Above her, Ignan smiled. He wanted to lift his hand and stroke her hair, but he didn’t have the energy, and she had it caught beneath her head.
“Alive. Yes.” He murmured. “No plans on going anywhere quick.” He was content to watch her rest her head a moment. The frown lines of her face evened out as she relaxed. I love you, he thought, so glad she was there and that he wasn’t alone. For all the relief of being alive, he was still frightened. Such a notion! Ignan Storm frightened.

“That armchair cannot be comfortable,” he spoke quietly, “have you left it since I got here?” Miranda looked too exhausted to care that she might glean his thoughts. He didn’t want her to leave just yet, selfish as it was, he didn’t want to let go of her hand or her touch for as long as he could. Her presence brought reassurance, as he hoped his did to her in times of trouble. Not that he had been much more than a punchbag by the time they were done.

“A couple of times,” Her husband was sleepily told, the witch’s eyes now closed. The respite that provided for a mere moment reminded her of how tired and sore her eyes were. Miranda wasn’t accustomed to crying. Most people didn’t believe her to have the emotional capacity to shed even a solitary tear. Typically, those people would be correct. Watching one’s husband slip away from you slowly brought a horrendous new set of emotions she’d never experienced mixed in with the dark and painful memories past.
Now, Miranda felt as if she could sleep for a decade.

“When Hughes did the runes on your chest and when your family visited.” She muttered, “I had no wish to meet your son today.” A pause as her lips twisted into a barely noticeable smile. “Or Madam Murray.” In truth, Miranda didn’t like many people. Johann and Balfort were possibly the only two on Ignan’s side that she was willing to put up with. Yet even then she’d found herself and Ignan a house with no dining room and a kitchen far too small to entertain in.

“The worst sort of family reunion,” he muttered in agreement, cringing. It was a very strange thought indeed to imagine them there when he was barely alive. Humanising, to say the least. He and Miranda had tentatively spoken about her meeting Sasha. Every time they spoke about him, it was like chewing glass. She knew how to place a comment to hurt him about his early deception about fatherhood, and had as recently as the previous weekend when she was obliviated. He hated a good majority of his extended family in Europe, and however dysfunctional the ones in Britain were, they were better than those abroad.

“I apologise for forcing them on you with my untimely demise,” he added, a faint edge of humour. From what he had observed, Miranda got on well with Camille and Johann (who were mildest and most straightforward thinkers, and by association, Balfour), but had never enjoyed or tolerated the company of Gabrielle for long. She was a somewhat acquired taste, and Ignan had seen precious little of her in recent months. “I hope that they didn’t coincide with your own family. Might have been like the wedding party we never wanted. If so, I might be glad of dying.”

Miranda didn’t respond to Ignan. It wasn’t that she had particular thoughts on their families meeting. It had nothing to do with her own family not making the effort to check on her while Ignan lay in a hospital bed. With her head resting in her arms on the bed, body slumped forward out of the chair she’d relaxed. The relief from Ignan’s waking up had turned into pure exhaustion and with such, she had slowly started to lose consciousness as she resting against the edge of the bed.

With some effort, Ignan prised his hand out from beneath his wife as she slumped, exhausted against the left side of his bed. He shakily stroked her hair. It took effort, but was nothing in comparison to what Ignan perceived she had been through alone.

Her exhaustion proved infectious, and he soon settled his hand down again, fingertips in contact with hers. Eyelids heavy, though body aching, Ignan closed his eyes. The thought of sleeping made him uneasy, having slipped so close to death. He hoped if he slept tonight, he woke to see Miranda another day.

End