LOVE

FOUR

John rolled over and pulled up the bed linens.

"What's the matter?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Nothing."

He'd decided earlier that he couldn't let it slide. Not one minute longer. Whatever it was, it had been going on for far too long and needed to be brought out into the open. Especially considering all the projecting she'd been doing during their previous conversation about Ecba. Crikey, did she think he'd never read Freud? "Gods above, Wil. Please, don't start lying to me now. Please, please talk to me. When we make love it's like all the pieces are in place but you're just not really there. You're simply going through the motions. Playing a part. Lights on but nobody's home. I know you too well. I love you too much. Something is wrong. Please tell me what it is."

She looked at him but said nothing.

"Is there someone else? Is it me? Have I somehow hurt you? Do you not love me anymore, M'Lady? Do you no longer want me?"

Wil, her face suddenly riveted with pain, closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Sweet Goddess, I've lost you haven't I?" John's expression became one of total resignation, his eyes glistening with sadness and regret. "Whatever it is, whatever I've done, or not done, I'm sorry. Forgive me." He sat up, as if making to get out of bed. He had no idea where he would go, what he would do. He just knew that he had to get away. He had to leave. Leave before it was too late, although in reality it already was too late because his heart was breaking.

But before he could move any further, a hand reached out and grabbed his upper arm. He gasped at the strength of it, at the power of those fingers. The deed's execution had been an unrestrained, almost violent act. Instinctively John moved to seize the hand – or worse. A gut-level survival instinct nearly took control of him. All his mental facilities were spontaneously deployed so that he could stand down from what his body – his very being – had instantly perceived as a mortal, lethal threat. This little surrender, this tiny retreat, went against every single bit of training he'd ever had, it went against every single fiber of his existence. All this happened in an eyeblink… and was tenuous beyond belief. But instead of fighting, instead of grasping her hand and crushing it, instead of breaking her arm, her neck, her spine, John Hart gently covered Wil Beinert's fingers with his own and waited.

He waited for a long time.

The waiting didn't particularly bother him. As has already been well-documented, John Hart possessed a finely honed ability to sit, stand, or lay (whatever the case may be) quietly for hours. He'd already made the decision not to let things slide further. That had been the hard part. The easy part was the waiting, and he would wait forever if he had to. He would wait because he desperately needed to understand what was going on. It was as simple as that. And once he understood, he would act appropriately – whatever it took. If that meant he had to leave, so be it. If that meant he had to change, so be it. Yes, let there be no doubt: he'd do whatever was necessary.

He was, in fact, at peace with himself.

He was not, however, at peace with his lover.

Ever since they left Cardiff, Wil had been strangely remote. On the surface she acted as if nothing was different, her words, her actions were as always. Yet it felt to him like everything was different. When he looked into her eyes – especially when they were making love – it was as if she was a different person. A person who felt very little, if anything, for him.

It had been ironic, and the proverbial last straw for John and his sanity, when she accused him of not wanting to share his thoughts about Ecba with her – accused him of being closed off. It was almost funny. Who did she think she was fooling? Well, it wasn't funny at all because it was clear to John Hart that she was only fooling herself.

He had tried, but he'd not been able to put his finger on what was going on inside her head. At one point in fact he thought it might indeed be related to what happened on Erasmus after she'd left him there with Jaad. So when they'd spoken of it he had been absolutely truthful about his feelings for Ecba, and he knew she'd recognized that truthfulness. He'd come to love the Halikaarn, but as a friend and a brother. While they'd never pledged themselves exclusively to each other, John had no reason and no desire to emotionally or physically cheat on this woman whom he cared for so deeply. He'd not bedded Ecba and what's more the thought had never even crossed his mind. Perhaps that relatively surprising revelation was significant in and of itself, but he'd file it away to think about later.

The fact that he'd almost died on Erasmus? It'd upset her, but that particular story had a happy ending. Enough said…

Of course there'd also been the terrible events that had taken place on Orolo. But with Wil's memories of her abduction and captivity so vague there was little he could do to help ease her mind and soul other than listen, sympathize, and offer his love and support, which he'd been doing to the very best of his ability.

