“You’re a selfish bastard, Ignan.” Miranda’s quiet voice cut into the silence within the cubicle. She was sat in the arm chair, bare feet curled up beneath her in an attempt to get comfortable. It was getting later on in the evening and visiting hours on the ward had long since ended. Head Healer Storm had the advantage that no one could tell her to leave. Ignan’s family members had been and gone, Miranda slipping away to avoid having to see his cousins or meet his son. She was the first to admit not being in the proper mental state to deal with such a situation. Now, she was, therefore, facing her third sleepless night by her husband’s bedside.

“You let me marry you in December. You let me fall in love with you.” It was rare for her to use the ‘l’ word, even if she did truly love her husband. “You stood at that alter in Norway and promised to be there for me.” Her dark eyes were staring down at hands in her lap. Tears was long since dried up, the witch deciding there were no more left to fall. “You didn’t tell me you’d give up on life after three months. You don’t need to die to escape a marriage with me, you old fool; I’m not that hard to live with.”

“I tell you what, old man, if you die, you’ll wish you’d stayed alive.” Her gaze shifted to the wizard in the bed. The sheets were pulled up over his chest, arms placed above it, exposed. Hughes insisted there were now signs of improvement, but Miranda wasn’t so sure she could see them. He looked ready to be sent downstairs to the morgue. “I will find a way to bring your soul back and torture it every day.” Miranda had been wrong, tears of frustration began to appear. “You won’t rest in peace. You can’t. You can’t leave me, Ignan.”

“Mira…”

The voice in her head very nearly stopped Miranda’s heart. It was Ignan’s voice, speaking to her. She stared at him, wide eyed. The wizard was still unconscious, his gentle breathing was the only movement. But she’d heard him. She’d most definitely heard him.

Legs untangled themselves from the chair and Miranda stood up cautiously, allowing her bare feet to carry her closer to her husband’s hospital bed.

“I-Ignan. You need to wake up now.” Mira’s voice was quiet, soothing despite the slight nervous shake to it. Her shaking hand was placed over his, giving it a squeeze.

“Mira…?”

A gasp escaped her lips and Miranda struggled to catch her breath. A mixture of shock, relief and fear built up quickly.
“Wake up, Ignan. You have to wake up.”

Time to wake up.

Ignan was trapped. He’d blinked out of life as he’d said his wife’s name in her office Sunday morning. The hours between had passed without any recollection or comprehension. It was not even like sleeping, as there had been nothing. No concept of time passing. His consciousness was roused, death loosening its grip on him, sliding her inky hands from his mind. Somewhere, nearby, he could hear Miranda’s voice. Just her voice and the tone. It took his mind time to piece together the voice and the right memory of who he could hear, but both together was a well needed jolt.

She was… angry…. Why was she angry?

Ignan’s memories had been thrown into a heap, resembling the files and papers on Miranda’s office floor when she threw them down in her dash to him collapsing. They were all in the wrong order. Sharp pain like a knife through the crown of his head brought a strong memory, bright in the dark of his semi consciousness. Pain, Miranda in panic. Fear, more panic, weight, fire, pain.

“Where are you?”

Her hands on him dimly registered, his body lagging behind his mind, firing off pain signals in the wrong direction. Why couldn’t he feel anything but pain? Bright, white, burning, pain.

“Mrr…” Ignan’s attempt to coordinate speech was entirely incoherent. It was more a feeble groan than recognisably his wife’s name. Pain.

His hand in hers moved weakly, part reflex, nerves lighting up in him as his brain worked through emergency protocols they’d never thought they had to use. Unconscious situations he’d been through, but to the point he was hours from entire death, he’d never been so close. His brain had pretty much given up and pulled down the shutters, blown out all but one candle, which was drowning in its own wax. Now the more it rallied to light candles, the more it realised the damage the tempest had left behind, and it was panicking. His unsteady heart ached, but pushed on, picking up pace.

“Don’t leave me.”

A rush of adrenaline coursed through Mira’s veins as a slur came from Ignan’s mouth. Her heart began to beat frantically as she blinked through the hot tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. His hand twitched slightly and Mira’s gaze shot over his face, looking for any signs in his expression that he was emerging from unconsciousness other than his slurring of her name.

His mind was waking up from being dormant since collapsing. He was trying to pull himself back, his wife could feel it. She gripped his hand with her right, left reaching to his neck, checking his pulse to see if it had sped up, to show signs of life.

