December's prompt: "that's my favorite thing about you"
His eyes were glued to her movements, to the way she gracefully ducked her head beneath the arch at the hospital's entrance. Her steps were sure, the sway of her hips, gentle. Nothing about her betrayed the weariness that weighed on her or the grief she kept hidden away from everyone— even from him. In typical fashion, she was determined to be strong in the face of her mortality, to face it with a dignity and depth of courage that left him in awe.
Meanwhile, he floundered. His grief was bursting at the seams, his despair plainly displayed on his face. After all those years of teasing her for her 'Americanness', it was he who was the sensitive one, the one who wore his emotions on his sleeve.
When she reached the motor, she turned back to face him and his breath caught in his throat. The blueness of her coat magnified the color of her eyes so they sparkled like sapphires from beneath the brim of her hat. She regarded him thoughtfully, curiosity evident on her beautiful face. A gentle smile wreathed her lips as she observed him, her head ever so slightly cocked to the side in the way he adored.
"Robert?" she murmured.
It wasn't until she said his name that he realized he had come to a complete halt in the entrance way and was blatantly staring at her. With a soft shake of his head, he hurried to her side and opened the driver's door. Smoothly lowering herself into the car, she slid along the bench to the passenger's seat. Once she was safely inside, he climbed in behind her and closed the door. He immediately started the engine, but found he was unable to put the car into gear and start down the road.
When they had left the house, he had eschewed having Stark drive them. He had wanted the time with Cora to himself and even a driver felt too much of an imposition. But now, after hearing the bleakness of her prognosis, he wasn't certain he would be able to drive them home. All he wanted to do was hold her tightly in his arms and never let her go.
It was the delicate scent of roses that reached his senses first as she slipped closer to him and he unconsciously breathed deeply, the fragrance soothing him. She settled beside him, their shoulders lightly brushing, and rested her hand on his leg with a comforting squeeze.
Looking over at her, he found her watching him, his own grief reflected back at him. Her eyes were tinged with an understanding for his preoccupied behavior and a degree of concern that caused his emotions to lodge in his throat. He leaned over, taking care to avoid the brim of her hat, and pressed his lips to her temple.
"I love you," he breathed onto her skin.
Eyes instantly glassy, she looked away, her hand once again squeezing his thigh to say what she could not voice.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb, tears stinging his eyes.
What would he do without her?
Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he ambled down the garden path. The afternoon light was warm on his back, but he found he couldn't complain. The constant, penetrating heat of the Mediterranean sun had resolved him of ever again bemoaning the summer Yorkshire sun.
His eyes were kept downcast as he strolled, his mind consumed with too many thoughts for him to want to take in the beauty around him. Coming to a 'V' in the path, he caught sight of a large stone tucked into the corner and couldn't help but kick it along with him. Nanny had always reprimanded him for doing so— it scuffed his shoes. But he had discovered the action helped him think. And while he hadn't walked in such a fashion in a long time, he was desperate for something to distract him.
The world around him was slowly imploding. First, his mother becoming terminally ill. Then his parentage being called into question; with all evidence pointing to the fact that he was not his father's son. And the final, devastating blow, Cora was dying.
He choked, lungs burning. Gulping in a breath, he shook his head and cleared his throat. He refused to cry in such an exposed place. Instead, he kicked the stone with as much force as he could without hurting his foot. The rock skipped down the path, leaving small divots in the gravel as it bounced along. But the outlet did nothing to dissolve his overwhelming emotions.
To think none of this might have happened if that villa hadn't been willed away from the Montmirail family. And he deeply wished it hadn't been. It was a beautiful place; one he was certain he could spend many an enjoyable hour. But he would never forgive it for what it had taken from him.
It was an entirely irrational thought. But he couldn't help think that if his mother hadn't inherited the property, they never would have gone to France. And if they had never gone to France, his paternity would never have been questioned and, most important of all, Cora would have never had to tell him she was dying.
Oh, it was wholly absurd. But he couldn't help himself. Ludicrous as it was, blaming the villa for Cora's illness was easier than accepting that her fate was completely out of his hands.
He sniffled, hot liquid filling his eyes despite his attempt to chase it away. One by one, his tears broke free and dripped down his cheeks. Everything was being taken from him: his mother, his name, and, most heart-shattering of all, his darling Cora. It was all too much.
