“… can always sleep elsewhere.”
“You certainly won’t.” Her voice was more of a snap than intended, a harsh irritated tone. Too much focus on pushing back the emotions had hardened her reaction to him yet she didn’t apologise. Instead she let him remove the sling and lower his arm carefully. Expert hands helped him remove the cardigan and shirt until she was staring at his bruised and bandaged torso.

Pale lips pressed together tightly as she took it in. At the hospital he’d been covered in sheets and they’d not had any real time alone together for her to look. Despite her training, Miranda couldn’t help but feel her invading Ignan’s privacy by looking, by studying. He was her husband and they’d chosen to share their lives together but this, what had happened to him, was something new and scary.

After a quick glance to meet his gaze, Miranda took her wand from her pocket and cast a simple cleaning spell over her hands. She carefully placed the wand on the bed, kneeled before him and reached towards the edge of the bandage.

“Some people do everything with their wands,” she started to fill the awkward silence as she gently unravelled the bandage, rolling it as she went, “never once touching the patient. It’s faster but less accurate. Efficiency over care. This was done with care.”

The final layer of bandage was gently removed from his skin and Miranda sat back, resting on her heels as she took in the carvings on his chest. Involuntarily, her lips parted. The cuts were deep, red and swollen. The skin around them was turning a deep purple, perfectly normal. With careful treatment the scarring would be neat yet unavoidable. He would live with those marks for the rest of his life.

“It’s certainly something to rival my tattoo.” she finally said.

Ignan Storm was not a prude, but he did demonstrate polite modesty when it came to being undressed as he got older. Miranda was one of the few people he was comfortable being undressed in front of, and nearly a week of poking, prodding, re-bandaging, blood letting and other fussing had further eroded his bother. But here, just the two of them, and with Miranda suppressing strong emotions, Ignan felt vulnerable.

He rested his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward, and focused on breathing evenly. As Miranda came close to roll the bandages by hand, he could smell the faint notes of her perfume, not yet renewed that morning. To have been away from home for a week, everything smelled fresh and different again. Everything from the flowers Gerda had put in a vase in the living room in an attempt to cheer them both up, to the scent of the linen powder, fresh paint from fixing the damage from the fight, and then once they had climbed into bed with heavy heads, Miranda’s own unique scent. Had he not been so restricted in his movement, he’d have held her longer

The warm air of their bedroom felt cool on his newly exposed skin. His gaze watched her expression carefully. That was surprise, less intrigue. He ventured an attempt to look down at them himself but it was awkward. They looked awful. Not, awful as in horrifically performed, just sore as they felt, and they itched. Though, in Ignan’s memory, if cuts itched, they were often healing. They better be healing.

He reached his left hand to the right side of his chest over the first rune, and grazed the skin tentatively, before touching properly, visibly gritting his teeth as he did it.
“Not nearly as artistic,” the wizard uttered in delayed response, fingertips cautiously continuing as far as was comfortable. “And I bet it doesn’t keep you alive.” Ignan dropped his hand away and looked back to Mira. “Still your husband?” He asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Ignan’s reaction to seeing the scarring was normal. Most people wanted to touch, to feel the sensation beneath their fingers. It was a case of becoming accustomed to the new marks that would no doubt last a lifetime. If she’d have had any idea of his thoughts and insecurities, Miranda wouldn’t have been sure what to say. She wasn’t accustomed to reassuring people about feelings.

“Still your husband?” he was trying to meet her gaze and Miranda looked up from the scarring to his icy blues. Gone was the usual dominant stare, the self-assured and confident wizard she’d fallen in love with. His pride had taken and immense battering and it would take time to recover. She had no doubts he’d get that look back. He just needed time.

“If I’d have married for looks, I would be with a much younger man right now and he wouldn’t have grey hair.” She stood, placing the dirtied bandages in a small plastic bag. As she busied her hands with taking the potions and lotions out that she would need, Mira continued to speak slowly, softly, “As it is, I married someone who would put his life on the line for another person no matter what damage it could do to him. My husband isn’t young. He is a grey, balding wizard who can be a grumpy bastard. He sports wrinkles and, more often than not, an ominous scowl.” she carefully laid the medicines and clean bandages on the bedside table, still avoiding eye contact. “He has a pair of piercing blue eyes that can freeze me with one look.”

