Untitled

AGAIN & AGAIN

Time had been such a convoluted thing since the day we’d left the Ridge, and none the simpler for the wee matter of my death.

When I dredged myself up from the muck of a black and dreamless sleep, my pocketwatch wasn’t to hand — still tucked away in my sporran somewhere, strewn haphazardly about the tent with the rest of our clothes. I hadn’t any idea of the hour, but birdsong drifted sweetly through the trees overhead, and the light filtering through the canvas was the soft rose-gold of morning. 

We’d slept through a full day and night, then, at the least. 

Claire had been tucked into the same position all the while, even when I rolled one way or the other. Her joints wouldn’t thank her for it — neither had mine after Monmouth, when I’d slept propped between two chairs or on the floor beside her bed. Here, at least, the two of us fit on the cot together.

And this time, there was no bullet wound to avoid.

That was my first marvel, upon waking. I didn’t know what I expected to find… perhaps a freshly-scabbed pock like the birdshot had left, or even something akin to a burn where she’d seared the hole shut. But there was nothing: no trace of injury old or new, no indication whatsoever that I’d taken a bullet to the heart. Eyes narrowed, I grazed my fingertips back and forth over the unbroken skin, then probed a bit harder, testing. The muscle ached as though I’d worked too many hours splitting wood or hammering at a forge, but otherwise—

Evidently, my poking and prodding were more disruptive than I meant; inhaling a deep breath through her nose, Claire nuzzled into my ribs, then shifted her head to peer up at me.

Her beautiful… snow white head.