Through his blurred vision, he registered the lump of rock. Reaching down, he picked it up from where it had come to rest just off the path. It was rough against his palm, the edges sharp and uneven. He weighed it a moment. His eyes were fixed on the tree directly opposite him as he made it into the object of his pent up ire and pain. Bringing his hand back, he hurled the rock at the conifer. The rock struck the trunk and splintered away some of the bark.
His tears poured and his chest heaved. He didn't want to accept it, didn't want to have to admit it to be true. But each sharp intake of breath and every painful beat of his heart pounded it into his head. Cora was dying.
How would he survive without her? Selfishly, he had always assumed he would be the first to go, just like his father and grandfather before him. It was why he never worried about what he ate or how much he imbibed. But his ulcer had awakened something in Cora. She had since altered his diet and continuously monitored his alcohol consumption. He had thought it overkill. Why deny himself the little pleasures of life? But now he fully understood her reasons. She had been terrified of losing him and he would give almost anything to go back and spare her the fear that now penetrated him.
Swiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he returned the way he had come and slowly made his way towards the house. He didn't want to worry anyone, namely Cora, by being out too long.
As he drew nearer to the house, the sounds of playful shouts and laughter filled his ears. Looking up, he saw three of his grandchildren playing an imaginary game on the lawn and he slowed to a stop. He watched as they chased each other, their carefreeness driving away some of the heaviness in his chest.
His attention was only diverted when he caught a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. Without even having to turn his head, he knew it was her. But he looked anyway, refusing to miss an opportunity to observe her.
After their visit to the doctor, she had gone upstairs to rest and when he had gone to check on her, he had found her asleep. Which was why he had decided to go for a solitary walk. The last thing he wanted was to disturb her rest. And now watching the quickness of her steps and the determination in her gait as she made her way towards him, he knew it had been the right choice. She seemed to have more energy than she'd had in days.
Before she was able to reach him, a jubilant chorus of 'Granny!' rang out from the children as they raced across the lawn and crowded around her. Notes of their insistence that she join their game reached his ears and he took a half step forward, already motioning for them to stop. But Cora caught his gaze and shook her head, her eyes speaking for her. How many more opportunities would she have to play with their grandchildren?
Gulping down another press of emotion, he watched, his heart warming, as a bright smile broke across her face when they took her hands in theirs and pulled her along with them.
Loathe to interrupt, he walked over to the bench beneath the ancient evergreen. The wood creaked as he lowered himself onto it, but he hardly noticed. His attention remained fixed on his grandchildren's discussion over the game's rules and the amusement on his wife's face.
"Granny can be the princess in the tower!" he heard Marigold exclaim.
"And George cane be the dragon!" agreed Sybbie.
It was apparent George greatly opposed the idea as he immediately objected, "Why do I have to be the dragon? The dragon dies!"
"Because you're a boy," Sybbie answered as though it were plainly obvious. She looked and sounded so much like Sybil had at the same age. His chest ached. "Boys are always the bad guys."
"But Prince Charming isn't a bad guy. I want to be Prince Charming!" George waved the toy sword in his hand. "I even have the sword."
"Then who will be the dragon?" asked Marigold.
Sybbie's eyes scanned the yard until they came to rest upon him. He sank further against the bench, hoping to disappear into the wood.
"Donk!" she exclaimed triumphantly.
No such luck.
She bolted towards him, reaching him at a frightening speed for someone only eight years old. Gripping his hand, she hauled him off the bench.
"Come on, Donk. We need a dragon."
Without giving him a chance to agree or object, she pulled him along with her to rejoin the others. Imaginary games had never been his particular favorite— he always felt rather foolish. But upon seeing the amused adoration on Cora's face, he swallowed down his reservation.
"George is Prince Charming," explained Sybbie, "and me and Marigold are his knights of the round table."
"I see," he answered, matching her level of seriousness. "And who is Granny?"
"She's the princess in the tower who's been kidnapped by you, the dragon." Dropping his hand, she pointed to a place for him to stand. "Now stay here and try to keep us from getting to Granny. We are going to start over there and storm the tower."
The three ran off to the other side of the yard, shouting their strategy amongst themselves.
"What would our parents say?" he laughed, once he and Cora were alone.
She chuckled. "Mama has a perfect view from her bedroom window, so I should think she will have something witty and judgmental in equal measure for when we visit later."
"Of that I have no doubt," he smiled, before turning serious. "Are you sure you have enough strength for this? I would hate for you to overtire yourself."
Just as he expected her to, she immediately waved away his concern. "I'm perfectly alright." She grinned mischievously. "But I think it is you who should be concerned."