She opened a vial of antiseptic potion and dribbled a couple of droplets into a fresh white cloth, kneeling again in front of him. “My husband isn’t someone I would change because of a few scars on his chest.” Finally her gaze met his once more. “For better for worse, old man. You don’t escape that easily.” The cloth was lifted. “This will sting.” She barely gave him chance to prepare himself before it was gently placed over the wounds.

It was a shock, but only really set in once Ignan had touched his chest. He had been able to feel the pain and the strange sensation the runes gave off when he was not long conscious, but to finally see them made it real. For a wizard who had never taken a tattoo, despite the ridiculous adventures he and Georg had got up to in that decade, it was strange to adjust to something permanent in his sixties. But he wouldn’t have chosen a better reason. Still, he felt like a wreck. In his younger years he’d taken beating after beating as an auror and then in his illegal work. He’d healed, at his own wand or at the wand of a friendly party. He should have bounced back from the duel with Lawrence too.

Miranda’s response was longer than expected. Ignan would have predicted her to hide in amongst her procedure and process of healing, to lecture him on what Hughes had done. Her first statement brought a twitch of a smile from the left side of Ignan’s face as she disposed of the soiled bandages which at their lowest level were smudged with brown, yellow and a strange dark green from the poultices.

“… put his life on the line for another person no matter what damage it could do to him…”

There was something caught in Ignan’s throat, he was sure of it.

“… and ominous scowl.” Had she been looking, Ignan might have attempted it, but the lopsided smile on his face was instead rather taking over his features.

Crap it stung. Ignan’s face flinched but he forced it straight again. His left hand moved to grip the edge of the mattress, leaving his right one uselessly resting in his lap. The watery eye was definitely down to the stuff she was applying liberally to his chest. Nothing to do with it and her little speech.

“Call it Stockholm Syndrome,” he replied eventually, voice sounding a touch gravelly for the effort it took to keep his face straight, “But I don’t want to escape. Anything but.” He bit his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes as Mira pressed the cloth a little harder to deal with the weeping from the runes. “I could have very easily given up on Monday. Living is raw, painful, hard work, has been for a long time.” He dropped his chin down to look at her hands a moment, swallowing, “but I couldn’t leave you. For one, the threats to haunt me into the beyond put forward a convincing argument,” his top lip curled into a cruel smile for a brief second, “but because every bright moment of this godforsaken existence, of this grey, grumpy bastard, is down to one woman.” He swallowed again. She was so much better at this, despite her protests that she didn’t do the soft stuff.

The wizard reached out his left hand to Miranda’s right shoulder, gripped it just enough to encourage her eyes up to his.
“Thank you.” He said firmly, ‘piercing blue eyes’ conveying as much sincerity as the crack in his voice.

“Thank you.” Ignan’s gaze insisted on meeting hers again and Miranda pressed her lips tightly together, forming a thin line. It wasn’t often the couple discussed feelings and unlike most people, Miranda didn’t enjoy someone sharing them with her. It made her feel uncomfortable and put upon her a pressure that she didn’t need. Ignan telling her he’d fought for her just added a burden rather than making her feel proud or loved. It wasn’t his intention; she knew that.

“It’s not like I was your healer.” With her wand, she carefully cleaned the cloth of puss and blood before recovering it with antiseptic to clean the rest of his cuts. They were oozing more than she was accustomed to but it was no doubt the nature of the magic used. As she continued, Miranda fell silent, focusing as she cleaned his chest up as best as she could.

“Lie down for me, Ignan.” Miranda stood, placing the dirtied cloth in the plastic bag and once more cleansing her hands with her wand. She sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband as she took the salve, opening the jar.

Fingers were dipped into the salve, scooping from bright blue cream out which she began to spread gently across his chest. Her fingers carefully followed the lines of the carved runes; delicate so as to not cause more pain.

Miranda was quick to deflect, and Ignan understood she found this uncomfortable too. It was spontaneous, which was about the only way the pair of them managed to have a conversation about this. It wasn't always necessary, they said volumes without speaking. Between dementor exposure and nearly dying, Ignan supposed he was a little out of character. He'd be better once he got back to work, to routine and rid of this sling. The runes, well, he was going to live with them.