He'd wondered if perhaps his very best wasn't good enough for her. It was always possible. And if it were the case, he damn well knew where the door was and he'd make sure it didn't hit him in the ass on his way out. He'd always prided himself on graceful exits. At least those exits which didn't involve guns, or knives, or explosives…

The only other possibility was the one thing that they hadn't discussed. The elephant in the room. This thing had become, in his mind, the most likely candidate for whatever it was that was going wrong with her, with them. Gray had alluded to it back in Cardiff. No, it was more than an allusion – Jack's brother had cruelly accused her of it. But she'd not brought up the issue again and John had decided very early on that broaching the topic was solely her prerogative. He was there for her, and he felt in this case his mere presence was sufficient – he would not press her on it. Maybe, in retrospect, it was wrong-headed of him to leave it all up to her, but he'd be the first to admit he was a coward at heart – especially when it came to strange, uncomfortable, squishy issues like this one. In the end he felt very strongly that if Gray's insinuations and accusations were actually true, it was up to her to bring up this most personal and private and forlorn of tragedies. That being said, he could, of course, perhaps encourage her…

So he waited patiently, watching her face, and stroking her hand – which was still wrapped around his bicep like a vise – as tenderly, as gently as he could with his fingertips.

Although John thought he was prepared for anything, when the words finally came he realized he'd been mistaken. He had to catch his breath. She opened her eyes and their color was one he'd never seen before – they were a pale, a sea foam green. They were almost transparent in an opaque, impenetrable way, if that doesn't seem too much like an oxymoron. And those eyes gazed at him as if Wil Beinert could look right through his mortal shell and see directly into his heart, his mind, his soul.

"I lost our baby," she said.

So it is true, he thought dismally. He hadn't really meant to react that way, but he couldn't hold back the descendent darkness.

"Yes, it is true," she answered, startling him.

He blinked at her in astonishment.

Her eyes bore into him. "I don't know how I know what you are thinking, but I do. It has never happened before now. Before this very moment. Please believe me…"

The baby. Again, he hadn't really meant to think it.

"Our baby," she corrected him; the sadness in her voice palpable. "I didn't tell you at the time because I wasn't certain, and yet I think I somehow did know it had to be true – I was carrying a child. I wonder… I fear… that I was engaging in some sort of game, some kind of ghastly self-deception. I am so ashamed…" she shook her head, her face filled with anguish and yet her eyes dry and so very pale, almost lifeless.

"I should've never left you on Erasmus. And then after leaving you, I should've never allowed myself to be tricked into visiting the Gnel. I heaped mistake upon mistake. I do not think I did anything intentionally to harm the child – our child, or to harm myself, but I cannot know that. I cannot promise you, swear to you, that I did not behave deliberately. And if you despise me I can only admit that I may deserve it."

He was keeping his mind blank, not breathing…

"If you hate me for what I've done, I understand. If I can never forgive myself, how could I ever ask you to forgive me? All I can say to you is how very sorry I am. All I can tell you is how full of shame I feel. How much I grieve for what I've lost – your love, our child."

Now the tears finally came. He watched her as she cried. He knew if he took a breath his heart would break. But he also knew that if he was to ever take another breath again, he would have to allow his heart to fly to her.

He lifted her hand off of his arm and pressed it to his lips and then to his heart before speaking. "You… you believe that it is your fault?" He shook his head. "How could any of this be your fault? Yes, you left, but it was my idea. Have you already forgotten that I had to convince you? And that the Erasmii agreed to let you take, agreed to let you save their children? Tens of thousands of children? That it was the Orolo who allowed you to go alone with the Gnel?

"No, this is not your fault. This is no one's fault. It is a long chain of sad events which ended in tragedy. I could never hate you or despise you. You haven't lost me. I love you. I only wish that I had been able to protect you, protect the child." It was something he knew he had to try to say, no matter how difficult, no matter how foreign, no matter how frightening: "Our child."

He reached for her, softly kissed her on the forehead, his tears mingling with hers on her cheek. "Can you ever forgive me," he whispered, "for not taking care of you?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she murmured.

I love you, he thought.

"I know," she said, her tears falling anew.

-00-

I love thee, I love but thee
With a love that shall not die
Till the sun grows cold,
And the stars grow old...
– Bayard Taylor