In the morning, when it is cold and dark even in spring, he wakes up. The bedroom is like a tomb, cool, still, like it hadn't been disturbed for centuries. Her arm slung across him in her sleep. Gently he moved her arm, sliding out of bed and to his feet. He operated like there was some set of instructions passed down. That those were the pants he had to wear for the day. Shirtless in the morning meant the exposure of his past.

A long time ago, he was tattooed like the other boys. The ones that were meant to be imperial guards. To be the most elite bodyguard, a person whose purpose was beyond doubting. Life had had so many clear boundaries for him. The code of what it was to be a bodyguard tattooed down his back in those Japanese characters. When he was sixteen it read like fresh ink on a book of skin. Now, the letters were a faded green and the scars of his back distorted much of the text. The scars were old, some faded into whitish streaks while others were grooves.

He'd never expressed that pain to her.
He sat on the edge of the bed and put on his socks.

The first thing he did was go to Doctor Maranya's ranch, where her six horses and the other helping hand, Ian, awaited him. He was always early. He worked with each horse, especially Angus because of his tendency to be trouble. The horses generally responded well to him. They felt years of work behind his hands. They felt that he had worked with horses before. He made sure that underneath the water buckets was clean because the utmost care was necessary. He made sure everything was clean and well organized. He worked longer than Doctor Maranya requested so that the horses were in prime condition. That the horses knew that to him they were beyond being a job.

After five hours of that, he pulled on his leather jacket, washed his face in the sink and walked to Dr. Figmund Sroid's clinic. It was an hour long walk to the clinic. It wasn't terribly massive, but it had a weight to it. The people weren't mentally well there. Most of the time, they weren't bothersome. They were sacred. It was perhaps being lost in a dark place that he understood. He knew what it was to be frightened. He knew what it was to wonder just what gave this person the authority to control so much of your life. It was perhaps his respect for them that made most of the patients respond well. Also, he had imposed himself swiftly on them when they threatened the doctor. They had pushed the envelope and his hand drew out exactly what was acceptable. He had created clear boundaries, even if they were only able to understand that they were there but not why. It was one of the few violent ones that had caught him in the lip unexpectedly. None of them made him angry. They were... looking for a way through.

His steps were the same when he came home. When he arrived he stepped inside only to put up his leather coat. He went outside and circled the gardens, the house. He noticed her work and went behind it, catching anything she might have missed. Continuing on past it for a while. It was the third job he performed. Wherever he lived it would be clean and orderly, well loved and taken care of. But he didn't smile. He didn't laugh. Sometimes, perhaps, it appeared that they were coworkers assigned to the same project.

Was it that she had underestimated how much of a soldier of a system, which had rejected him, he still was? That for much of his life he'd been discouraged to speak or give emotional displays and now, years afterward and on his own, it had somehow become the fabric of who he was? Who he'd...perhaps always be? Years, hundreds of miles away from it, he was still their soldier. When they moved around the home, did she still feel his gaze flicker on her?

That maybe he would always be her bodyguard first.

Was passion just something that could be brought out in him when the situation was dire? Did the memory of it feel distant and unreal-- that maybe she had confused him for someone else? Would she only be happy with him when there was a catastrophe to force him into an emotional expression? At the end of the day he fixed a glass of brandy and watched the sun set, Mr. Chewy attached to a lead in the front lawn. The stillness of him. He could go weeks without saying anything. It's what made him the attentive listener she could recall from long ago. Did she feel it now? His eyes moved from the sunset to check on her.

Today had been a different story.

After the sun set he handed her his brandy glass as he went to pick up that enormous rabbit, unhooking him from the lead and holding him to his body, brought him inside as they went in. The misquitos got bad at night, he noticed.

Inside Mr. Chewy went back to doing what he did best. Nose wiggling and anti-social sulking around the walls of the house. It was hard to tell if Tag had the rabbit just to keep himself more occupied or if he just needed more things to take care of. That was sort of how he went about his day-- taking care of things.