He looked at her curiously before he turned his head to see Sybbie, George, and Marigold racing towards him.
"Charge!" George shouted.
Before he knew it, all three were upon him. Giving himself entirely to the role of the dragon, he playfully growled at them, chasing them away from Cora while she feigned cries of help. The children shrieked when he lunged for them and giggled when they were able to escape his grasp.
After a stretch of intense combat, George pulled his wooden sword from his belt and thrust it at him. Groaning, he dramatically collapsed to the ground, biting his cheek to keep from grinning at the cheers of triumph. Cautiously cracking one eye open, he watched as Cora wrapped her arms around the children and thanked them for rescuing her.
Noticing his gaze, Cora grinned wickedly and exclaimed in terror, "Look, he is only playing dead!"
He snapped his eyes shut and tired to once again feign death, but it was no use.
"Get him!" cried Sybbie.
Without having even a second to brace himself, three small bodies slammed into him, tackling him to the ground. He roared to life once again, growling and grabbing at them as they hung onto him and tried to pin him down.
Through the pandemonium, he heard Cora's unrestrained laughter and he sought her out, looking over the rambunctious children. Her eyes glittered with merriment, the apples of her cheeks rosy with joy. She was so wholly unbridled in her amusement, so full of life, it was hard to believe she was ill. Incurably ill.
'A long and happy life together, just we two, to watch the children grow. That's all I want.'
She had told him that once and he had promised it to her without thought. How could he have known it would only be two short years they had left? No amount of time would be enough, but having only two years was utter anguish. But he would carry on for her. He would watch the children grow for the both of them. For what else would he do without her?
Burning logs popped and crackled in the hearth, light from the dancing flames flickering along the walls. Her breathing was soft, shallow. Giving every indication she was in a deep sleep. The sound soothed him, lulling him like a lullaby. He could feel somnolency tugging at him, trying to pull him into its warm embrace. Yet he refused to follow. In only a matter of months, Cora would be taken from him and he couldn't bear to waste a single moment apart from her. So instead of listening to slumber's siren call, he remained awake and guarded her repose.
Even relaxed in sleep, he could see her enervation. Spending the afternoon playing with their grandchildren had taken all the energy she had gained from her nap. He had thought to make her rest. But she had been enjoying herself so much, he hadn't been able to voice his concern. Only now, he was regretting his choice. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her brow drooped with exhaustion. In unguarded moments such as this, he could believe her ill. A pallor had overtaken her normally creamy skin, giving her a distinct sickly appearance. New creases had appeared around her eyes and between her brows and the ones that were already there had deepened.
'Things will look better in the morning.' was one of Cora's favorite sentiments of comfort. But it held no such comfort for him now. For each rising and setting of the sun brought them closer and closer to separation. Sudden, searing pain carved itself into his heart. He fought down a sob and rapidly blinked his eyes against an onslaught of tears. It wouldn't do to wake her.
Shakily taking a deep breath, he refocused his attention on her. Even with the changes, he found her so terribly beautiful. Dark lashes rested against perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Rosebud lips, slightly parted in sleep, curled up at the corners in an imperceptible smile. Her raven locks had loosened from their plait and lay draped across her pillow, interwoven strands of silver reflecting in the dim light. His chest ached with the sweetness that usually struck him when he looked at her. Even after nearly forty years of marriage, she was exceedingly beautiful.
With a sudden and desperate need to touch her, he carefully inched closer to her, pausing for a moment to make sure he hadn't disturbed her. Gently, he slipped his arms around her and eased her over until she was flush against him. His heart swelled as she instinctively curled around him and molded her form to his. Burying her face in the crook of his neck, she mumbled unintelligibly and released a content sigh, the puff of air warm against his skin.
Once he was certain she would remain asleep, he pressed a kiss to her crown, her hair like silk against his lips. He savored every precious sensation of her in his arms: the warmth that enveloped him, the cool press of her nose against the column of his throat, the gentle rise and fall of her chest telling him she was alive, so blessedly alive.
She nestled closer to him, her arms wrapping around him and holding him tightly to her. He felt the remaining tension in her muscles ease and she relaxed more heavily into him.
It was when she pressed an unconscious kiss to his neck, that his earlier tears gathered once again— this time pushing over his bottom lids. Against his every attempt to calm himself, his body shuddered. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He sniffled and released a shaky breath, his arms tightening around her.
What would he do without her?