“I’m here, Ignan.” Her fingers remained on his neck as she silently counted. “It’s time to wake up.” The thought didn’t occur to Miranda to call for assistance from one of the healers. Her husband was starting to wake and she’d be damned if she had to step away from him and let someone else work.

Her voice was quivering, anxious as she leaned in closer to him, left hand now resting on his shoulder.
“Please, Ignan.”

Hands, he had hands. He could feel his right hand. Feel her touch. She was there. Wherever there was.

The pain.

“Please, Ignan.”

“Wake up.”

But waking meant pain. Sleeping had been free of it, and death’s inky hands had cradled him. So easy to slip back if he let himself drift...

“Wake up.”

Suddenly, he drew breath, as if he had been holding it since the moment he had closed his eyes. Sharp, astringent, air rushed down his throat beneath where Miranda’s fingers had now left it. His chest met resistance from the bandages Flynn had applied. The candles flared, fire, great fire in his mind. Not today. Not his time. He opened his eyes.

“Mir-“
   “Mira.”

Ignan's voice, hoarse, aloud and in mind. The vicious pain eclipsed, by the sheer fact he was alive.

Eyes shot open, the gorgeous icy blue she’d grown to love. Knees buckling as a wave of relief swept over her, Miranda gripped hold the bed, her body suddenly weak with shock. Tears fell freely down her cheeks but she didn’t wipe any away, she didn’t want to pull her hand away from his.

His voice. One she’d thought she’d never hear again croaked her name and Miranda couldn’t control the emotion that took control. She was weeping but not through sadness. Tonight she’d thought she would be forced to say goodbye to her husband. He’d made her wait, depressed in grief as he simply slept, dead to the world. He had no idea what he’d put her through.
But he was awake.

He was alive.

She didn’t jump to hug him, she didn’t know how much pain he’d be in and he’d need space, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his. There was no dead dullness to his gaze, even if it was no doubt blurry.

“Don’t you ever do that to me again, old man.”

His eyes stared blankly up, not quite making out the shapes of St Mungo’s architecture or his wife’s most elegant and beautiful features. Everything was a lot to take in at that moment, sight, sound, breathing, touch, smell, pain, living. His mind was attempting to recover from a shipwreck, the boat leaning at a perilous angle while the few crew who remained were exhaustedly throwing cargo into the sea to even the ballast.

“Mira,” he managed again, louder. Eyelids fluttered shut, but only for a slow blink, trying to focus them. “Do…” talking was incredibly difficult, his lips let out an incoherent Ack in expression of pain.

“Do what?”

Another blink, his sight was clearing. Again, blink again. It didn’t matter how much his body was screaming in agony right now, it was important to see. See Miranda. His brow frowned, trying to focus on her face, with gaze as sharp as a pin, nose as straight as an arrow, and lips he found hard not to kiss when they turned into a sly smile at their dark humour. The most wonderful sight to clap eyes on when you were alive.

“Mira,” he spoke again, sharper this time, more reminiscent of his usual self, aware, awake. The mast was ascending, the boat righting.

“What did I do? Where have I been?”

He was now staring up at her, eyes steadily seeming more alert, aware. But he was racked with the pain from his organs that had been steadily shutting down and killing him. She would have to call for Hughes in a moment, to give him something for it, her being unsure if anything would interfere with the magic having been performed through runes and his blood.

“What did I do? Where have I been?”

Lips didn’t move as his voice entered her mind and Miranda instantly knew what had happened before. With an emerging consciousness, Ignan’s thoughts were escaping, he wasn’t keeping them to himself like he usually did. His mind was habitually silent, calm. It was one of the things she truly appreciated about her husband.

“You’re in St Mungo’s.” She replied verbally, her voice quiet as she tried to push back the tears and emotion but the tears continued. “You collapsed.”

Her left arm lifted and she wiped tears away with her jumper sleeve. “I thought I’d lost you.”

She could hear him! It was a struggle to speak, his body was as uncoordinated as a third year through a growth spurt, but his mind was picking up speed. The sails were unfurling under the mast again. He felt suddenly and very keenly aware of his heart beating, of how air felt to breathe, of how Miranda’s shoulders hunched as she leaned over him, her lazy curls framing her blotchy yet incredible face. He felt drunk and disorientated but rudely alive.