But he wasn't stupid. If someone had asked him if Rona was happy these past few days he would have given an honest no.

It reminded him for the first obstacle they chased. Perhaps it was unfair to call it the first, and instead call it the lingering obstacle. As far as he was concerned, with how obstacles went, it was a small one. No one was cheating or lieing, or getting killed or having illegitimate children. No one was abusive or mean or unloving. But perhaps the small disconnect could appear unloving.

He had seen it in her eyes when they were at the inn. A pout of disappointment, and he'd known she wanted him to come forward with a grand display. Wanted to relive what was passionate about them, but he felt a numbing force everytime he tried. That suddenly he was far away from his own body and his hesitation was a great one.

Lately, though... today had been a different story.

He'd gone through the whole day working and when he returned he expected her to be frowning at him. He expected that she might tell him that they needed to work on some things. That he needed to do some things differently. He expected that she might tell him that this reunion had, actually, been a mistake, and all along they only loved the idea of one another and that even if that idea had been in earnest, it wasn't now. That now they were two different people sentimental about what had been.

But today was different.

Today when the end came near and he thought he would see the separation between them, the hidden distain for how things were, he saw instead a genuine love, a genuine care for him. That something cold had melted and that there was a previous warmth there that he understood. Something that to him... felt like coming home. It caused him to smile at her, that sort of carefree smile he didn't get everyday because he worked too much. But tonight he did, his teeth showing abit in his smile. Then he parted from her to wash up his hands and face in the bathroom and change into some clean clothes. When he came out he hinted at a boyishness because of his plain, clean pajamas and how the bottoms extended past his feet and he walked on the excess ends.

"It's time for bed."

When she brightened, so did he. Had she figured it out yet?

It was about her forgiving herself.

He'd always forgiven her, always loved her, always waited by her side. Knew that there was a divide but one always created because of her. The guilt causing her to search for a show of forgiveness when it was always, always there. He was like the loyal dog, he could forget a trespass almost instantly. To say she hadn't hurt him wouldn't have been true. To say, though, that there was a grudge was far beyond what the truth was.

So it was, when she smiled with hope and new beginning, that it was there to greet her in return. That he could mirror only the level of forgiveness which she gave herself.

It was with that bright smile that he head her, nuzzled her against the neck and the evening came to close.

Sometimes he dreamt about the past. Most of his dreams were strange contortions of the truth and of fantasy. More often than not, he was eighteen in his dreams. He thought that his mind went there because it had been such a pivotal point in his life. He'd dream of him and Rona, but in the dream he was eighteen and it felt like there was some, great turning point that he would, one day, look back on and realize was there.

This dream was strange. It wasn't like a dream at all but like he were reliving an old memory in Ctesia. The days of being a bodyguard, when he was still stuttering and even more powerfully shy.

When he woke up it almost startled him that she was in his arms. For an instant it was still back in time and he wasn't sure where they were, but thought some impending doom must be happening because they hadn't laid like this with one another before. When the passing of time occurred to him and he saw that his hands were older, that there were subtle changes in her appearance too, he knew that they were at the now. He relaxed and one hand brushed the hair off the back of her neck and he kissed her there. His arms gave her an extra squeeze-- he was glad she was in his arms to squeeze.

And like that another day of work began.

Rona's eyes were her soul to him.

He didn't think that there was anything should could have hidden from them within. It wasn't even that it was a surface expression. It was like a soul on the sleeve. He had felt, originally, that that connection existed only when she played violin. It wasn't so. When she smiled when she saw him. When she relaxed the way she was lately, it was like the last of whatever guard was lowered.

It wasn't every day that he worked all the time. Of course he would have rathered work every day all the time, just because work was the core of him. Dr. Figmund Sroid required him only every other day, and today was the day off. It was early lunch that he was back home.

When he came home, the knit of his brow announced that a thought had been distracting him. He removed his coat and smiled at her, "Clinic doesn't need me today."

It was then that he washed his hands off in the kitchen, fetched himself a glass of water and tracked back up to her.