With quick steps, he rushed down the corridor, tension easing from his shoulders with every stride. He was his father's son. The true seventh Earl of Grantham. It made him almost giddy with relief, his pace hastening even more. He couldn't wait to tell Cora.
Rounding the corner of the hall that led to her sitting room, he arrived at the door and reached for the knob, planning to enter without knocking. But the distinctive accent of a certain actress floating out from beneath the barrier halted his actions.
He frowned, brow furrowing. This was Cora's private sitting room, the one she only allowed him and, on occasion, family to enter. If she wanted to speak privately with someone, she would use her sitting room downstairs. Knowing it was an intrusion, but unable to cap his curiosity, he leaned closer to the door and listened.
"They're gonna know," Myrna exclaimed in frustration. "'M not an aristocrat who's 'ad someone train'n 'em like you 'ave."
"You almost have it," Cora assured. "It's only a word here and there. And I'm sure it's only because you're nervous."
"Course 'm nervous," Myrna shot back, her voice almost shrill. "My 'ole life's hang'n on this and if I can't do it, I've nothin'."
"But then isn't it best to try? You'll be no worse off."
There was a long pause and he pressed his ear closer to the door, certain he had missed something. When Myrna finally did speak again, she mumbled. Her words were almost imperceptible through the door.
"Why do you care so much?"
"Because I was in a similar predicament to yours once," Cora answered.
Myrna scoffed. "You can't 'ave been. You weren't born talk'n like a dyin' mule stuck in mud."
"No," she agreed softly, adding in a teasing tone that elicited a small laugh from Myrna, "Although there certainly were people who looked at me like I did. My mother-in-law for one."
He could hear the smile in her voice and his heart clenched; desperately wishing he could see the way her lips would curl and the way the corners of her eyes would crinkle.
"But I did take a chance and left everything I knew with no promise of success," Cora continued. "And having an idea of what I was getting myself into would have helped. I would like to give you the head start I didn't have."
Myrna sounded dubious. "So you never doubted your choice in comin' 'ere then?"
Cora didn't answer immediately and his pulse began to race as he waited for her answer. His ear now pressed firmly against the door.
"I did at first," Cora replied finally. "But then I met Lord Grantham. That's not to say it was never difficult. Because there were trying times. But even during those moments, I never regretted taking the chance."
"You love 'im," Myrna observed.
"Yes," she murmured. "We've been very happy."
He could imagine the blush that would have overtaken her, the coquettish way she would duck her head.
"Sounds like more than 'appiness to me," Myrna remarked. "Sounds like some'in' out of a movin' picture."
"I don't know about that," Cora chuckled self-consciously.
"Well I do," Myrna declared. "I mayn't know a lot of things. But even I know love at first sight is some'in' special.
"It wasn't love at first sight," Cora murmured. "At least not for both of us."
He sighed and leaned away from the door, uncertain he wanted to hear anymore. If only he could go back and slap his younger self. He had loved her from the beginning. From the first moment, really. But his ineptness on the subject and his guilt for marrying for money had kept him blind to his feelings and Cora had suffered that first year. And even now, with his clumsy attempts to assure her, she still couldn't believe he had loved her from the beginning. But he had, so very, very much.
"It took me two or three dances to be sure," she continued, a soft smile in her voice, "but in retrospect—"
His heart stuttered, his breath hiccuping in his throat, and he pressed his ear to the door again.
"—I do believe Lord Grantham was in love by the end of our first dance."
His pulse rang in his ears, fading Myrna's response into white noise. Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead to the door, the painted wood cool against his flushed skin. Tears stung the backs of his eyelids as he sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath.
She believed him.
While her money played at part, he had married her because he loved her, blind to it as he had been. It had become his greatest desire, since he was unable to change the first year, for her to know that their marriage really had been a love match. That she had always been loved. And finally, she believed him.
Palm itching and fingers aching, he fought the overwhelming urge to burst through the door and sweep her into his arms. She was helping Myrna and he refused to interrupt. So instead, he kept his place with his ear pressed to the door as Cora proceeded with assisting Myrna perfect the American accent.
He listened intently, drawn in like a moth to a flame. It had been a long time since he had heard her accent so pronounced— her 'r's fully enunciated and her vowels shortened— and he was transported back to the first time they met. He had never realized just how much she moderated her accent and it saddened him that in order to please their social circle, she had to dim a part of who she was. Her intonation was utterly enchanting and wholly enthralling and it was a shame she had to hide it.