His hand made efforts to grip hers, and although he didn’t speak a word aloud, his face softened into concern.

“I’m here.”

Lips drew into a lopsided smile, or a near attempt, considering Ignan was never the sort to wear a grin without it looking entirely sinister. He loved her. He’d told her that, lying on the rug, injured. He’d known he needed to tell her then.

The memory of Saturday flooded his mind’s eye in a flash, and brought a different kind of pain. He drew a sudden, shuddering breath, eyes closing and eyelids scrunching. The more conscious he was, the more the extremities of his body began to scream, yelling for reports, for explanation at why they had been brought to a halt, and what the bloody hell were they meant to do now.

“It hurts.”

With Ignan still delirious, unable to speak and in pain, Miranda called for Hughes. Around half an hour passed with vitals being taken, potions being given and Ignan being brought around. By the time Hughes left husband and wife alone in the cubicle, Ignan was propped up against pillows, looking decidedly less pale and his wife had stopped crying, eyes left blotchy and red.

The uncomfortable armchair that Miranda had practically lived in had been pulled up closer to the bed so she could properly see and speak to her husband. The witch couldn’t stop staring at him, overwhelmed by the relief that he was not only alive, but awake and coherent.

“You weren’t enamoured by the idea of having your soul tortured forever, then?” The witch asked as she brushed some of her decidedly long and bedraggled hair back from a red face. She leaned forwards, elbows resting on the edge of the bed as she continued to look up at him. Adrenaline had fuelled her energy when he’d woken up, it had kept her going while he’d been unconscious. Now the exhaustion was settling in and the fact that she’d not slept in over two days was creepy up on her.

“You had me so damn worried, Ignan.” She took his hand, feeling herself tearing up again. “I love you so much."

More than a few potions later, and a while of obliging Healer Hughes with answers to questions, and attempts to move his limbs, Ignan was propped up on comfortable pillows. His sight had cleared, and he felt more himself, only as if he’d taken that sleeping potion in the cupboard at home which needed you to have clean thoughts on antelopes, and been beaten black and blue in the process. It would all, hopefully, pass, but he had no intentions of moving anywhere quickly. He was content to study Miranda’s face as she leaned on the side of the mattress beneath him.

“Is that what you were saying?” He asked. His voice lacked his usual edge, but at least he could talk again. It had been frightening to wake and find it so hard to speak. It had been a wonderful feeling to know Miranda could hear his thoughts. Normally such a negative association, keen to lock his mind away, it had been his sole way to communicate clearly in those first few minutes.

“I know,” he replied, hand inching slowly to hers to provide some semblance of reassurance. She was crying, and it wasn’t the first time. He felt that ache in his heart again, not physical pain, rather emotional pain. “I love you too.” He held her gaze, and her hand, and then blinked hard, exhaustion, emotion, relief, Merlin, he had been about to pass into the beyond. They had not expected him to come back. He didn’t care that was a salty tear breaking free down his nose. How could he have possibly left Miranda? She was entirely right, he’d have taken his soul tortured forever if he had.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, though his voice sounded queerly strained, “I failed you,” he blinked hard again, swallowed, which was painful. “I won’t ever, I promise I won’t ever leave you again.” Sentiment, but a promise he wanted to keep.

A deep breath, an attempt to stop more tears as Mira looked away, screwing her eyes shut for a moment. Ignan could promise all he liked that he wouldn’t leave her. He had no control of other people. The past few days had demonstrated his mortality. No one was immune to death. Miranda had let herself get close to another wizard just could just leave her suddenly; a wizard she would have to bury.

When the Head Healer opened her eyes, she was looking down at their hands clasped together. His wrinkled one in hers. Ignan was 18 years her senior. Today the age gap appeared to be in excess of 30 years. It would be too easy to really lose him. She didn’t need to training to know that the older people were, the harder it was for them to recover from such trauma. Ignan would take a couple of weeks to be back to normal.
If normal was possible now.

“You can’t promise that.” She shook her head and brushed some messy hair back again with her free hand. “We’re all mortal. That’s why I make a living.” A tiny smile before she looked up at him. “You can promise me no work for a couple of weeks. I’ve already written your sick note.” She pressed her lips together, eyes glinting slightly with mild amusement. “Not everyone gets a personal sick note from the Head Healer, old man.”

