Sorry for the delay!

Colonel Brandon POV

I wanted to tell her that she's a grandmother, that I missed her, that she looks the same as I remember, but I knew she wasn't really Eliza. By the age she looked, around 27, Eliza had divorced my brother and was already selling herself. How could she not know I would look for her everywhere?

I wanted to ask her, but the real Eliza is long gone from the place I where I was stuck. Purgatory? Heaven? Random brain activity from a man in a coma? I had seen men I'd led into battle who had entire conservations with people who weren't there as they lay dying.

But this Eliza was just as right as the real one. I could occasionally hear Marianne begging me to come back, to wake up, to help her, that she needed me. I couldn't fail to answer any such call, much less from my own wife. She's so young and innocent and I'm so damn cynical. It's hard to imagine that sweet Marianne REALLY is my wife. I think I never let that sink in.

So I'm climbing a ladder that has no end. It feels like it has no end. I keep pushing and pushing toward the surface, but I get nowhere. I have to rest and take breaks, but I don't want to become accustomed to resting. I can't stop or I may get stuck. Rung after rung I climb, but the ladder never ends. I never get any closer. I can't deny the temptation to give up. I'm exhausted.

Is that warmth? Golden light? Is that the light I was supposed to walk into? It must be. I start climbing faster.

POV Marianne

"I'm so happy he survived the night!", Mother says, embracing me. "Surely he must do better now."

"We don't know that", I sigh, rubbing my forehead. "But yes, yes, I'm so thankful."

"The doctor is coming?", she asks.

"Yes, when he's finished his day at his office." I just want to be alone with him.

"I'll bring you up a plate", Mother says.

I smooth his forehead, and plant a kiss between his eyes, on his cheek, and on his lips. His heavy brow on the right side of his face is lower than on the left. He carries so much stress in his body. I rub his forehead, his scalp, his shoulders.

"Please wake up, please...", I murmur to him. I don't know if he hears me. I don't want a plate of anything. I want a living, breathing husband.

He looks so helpless, and it terrifies me. My husband is a lot of things but helpless has never been one of them. I take one of his hands, big, thick, warm, calloused from years of sword training, with a light dusting of hair on one or two knuckles. The signet ring on his pinky is covered in blood; I can't believe I didn't notice that. I pull it off his hand, swollen from pooling blood and the ring will barely come off.

Saliva on a cloth takes the blood off. First, a "C", then a large "B" in the middle, followed by "J." I'll have to ask him what it's for. Probably John. Wake up and tell me. I kiss his palm, lie down next to him, and close my eyes. I refuse to sit and watch him die.

POV Colonel Brandon

I'm running from the light as fast as I can, but I cannot overcome it. I don't want to go into the light; I can't. I'm too damn busy to die, and my wife needs me too much. I want to hold her in my arms again. I will protect her from Willoughby, I swear I will...wait.

Marianne! Marianne! I think I'm calling her name, as I climb the ladder faster, trying to outrun the inevitable because it is faster than I am. As the light engulfs me, I call her name and tell her how sorry I am to leave her alone in this world.

The light is bright and piercing. And warm. Something gauzy? The light is veiled. It's the light of next world...or is it...the frame around the light comes into view. I feel it warm and bright behind my eyelids which slide open.

It's a... window and the light is pouring through, stabbing me in both eyes. It's warm on my face. I feel heat on my cheeks. I blink my eyes, terrified to close them again for long. And take a deep breath.

Pain. Well I was certainly right about that; it floods my body in under a second making me wonder if survival was all that great of an option. My chest feels sliced open.

Marianne POV

I feel something moving and wake, opening my eyes. I find baby blue ones staring back at me.

"Christopher!" I fling my arms around him, not caring for his wound. Kissing him, holding him, cupping his face so I can look in his eyes.

"Darling..."

"Marianne", he sighs softly.

I grasp him closer. "Sweetheart, thank God, thank God, I'll get everyone...do you want water...or broth?"

"Stop", he says in a low growly voice I can barely hear.

"Your throat, you need something to drink", I advise.

"Just...let me...take a moment. Get my senses back..."

"Of course, of course. Whatever you need", I say, grinning wide. "Thank you, thank you, thank you", I mutter softly to myself.

"I'm sorry, Marianne", he rasps, "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"Killing him."

"You think I'm upset about that? He was about to rape me. I was a damned fool for ever loving him, and for thinking I had any control over his actions now. That he'd listen to me, or anyone else. I'M sorry. This is entirely my fault", I say back. "But you have to know he did not touch me, and I would never have let him. He kissed me. Twice. That's all."

"You wanted to be kissed or you would have told me", he rasps out, trying to turn away from me on his own, to no avail.

"That's not so. I wanted to prevent...well...I wanted to prevent THIS. THIS. You were so close to death. Men choose violence over common sense", I yell. "Will you not admit I knew better than you? Because I knew him better than you? I KNEW something was up his sleeve; I knew you were in danger. But no, no one listens to me..." I stop my rant. He looks like my loud voice is breaking his ear drums.

He turns a lopsided grin on me and I stop yelling. "You're right", he whispers.

"I'm sorry...what?"

"You're right. I should have listened to you about the duel. And I should know my own wife well enough to believe you."

"Why didn't you?", I whisper back.

"You just...you wanted HIM, loved him, worshipped him, for so long...and then...suddenly, out of nowhere, it was me. And I felt like you were never really over him. I felt like you couldn't possibly love an old soldier like me. Like you were settling...I knew you were grateful I saved you that day at Cleveland. I thought maybe you were just grateful and changed your mind when you saw him again."