But the genuine kindness and gentleness that permeated her voice had never changed. Neither had its ability to soothe him. It washed over him, the sound comforting him as it always had.
A sudden note of pain sounded in her voice, so apparent even Myrna inquired after it. Cora reassured her all was well, but he knew better. She was not well. And the remembrance of her illness, of the fact that she was slipping away from him, slammed into him. He gripped the door casing until his knuckles turned white, a cracked sob catching in his throat.
What would he do without her?
He watched her. The animated way in which she spoke made him smile. Despite everything, she radiated happiness. Some of it was her delight for Baxter and her engagement to Molesley. But the rest, he knew, was just her. Just Cora.
As she had for the past forty years, she seemed to feel his regard of her and turned her head to catch his gaze. She held his stare for a moment before she excused herself from speaking with Isobel and made her way across the library to him. His heart close to bursting with love for her, he took her in: her sparkling eyes, warm smile, the flattering cut of her blouse, the way her skirt danced around her legs as she walked, the gracefulness of her every movement. She was so terribly beautiful.
"My Cora," he unconsciously murmured beneath his breath.
Reaching his side, she regarded him with curiosity, her head tilted ever so slightly. "Is anything the matter?"
"Should there be?" he returned, placing his drink on the nearby table.
"No, I suppose not," she answered thoughtfully, adding self-consciously, "Only, I've noticed lately that everywhere I go, your eyes seem to follow. And I suppose I was just wondering why. If everything was alright?"
A lump formed in his throat and he regretted setting down his drink, needing something to give him an excuse to gulp. He wanted to tell her he was staring because he didn't want to miss a second with her. He wanted to tell her he was memorizing everything about her so he would never forget a single detail. He wanted to tell her that his eyes trailed after her because soon his memories of her would be all he had left.
But a full library was not the proper place to admit such things, so he said none of them. Clearing his throat, he whispered instead, "I've been attempting to determine my favorite thing about you."
Rosiness blossomed across her cheeks, just as he hoped it would, and she glanced up at him through lowered lashes. "Oh? And have you come to any conclusions?"
"Mm-hmm." He took a half step closer to her, his voice lowering into an intimate tone that had no place in such a public room. "First, there is the way you simply radiate joy. I adore the way the corners of your eyes crinkle when something amuses you. The way your eyes glitter and sparkle with mischief, the curl of your lips when you smile. And then, when your merriment becomes too much to contain, you laugh. Entirely unrestrained and wholly infectious. And I have never heard a more beautiful sound. Except for maybe your accent. The lilt of your voice, the way you caress each syllable fills me with such pleasure. I could listen to you speak for hours."
Cora's cheeks darkened until they were wine-stained, the color spreading into her hairline and down to the strip of exposed skin at her neck. She looked away, her teeth gently sinking into her bottom lip, a clear sign of the effect his words had.
"I also adore how affectionate you are," he continued. "Not just with me, but our family as well. I have never known a person who is so unafraid to embrace others; even your stiff English family. And your expressiveness. Without uttering a word, you say so much. Your happiness and sorrow, your humor and irritation, all so beautifully paint themselves across your face."
"Robert," she whispered, voice strained.
"And I would be wholly remiss to not mention your heart for others," he stated, his own voice becoming thick. "Your kindness and generosity know no bounds. Your unwavering belief of the good in others astounds me. And the way you weather each and every storm with dignity, grace, and a steady determination fills me with such admiration and pride that you are my wife."
Faint traces of tears shimmered in her eyes as she looked up at him. Her breaths were shaky and she unconsciously leaned towards him. It took all of his willpower to not wrap her in his arms and crush her to him.
"And all of that would lead me to say," he murmured, bringing his lips to the shell of her ear, "that your gentle strength is my favorite thing about you. For I have never met anyone as strong as you, my darling."
She reached for him, her need to touch him clear on her face. But Barrow appeared at their side and she dropped her hand, her fingertips slipping across the sleeve of his suit coat. Remembering where they were, they instantly stepped apart, the atmosphere that had surrounded them shattering.
"Dr. Clarkson has arrived, milord," informed Barrow.
His heart plunged into his stomach, his blood freezing in his veins. Beside him, Cora stiffened. The earlier rosiness in her cheeks drained away, leaving her pale and ashen.
With a quick nod to Barrow, he looked over at her, their gazes locking. It would only be a confirmation of what they suspected. But having it set in stone would remove the comfort a certain level of denial had allowed them. Giving her an encouraging smile he did not feel, he led her out of the room.
