willing to play when she was about to clean up a floor wet with his piss.

"I think you're lucky you didn't hurt yourself any worse than you did."

He coughed, yet refused the water glass she tried to press into his hand.

"Lucky." The word bore the sting of a curse.

Robin was fine. Disgraced in his own mind, but physically fine. Angry at himself, at the war, her, Doc Hamilton and God only knew who and what else, but alive and breathing, although he was going to sport a nasty bruise just above his left eye.

She'd bathed him as best she could, mopping a sponge over scarred skin, keeping her gaze carefully detached even as he winced under her touch.

"Leave me," he'd uttered to the wall after she helped him dress. The bastard couldn't even summon up a word of thanks for all of the extra work she'd just put in for his benefit, couldn't even spare a modicum of gratitude that she was letting him wear some of Daniel's old clothes.

So she left him. And he didn't speak for days.