"I NEVER thought that", I say. "I would never have married you because I was grateful. I love you."

He nods his head, and I kiss him. He pulls me closer.

"I admit I should have listened to you", he rasps, "I'm lucky to be alive."

"And I admit I should have told you the first time I saw him. I should have trusted you to make the right decision", I admit. "You're more mature than I am, and have more experience with this."

"I wouldn't have", he admits with a chuckle, then devolves into a coughing fit. "I still would have wanted to fight him. It's the way men are made. He tried to steal my reason for living. And I knew I could make you happier than he could. We couldn't exist on the same planet. It's foolish, I'm sorry."

"It's okay", I promise.

"It will have to be. I'm not likely to change soon", he chuckles again, then coughs.

"That's it, no more talking. Water", I say. "Now, remember you agreed I know better than you."

He sighs, and lays back down on the bed.

I run out of the room calling, "He's awake! Momma! Elinor! Beryl, we need some hot tea fast! And beef bone broth; he's a big man and hasn't eaten in days! Mommmmmma!"

Hours later.

The doctor is standing over him, listening to his breathing.

"I suppose I don't need to tell you that you're a very lucky man. I would not have gambled a shilling on your survival." The doctor puts his equipment away.

Christopher strains on his arms. "Thanks, doc. I need to get up. Can't I sit in my study?"

"Noooooo!" I yell and try to hold him down.

"Colonel, stop. You need rest. You are a stubborn old mule, I know, but you have to get your health back. You're not going to be working in your study or playing with swords any time soon", the doctor adds.

"Your freedom may depend on it", Christopher adds, raising an eyebrow, then giving in and flopping back on the bed.

The doctor sighs and nods.

"What?", I ask, "What are you talking about?"

"There's been news from France. I didn't have the time or inclination to deal with it when I was dealing with Willoughby", Christopher says, vaguely.

"What?", I ask.

"Later", my husband says, holding my hand to his lips, effectively ending the conversation.

"Anyway...I'm very happy for you both. There's still a decent threat of infection I'm afraid. Just stay put, keep the wound clean, relax...you're a newlywed, for God sake, man, rest and enjoy yourself", the doctor advises sternly, "Not too much. At least not for a while."

"Can't promise that", the Colonel adds, kissing my hand again.

"A month at least", the doctor offers.

"A week", my husband barks back from flat on the bed.

"Two weeks", the doctor orders.

"A week", the Colonel corrects again.

"You're too stubborn to argue with", the doctor declares. There's a commotion below.

"Who's here?", Christopher asks.

"Sir John with your lawyer..."

"Send the lawyer away", he tells me, "We don't need a reading of my will. I have no intention of dropping dead any time soon."

"I'll take care of it on my way out", the doctor says, rolling his eyes. He pats Christopher on the shoulder. "I'm very happy to see you well, old friend, you terrified us all."

"Did I terrify you?", he asks me, softly as the doctor walks out.

I flop on the bed next to him, and kiss the palm of his hand. "Terribly."

"I'm glad to hear that", he offers and I roll my eyes.

My entire family then barges in, and I feel him go stiff, but he smiles like a gentleman immediately.

"We're so happy to see you doing so much better!", my mother gushes, hugging him as best she can.

"My brother", Edward says sweetly, patting his shoulder. Elinor hugs him as well.

"My friend!", Sir John bellows.

"Thank you...for everything", my husband says to him, in his deep grumble. Sir John nods, his eyes touched by emotion.

"Keep him company", I advise, then walk down the stairs to get more tea and broth.

Colonel Brandon POV

"She would not be moved", Mrs. Dashwood says, pulling the covers to my chin. "Not to eat, not to drink. We brought her things, but most of it was left untouched. She wanted to be holding your hand if anything happened in the night. I don't think she took a real breath until you opened your eyes."

I nod and smile at her. "I'm a lucky man", I say, sending a thousand messages in just a few words. She nods, smiling.

I come up carrying a tray.

"I will have all of this", he says, "But only if you go downstairs and sit at a table and eat with your family."

"I don't want to leave you..."

"I'll be fine. I'll be still me when you come back..." he says. My mother takes my hand and leads me from the room.

I devour a roast chicken prepared by Beryl. Hours ago, I let her take the first tray of tea up to him and be alone with him for a few moments. He's almost a son to her, and I respect that. Loving the same person gives us a lot in common. Now she's all smiles and brings me the best of everything before anyone else can even get a look at it. He nearly smacks Edward's hand away when he reaches for the gravy first.

I hurry back upstairs after dinner. Most of my family will likely leave in the morning, but Mother is staying a few days to help me help him get used to moving on his own.

I bring him up another kettle of tea and kick the door closed behind me, settling the china delicately on the bedside table.

Christopher looks exhausted and stares at the door. "No more visitors?", he asks.

"No, I promise."

I flop down beside him again, on his good side, and tuck my head beneath his uninjured arm.

I can't help but notice his sword has moved. It's now beside the bed, within reach. Sir John.

He sniffs himself with a deep chuckle. "I need to wash."

"Soon", I tell him, snuggling closer. His chest has a huge deep scar that runs from his neck, past his heart, to the bottom of his rib cage. "I look like the stuffing was knocked out of me, and someone had to cut me open to put it back."

"Not far from the truth", I mumble.

I tickle his barefoot with my own. "Oh, not fair, I can't move!", he insists. Then get as close as I can and kiss him.

"You keep that up, we'll never make it a week", he jokes.

"I love you, Colonel", I whisper.

"I love you too, Marianne." Then, more exhausted than I've ever been in my life, I'm out, and don't even remember to blow out the candle.