Ignan didn’t want to look at her. He rarely apologised, not when he had felt so surely in the right. But at that moment, between the pain, Miranda’s anger and how uncomfortable the scene had been earlier that day, weeks after nearly dying, compounding months of secrecy and frustration. He obliged her request to sit still, though it surprised him. He looked round tentatively when her footsteps walked away, only to confirm she’d left the room. Sat on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into muscles and ligaments, searching for pressure points to relieve the pain, Ignan closed his eyes.

Her returning footsteps brought him back, but only to stare down at the floor, waiting for the next chapter of the disagreement, or worse still, the silent treatment to begin. Glassware found a home on his bedside table, and the mattress sunk down to the left of him. He held his breath, reciprocated by a hand on his leg.

“… If you won’t trust me enough to share things with me, don’t be surprised when no, it really doesn’t suit me.”
“I know.” Ignan uttered under his breath, gaze resting on her hand. “Mira, my lack of trust isn’t against you as a person. Of anyone I know, I trust you most. It’s habit, ingrained.” He softly placed his hand over hers, slipped his fingertips beneath. “And we’ve not a very good track record with sharing history.” The wizard sighed, letting go of his grip on his shoulder to look up at her properly.

It wasn’t entirely truth. His longest, oldest confidant was Georg, but he and Miranda had still not met. But he hadn’t fallen in love with, and married Georg (thank goodness). The only person he knew he could turn to for help (and also blunt advice) would always be Miranda. She knew foibles he didn’t realise he had.

“… I’ve not got a good record.” He corrected himself, recalling Miranda would happily recount her history, something Ignan could only do very selectively.

“… I’ve not got a good record.” Ignan corrected himself which was necessary after pointing out that neither had a good record with sharing their history. She’d told him within a couple of months about her own main history. He knew she’d been married, he knew about her family and yet he’d been unable to share with her something so massive as a son. She obviously hadn’t shared some of her more embarrassing little titbits; they weren’t necessary. But to keep a family member from her and then refuse to discuss them? It was hard to forgive.

This was suddenly getting too calm, too personal and intimate in their manner. It was her fault for sitting next to him and being unable to avoid the fact that he was in pain. No matter how mad she was with him, it was impossible to ignore that and pretend he was fine. She pulled her hand away with a frown.

“He better be the biggest thing you’ve kept from me, Storm.” her voice was quiet, calm before she pushed herself up off the bed to walk around to her own side. “Trust goes both ways.” The covers were pulled back on her side of the bed and she lowered herself down, slipping under them.

Ignan barely moved as Miranda left. It didn’t feel appropriate to make a comment about elephants or other family, not even in jest about having to kill her if he did tell her anything. What was his wife’s scale of ‘big things’ though? A son, or the barely avoided formal criminal record? The details in a history which would end his current career for sure. If she had even an inkling, she wouldn’t want to ask, wouldn’t make comments like that. Living in blissful oblivion of anything worse was better, and besides, she’d told him the whole enigmatic outlook was attractive. When you were grey haired and grumpy you had to cling on to your alternative ‘attractive’ traits.

Without a word, or a glance behind him at Miranda slipping between the bedsheets, Ignan reached for the potions and drank.



End