"Lie down for me, Ignan." Miranda asked, finishing the clean up. Her husband followed wordlessly, quietly suppressing his instinctive expressions of pain. The skin was now stinging sharply and throbbing with whatever she'd cleaned the runes with. His shoulder was also raging. He'd have to break out the potion for it again. Then he might forget the awkward conversation.

Miranda's fingers touched him again, spreading out salve. Resting his head on the pillows, Ignan closed his eyes as she did, gritting his teeth before opening his eyes again.
"I'm not balding." He grumbled eventually, glancing from his wife to the ceiling of their bedroom. His voice reached her fingertips through his chest as he spoke. "Much."

He let out a long sigh and folded his hands over his bare stomach, lacing his fingers. Miranda had seen a photo of his late father towards the end, white haired as his son, Gerda had been honest in her appraisal of how addled he'd been by the end. It was sobering to think she'd been the only person with him when he'd gone. If Miranda wasn't married to him, it could still be the way he might go at his time.

What a ruddy morbid thought.

"What part are you drafting this morning, then?" Ignan asked, returning their conversation to her manuscript in the study downstairs. It had been going so well with the tea and that topic.

“Identifying the symptoms of dementia.” Mira plainly stated as she finished up and washed her hands down. She stood from the bed and folded her arms, pulling the dressing gown tighter around her body. It was cool in the room, not as warm as it had been in the study with the fire burning in the next room. It may have been an April morning but there was still a distinct chill in the air.

“Gerda will be back shortly. She’s under strict orders to watch that you don’t betray my orders.” Dark eyes caught bright blue. Miranda had perfected the look as if scaring away any opposition or challenge to her statements or commands. Her staff were used to it and so was her family. Her husband was, however, learning.

“Would I dare, Head Healer?” Ignan asked, still horizontal on their bed, the blue salve sinking into the inflamed skin around the runes carved into his chest. He lifted his left hand to cradle his right elbow and took a deep breath before attempting to sit up again, uttering rude words under his breath. “The moment I do, you’ll know I’m feeling better, believe me.” He assured his wife.

“I’m actually looking forward to the quiet life, for a few days at least. Give me time to consider where to bury Musgrave’s body.” He smiled at Miranda, though deadly serious behind the humour. The next time he wanted to clap eyes on that bastard was if he was dead or about to be. That, or he wanted Ed Pratt and Solomon Carstairs in the same room to explain why they were pretending to do their job.

“Do I need bandaging up again, or do I have to wait for this to sink in?” Ignan asked gesturing with his left hand to his chest, peering down at it.

Ignan wasn’t a murderer and Miranda didn’t wish for him to be even if it meant finally getting rid of Lawrence Musgrave. She may have asked him to months ago in their garden but it had been in the moment. Murder was something different to self defence. Seeking out their enemy just to kill him would set her husband in a realm Miranda wasn’t sure she could deal with.

“Time to rest is not time to plan murder.” As if the completely finished now, Miranda pocketed her wand and stood up straight. Now her husband was up, she could bathe without disturbing him. She’d be taking a few days away from the hospital to make sure he was 100%. No chances would be taken.

“The latter.” Her eyes scanned the wounds with the new ointment and potions rubbed in. “I’ll bandage you after a bath.”Whether he would stay still for the long, the healer wasn’t sure. But after offering him a rare sympathetic smile, she turned on her heel and walked into their bathroom.

“Time to rest is not time to plan murder.”

Oh Miranda, Miranda. Where had you been in the eighties and nineties for such wise words of placation? His eyes lifted to her as she left his side and stepped away to the adjoining bathroom, mirroring her gentle smile in their privacy.

Ignan had definitely made the right decision to marry Mira, not because of her skills as a healer, but for how she changed his perspectives and opinions. She was strong and tenacious enough to stand up to his stubborn traits, more than intelligent enough to debate his opinions when they were shortsighted, compassionate enough - beneath that brusque outer personality the majority never perceived past - to curb his stricter, more dangerous impatience with family. He appreciated her for all her faults, as it humanised them both. She was his best friend now, and although there would be much of his life he wouldn’t dare let her glean for destroying her trust, she was his closest confidante.

At the sound of hot running water, Ignan blinked thoughtfully, inwardly glad that fate had granted such a despicable soul another day of happiness.

End