"Rona, I don't know that I ever told you I was sorry."

"There is."

He took her hand in his and looked down when he noticed that he was wearing the ribbon bracelet and she had none. On the downward look he saw those ridge flesh strikes on her wrist. He turned her hand so that the underside of her wrist was exposed. It did not seem to surprise him a great deal. Why should it? They were both quiet about everything that had been.

"I feel that I have... encouraged us to not share with each other."

There was a heavy truth to it. He had done that. Any time she had started he told her it was fine, and all right, but never considered that to vent, to open up about those things, was not bringing to light the awful aspects of your character but opening up and increasing the connection you could have with someone.

"I have been thinking about that a lot. And I'm ready to hear everything if you will still tell me."

For a long time, he had always lived in the present with her.

Never spoke of the things that had caused issue in the past, didn't mention the scars. It was, in part, due to how he was raised. It was improper to share so much about himself. Perhaps it was accidental that he had imposed that attitude, that small law of behavior, upon her. Sometimes he thought that asking about her past was intrusive, and brought to the forefront that which was festering beneath like an old wound. And could an old wound get better if brought to the surface?

Lately, though, he had realized it had become more of something that the tip toed around. That inadvertently they were keeping secrets from each other. Scars, marks, bruises, fearful of the other's judgment. Was that love? Was it even close?

He wanted to know. He'd always wanted to know and it was now that he felt that as she spoke that it was not at all like resurfacing a wound, but purging a silent, stealthy infection.

There were many times that he thought about his father. Though about how they weren't close and that always there was a wall between them because he wasn't a fully Japanese child. It hadn't been his fault-- but his father had forced to raise him as punishment because a mixed child like him was shameful. His desire for family was never a product of his father, but from his clients. To watch his clients with their family, and to know that he lacked it so greatly with his father, had always brought that desire to the forefront of his mind. One day he would be a father, just a loved, just as capable as the clients he watched.

What would his father have said about her? Had everything stayed fine between them and the war never happened, what would he say about him retiring to be a father? She wasn't a young, chaste Japanese girl at all. The failure of his father to act like his dad caused him to blame his father for much. What did his father know about family or being happy with them? As far as he was concerned... nothing.

Their backgrounds were so different. He'd only known two women in his life, both of which he'd been engaged to. Rona's experience was vast, be it brutal and unwelcome, in comparison to his own. Did it give her feelings for him a greater validity because he had not experienced as much? He didn't feel doubt in him when he thought about it, as she described her experiences.

She was so much quicker to worry and doubt than he was. He was likely to hold confidence in her until given further notice. Until she said the world was ending, he wouldn't think much of the meteor circling in close.

By the time she had finished her story it was dark. He got up to light an oil lantern and took off his shoes to lay down, and signal that she could curl in close. He was trying to be more talkative, carry on friendly conversations with people more often so that he could engage better with her. Tonight, however, after all she said, his response was "Thank you."

The next day proceeded like any other. He was up early and went to tend to Maranya's horses for several hours with her other ranch hand, Ian. Today the doctor expected him. More than protecting the doctor from the patients, he was also protecting the doctor from himself. He was an old man-- forgetting to eat was easy for him.

Throughout the day something had been lingering in the back of his mind. It was always on the back of his mind, but now that he an Rona were solidified in a way better than they had been in the past, it came to the forefront. He found himself debating on how to say it, or what was the best way to word it. He also considered that perhaps her response was not one that he would be pleased to hear.

He was going to be thirty three soon.

When he got home, he proceeded through his usual routine of taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack, going outside to pick up around the yard as he let Chewy cniff around on his lead before he came back in for a shower. It was when he came out of the shower, in fresh pajamas at the end of the day that he went to her. He was always quiet, but today he had been particularly wrapped in thought. Now, he was ready to speak.

"Rona?" and when he sat down at the end of the bed he sighed, "I must ask something of you."

It seemed that an hour passed before he continued to tell her what it was he meant to ask. Exhale, then, "I'm not prepared to keep on like this without a family. I am... ready now, more than I've even been in life. I want to get married, and I want to have a child."