“You can’t promise that.” Miranda corrected him, a realist, as Ignan more often was.
“Mhm, I’d like to.” He agreed, by way of consolation.

“… I’ve already written your sick note.”

Ignan’s eyes lowered, considering. He hadn’t had a chance to think of work since being brought back. He barely felt in a state to comprehend how he was going to make it through the next few hours awake. He felt more exhausted than he had ever perceived in his sixty and more years. Merlin, he hated getting old! He wasn’t even that old. Wizards lived well into their hundreds with their magic preserving them. He was halfway through his possible lifespan. Miranda had many more on him after that. Death was a cruel mistress. He’d outrun her as long as he could. He had married the best healer in Britain (biased, considering Flynn Hughes had defied all written texts to let him live).

“Well, I consider myself a special case,” Ignan replied, picking up on her change of tone. Their humour, preservation, life over death. It was that sense of humour, amongst other attractions, which he adored her for. “I have just come back from the dead.” His lips twitched in a mild sign of amusement. Speaking of back from the dead...

“My memories of the night are a little jumbled,” he admitted to Miranda, “what became of Hannah Bombay?”

From a tiny joke, a few seconds of amusement and back to reality and the cause of why Ignan had nearly died in the first place. Miranda’s expression immediately went ice cold.
“She was arrested.” Hannah Bombay was the young werewolf healer that the board had insisted needed to be fired following far too much negative publicity. Miranda had felt guilty about the decision despite it being out of her hands. She’d questioned her superiors but ended up having to obey and commands and let Hannah go.

Miranda had always thought she would be able to offer her a position in some years when the media died down and Hannah once more had a stable life. Regardless of what most people tended to think, Miranda cared about people and she never wished them harm.

The past few days had changed that. Her hardened eyes fell once more on her husbands. “It was their plan to have Musgrave kill her and force me to bring her back. You were in the way, a complication to be disposed of. As soon as she was conscious and I was positive no longer in need of medical attention, I told the aurors to take her. She can rot in Azkaban.”

“Their plan?” Ignan echoed, weary, but keen to understand how this had come about. Apparently it was Monday, the events had been Saturday night and he had a muddle of memories about being put back together and feeling rotten. Mira was angry, her manner had changed in an instant with asking about Hannah. Ignan hadn’t been sure if Hannah had come as a knowing accomplice, or an oblivious one. Knowing it had all been a shared plan between Bombay and Musgrave, he understood Miranda’s standpoint. They had been tricked, used. Or rather, Miranda had. He had, as she described, become a complication to be disposed of. Given their previous bloody meeting, Ignan was not surprised Musgrave had taken disposal seriously. Ignan had very nearly killed him.

“Better me than you.” He told Mira, thoughtful. “Musgrave wanted revenge for the time before, if he hadn’t threatened and turned on me, it would have all been on you.” Ignan blinked several times in succession, letting a fuzzy sensation of potions doing their jobs pass. He was glad he had not been out for longer. He might have been revived as an actual corpse given the damage to his body. He was very much not out of the woods yet, but at least back on the path. His speech was still slower than the norm, but speaking was better than being unable.

“I don’t blame you.” The exhausted wizard added, lifting his gaze to his wife, applying a little pressure to her hand. “I almost certainly would have reacted to them at our door in the same way. We are human, and always the weakest point in any defences. We can just hope that Bombay confesses enough of use to end this. She has to have helped Musgrave, healed him.”

A weak smile came in response to Ignan’s kindness about how she’d reacted to the pair at the door, simply letting them in. She’d presume he’d be mad, angry that she’d ignored his instructions and once again put them in harm’s way. She supposed she was angry enough with herself for the both of them. Ignan was the expert at wards and suspicion and protection. He was the wizard in charge of preventative measures. Miranda was the clear up squad. She was the witch who acted first and regretted it later. She was the with who’d spent a lifetime clearing up the messes of witches and wizards like her.

“That’s for the aurors to find out.” his wife pointed out, folding her arms on the bed and resting her head down on them, exhausted. The precipitous relief of Ignan waking up had abruptly allowed Mira’s body to realise it’s fatigue. She closed her eyes, relishing in the respite it provided tired stinging eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Hannah Bombay or her uncle.” She was still holding his hand as her voice slurred in its tiredness, her Devonshire accent strong. “You’re alive. That is all I care about right now.”