Here's another little thing I should have done more with back in the day, but I don't think I'd have enjoyed it then. I left writing behind for a number of reasons, chief among them the fact that I wasn't doing it for myself, and trying to please others was a huge mistake. But I was so happy to find this little gem in drafts today, and that makes all the difference.
I'm not sure which universe I put them in here: modern or canon. I think this would work equally well in either. My Isobel bears a striking resemblance to the person nearest and dearest to me in all the world, and I consider it a feat that reading this didn't immediately bring me to tears.
Be well, all!
xx,
ejb
He is irresistible to her. Always, but especially in the morning. Something about him: cool, pale, dappled skin against the white linen; the perfect bow shape of his lips, unspoiled by words. Perhaps it's her; faced with the promise of a new day, her mind fresh from sleep and untroubled, the things she loves about him all stand out in sharp relief.
He sleeps neatly, she muses. A silly observation, but true nonetheless. Always on his back, head square on the pillow, the covers tucked under his arms. Perhaps it's a holdover from his days in the army. Warmth blossoms in the centre of her chest as she remembers the sight of him in uniform. Only redeeming thing about the war, she thinks. He is not a tall man, but the way in which he carried himself in those days made him look like a giant. She's never been more proud to be English than she was whilst serving alongside him, caring for those who had fought for her freedom.
His features are refined, for a man, his bone structure … elegant is the first word that springs to mind. She reckons he would roll his eyes at that, but that inside it would make him stand taller. The high cheekbones and sharp chin, hallmarks of his heritage that make his visage a striking one. His forehead smooth, his brow unfurrowed in repose. She is responsible for a great many of the worry lines that take up residence in his waking hours. The temptation is strong to kiss him there, a benediction; an apology, but she cannot bring herself to intrude upon his placid slumber.
She slides gingerly out of bed and tiptoes from the room, softly on the stairs so that they won't creak. In the kitchen she fixes two coffees (he'll be awake soon once he smells hers). Whilst the kettle boils she looks out on the back garden, where three small roe deer, a doe and two fawns, are grazing. She smiles as she watches them, regal and peaceful and deliberate in their mannerisms. The doe quirks an ear, looks up suddenly and straight into her eyes. She gasps softly, bowing her head the slightest bit. I mean you no harm, gentle creature. The doe blinks, then goes back to foraging. She watches the trio breathlessly as they move gradually closer to the cottage and then disappear round the side.
She suspects he might be a bit peckish when he wakes, so she slices some bread and cheese and an apple, arranges them on a plate and carries a tray up to the bedroom. He is still asleep, so she is careful to step silently, setting the tray down atop the chest of drawers without so much as the clinking of a spoon.
She slides back into bed beside him, plumping her pillow against the headboard and leaning back into it with a satisfied sigh, her hands cradling her coffee cup.
She'd stopped being fascinated by life roundabout the time she'd stopped living it. But now it's all come back to her: wonderment, rushing in at the slightest provocation. Cool sheets; warm husband —her husband! Her lips soundlessly form the shape of the word even now. It's still so unlikely, exotic. Miraculous. Brave heart, his. Hers.
The coexistence of man and nature; an understanding, oath unspoken between mothers that transcends the boundaries of species. Look out for my children, but leave them be.
The steady rhythm of time; modest, yet unyielding. Soft unobtrusive ticking of the clock as steam rises from her coffee. Dawn passing into morning, her love stirring beside her. Things that go on; have been here all along. Things that waited, mercifully, for her to see them, feel their significance. Small things that are anything but, that shout loudly at her even as they go on about their quiet way. Because she feels again.