His dark eyes measured back up to her and he pressed his lips together before continuing, "I would like, very much, for you to be the woman I do it with. But I cannot handle another uncertainty. I cannot handle another disappointment at the alter. I want for you to go back to the room you were staying in and think over what I am asking of you for three days. Here, in my place, with me now like this, it is easy for your mind to be clouded and to think that this is what you want. But, if you are away, without the influence of my presence, and feel that that is also something you desire-- come back. If you do not come back in five days, I will take that to be your answer."

His exhale was one that he had wanted to let out for eight years, "I just can't keep seeing other men with their sons and daughters and wives. It's been breaking my heart for years and I can't take it anymore."

When he awoke and she was gone, he was not alarmed. He had expected her to argue with him, insist her mind was made up. It relieved him that it hadn't gone that way. That she was taking her time and considering, carefully, what the future would bring. Today, he only worked the horses.

When he was done and came home, it occurred to him how accustomed to her presence he'd become. For a moment, he looked for her, but it was only a moment. Afterwards the realization seemed to have sunk into him fully, and he operated under thought. Oh, what would he do if Bey flew off, and she never did return? What if this home and place proven to be more of a confinement than an enjoyment? That's not how he wanted a woman to feel when she lived with him.

The time she was away was spent with more than just thought. He purchased a couch and a coffee table for the entry room, which made it a great deal more inviting. He bought some knick knacks for the kitchen, a nice set of knives and a tall ceramic cut that held large stirring spoons and spatulas. A dining table, one with hand carved chairs and some place mats. He thought that if she did come home, that it must look a great deal more like a home.

He thought that if there was ever reincarnation that he should be a great oak tree. Wandering wasn't a part of his nature but imposed upon him by circumstance. He was a sedentary creature at heart. He wanted to sculpt a particular piece of ground into something. It wasn't that he desired to acquire it, but that the act of improving the earth brought him peace.

When he was done with everything for the day, he went to the inn or twilight island to burn up some time. He tried to be more social, but it was difficult to undermine the foundation life had given him. He had trouble saying no. He had trouble differentiating between working for someone and being their bodyguard.

He wasn't impatient. He knew that whatever the outcome, he'd see her again. Whether it was to tell him she'd always been in his heart but on the road, or that even a wind gets to where it likes to keep wandering over the same place. There had been so many years without her that had been like waiting, he could handle a few days. Truth be told, he'd gotten tired. Like he told her, he was just fixed on that family goal and now, now he was unwilling to compromise. He was getting older. Any more older a woman may not want to have a family with him.

He hoped her judgment was not swayed by wanting to see him again. They had met again so recently and sometimes, while he drank his brandy, he feared that her missing him would convince her that living like an oak tree would make her happy. That five years later she'd wake up, rotten and unhappy and then she'd be gone to refresh the wanderlust in her blood.

Blood. Which way does it course? Could you not help but influence it by your own beating?

I'd give up forever to touch you
cause I know that you feel me somehow.
You're the closest to Heaven I'll ever be
....and I don't want to go home right now.

These are the long days, the ones without her. The days spent with thoughts on what the future was gonna be. That there was this little bit of grey area and he wasn't sure what was to become of it. He came home and knew that their days apart had come and gone. Would there be again no answer at the door? What is the rest of life going to be if she didn't come back?

All I can taste is this moment
all I can breath is your life
sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight.

There's a knock on the door...

I don't want the world to see me,
cause I don't think they'd understand.
When everything is meant to be broken,
I just want you to know who I am.

When he opens it and she's standing there, it felt like looking at the ocean for the first time. Relief was the ocean, so incredibly, staggeringly large, so infinitely expanding that it swallowed him, collapsed him to where he leaned in the doorway to catch himself. He had known through his little social trips that other women were open to the prospect of him pursuing them, but one problem persisted. None of them were Rona. None of them were as ingrained with him as she was.

When he held her he cried.