Dr. Clarkson waited in the Great Hall, nothing about his appearance betraying what he was about to tell them. He stood with shoulders set and his face an impassive mask.
"Dr. Clarkson," he greeted, "you're kind to come so late."
"It was no trouble," Clarkson answered. "I just received the results and I thought you would like to know right away. The tests came back positive, but for pernicious anemia. Not cancer."
He didn't move. Didn't speak. It hadn't been what they were anticipating, but he still couldn't wrap his head around it. He stole a quick glance at Cora. She stood tall, her determination to be brave holding her. But he could see the cracks beginning to appear in the way she rapidly blinked her eyes and the almost imperceptible downward curl at the corners of her mouth.
"It's not what you were dreading," Clarkson continued.
His attention snapped back over to the doctor, almost certain his ears were deceiving him. He remembered when it was suspected Dickie Merton had the same disease and how devastating it had been for him and Isobel.
"Pernicious anemia is often mistaken for cancer. And until a few years ago, it might well have finished you off. But there is now treatment."
Cora gasped in relief, the sound more akin to a sob.
"Thank, God," he sighed, his whole body sagging with alleviation.
He looked over at her, their eyes meeting as they both battled tears.
"It won't be particularly enjoyable, but you will get better," Clarkson said. "And you won't die."
She wouldn't die. A joyous laugh pushed past his lips as he wrapped his arm around her. Cora wouldn't die.
"Well thank you, Dr. Clarkson." He kissed the side of her head, unable to stop himself. "Thank you very, very much."
Blushing at his display of affection, Cora took a half step away, murmuring an embarrassed, "Yes, thank you."
Her hand brushed his as she reached for him and he immediately interlocked their fingers. Clamping her palm around his, she massaged the back of his knuckles with her thumb, and he choked back a sob.
For nearly forty years he had held her hand. Through every happiness and sorrow, triumph and failure, he had felt the comforting press of her hand in his, had felt her touch and hold him with a tenderness and love that brought him to his knees. There would come a day when they would be parted and one would have to solider on without the other. But by a stroke of luck, that day would not be anytime soon and so he tightened his hand around hers, pouring every ounce of his relief into his grip.
"Now, you must come in and have some supper," Cora stated, her voice lighter than he had heard it in days.
"It's very much catch-as-catch-can tonight," he added, voice thick. "All the servants are film stars now. I doubt we'll ever get them back behind the green baize door."
"I would be delighted," Clarkson answered. "If it's not too much trouble."
"Not at all," assured Cora, her smile bright. "Everyone is gathered in the library."
Dr. Clarkson nodded his thanks and moved over to the buffet table, leaving them alone.
Cora looked over at him, tears glistening in her eyes. "Robert," she whispered.
Tugging on her hand, he led her into the entryway. As soon as they were out of sight, concealed within the darkness, he crushed her to him, his arms wrapping around her.
"Oh, my darling," he choked. "My dearest darling."
She melted against him, clinging to him with every ounce of strength she had. Her chest heaved as she cried tears of relief into his neck, the sound something between sobbing and laughing.
He passed his hands up and down her back in soothing caresses, tears dripping down his cheeks. It was paradoxical to be weeping when he felt such joy and relief. But after so much pain and fear, it had hardly sunk in. She wasn't going to die.
Eventually, she straightened and looked up into his face, her eyes wet but sparkling in the dim light. She reached up, cupping his cheeks, and wiped away his tears, her lips stretched into a beaming smile.
"I'm alright, darling." Giddy laughter bubbled in her throat, the corners of her mouth pressing deeper into the apples of her cheeks, as realization set in. "I'm going to be alright."
Bringing one hand up, he held her cheek and drew her towards him, his fingers lightly tangling in her curls. "I love you," he whispered, just as his lips touched hers. "My everything. My Cora."
What would he do without her? He didn't know. And the lack of necessity for an answer filled him with such joy, he thought he should burst.
Breaking the kiss, he slipped his arms around her waist and picked her up, chuckling at her gasp of surprise. Her arms instantly circled his neck and she held on tightly, their gentle laughter filling the air as he spun her around.
Perhaps, if they were both terribly lucky, it would forever remain unanswered. For she was going to live. His darling Cora was going to live.
A/N: Well we finally reached the end. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read; I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. :) And to those who left reviews, I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to respond for the last several chapters. But please know your kind words mean so much to me and kept me going and I can't thank you enough! :)