Pains of the past

*Calliope*
The new year brings with it snow. Standing at the bedchamber window, watching the huge, fat flakes fall softly, I am reminded of my time in the East, where the winters can get bitter. It is much worse for the soldiers in the field, who are oftentimes brought to the hospital with frostbite. I shake off the thought, not wanting to dwell on unpleasantness. It has been some time since I’ve been bothered by a nightmare.

It helps that Zac holds me close every night. I drift off to sleep with his arms wound around me and awaken to the same. It also helps that he is no longer asking me to recount our time together in war.

During the day, I manage the household while he manages the estate. He seems content. He no longer speaks of what he can’t remember, never brings up that time at all. For that, I am eternally grateful. We are both moving on with our lives. In so doing, I feel confident that Zane will grow up happy. I can see Zac falling more in love with his son each day.

I have never known such contentment, such joy.

Leaving the bedchamber, I walk aimlessly through the house. Zane is napping. I have finished with my meetings with the servants. Every task is being handled splendidly. Draco can find no fault with my managing of his residence.

It is surprising that of Zac’s two brothers, Draco is the one I feel most uncomfortable around. He is always studying me as though I were a wooden puzzle he is attempting to take apart so he can examine each individual piece and determine exactly how it contributes to the whole.

He is so at ease with his surroundings, so apparently unbothered by things, but I can sense that below his surface lurks a dangerous combination of suspicion and the ability to decipher the most confounding of mysteries. He quite literally terrifies me, an honor that should have gone to Morton, with his darkly brooding mien. But he is too occupied with his mate to care about me.

Perhaps I should see about finding a mate for Draco, something to distract him from his unsettling purpose… whatever it is.

Zac has assured me that I have nothing to worry over. But he doesn’t know the things I know, the secrets I wish to keep locked away.

I need him to distract me from these awful musings. Surely, I can lure him away from his own duties for a while. It would be a challenge… a fun one, even if I don’t succeed. With that thought in mind, I go searching for him.

As I wander the hallways, I can’t help but realize how much I have come to love the house, to think of myself as its mistress. I wonder if Zac will have difficulty relegating the responsibilities to Draco when he comes to visit.

I wish I had come with a dowry. I wonder if he resents that I haven’t. With a dowry, he might not have been dependent upon the kindness of his brother. I want him so badly, to secure Zane in my life, that I’ve given little thought to what Zac might have yearned for in his own dreams.

But I can’t imagine that another woman would have loved him as deeply as I do. When I see him with Zane, my heart swells to the point of aching. When Zac gazes at me with a hint of wickedness in his eyes, I melt. When we talk and share the moments of our day, I know unheralded contentment. When we pleasure each other, I am lost in a world of sublime ecstasy.

My life contains a richness I have never before experienced. I would do anything to hold on to it.

I locate Zac where I expect to find him: in the library, working diligently at his desk. An assortment of papers is spread over the mahogany wood. His furrowed brow reveals his deep concentration, as does the fact that he hasn’t heard me enter the room. Usually, he is attuned to my presence, turning to greet me the moment I spy him, as though he feels the touch of my gaze.

But not so now. I wonder what has captured his attention so intently as to block out the world around him.

“It’s snowing,” I say softly.

He jerks his gaze up to me, then shifts it over to the window. "What am I to do about that?"

He has never sounded so curt, so irritated with me. I can’t deny the prick of pain that his tartness causes, then I castigate myself for placing too much importance on his annoyance. I have disturbed him, after all. "I thought we might take Zane out to experience it."

“I have matters that are far more important than a snowflake landing on an eyelash." He turns his attention back to the document he had been reading.

His dismissal hurts. I’m not accustomed to us being out of sorts with each other. Since Christmas, we have experienced an amazing accord, as though our marriage has come to reflect something special for both of us. We have settled into this arrangement and found it pleasing. "What are you doing?"

“Reading some reports on the war that Draco was able to procure, as well as some letters from those who served under my command."

Thinking he had given up his quest for his memories has been a misconception. He still searches. He’s simply stopped bringing the subject up to me. “Why do you torment yourself?”

“Because I want to bloody well remember!” He holds up a piece of paper, clutching it until it crackles. “I have just received word that I’m to be knighted. For services rendered to the Crown. Services that in here…” he slaps the side of his head, “…never occurred. Imagine it, Calliope. Imagine walking out into the garden and suddenly a child appears. He runs toward you. You don’t know who he is, then you’re told he is your son. You brought him into the world two years ago. You don’t remember the pain of his birth, the sound of his first cry, watching him take his first step. Everything that should mean something to you doesn’t exist for you."

I clutch my hands, squeezing my fingers until they ache. I can’t imagine the devastation of not having memories of Zane during the past five months, much less two years. The unfairness of it rattles me to my core. "It’s not the same," I insist. "The memories you have lost were ones of horror, pain, death, and gore."

“Was it horrible when I was with you?" He asks.

I feel all my blood drain down to my toes. My mouth goes as dry as sand. Yes, it had been horrible, but it had also been remarkable. But if I help him remember it, he might also remember other things… question my claim that I am Zane’s mother.

“I know you don’t understand my obsession, Calliope. I know you think I should be content with what I have now. And I am. But there is a part of me that cannot escape what happened during those two years. I will be knighted for it. People will ask me questions about my actions, my bravery… my damned service to country. And what do I say? Do I admit that I have this affliction? That part of my mind is gone? Memories washed away as though carried to a distant shore where I can no longer reach them?"

“Why did you not come to me? Why did you not explain this to me before?”

“And burden you? Ask you to resurrect what gives you nightmares?" He shakes his head. “I couldn’t subject you to that torment."

I sigh, “So you pretended not to care about the past any longer?"

“I didn’t pretend. I simply ceased to discuss it. I acquired a list of names of men in my regiment. I wrote to them, telling them I was writing a book about our adventures and that I required some details to confirm our exploits. It seems a good many of the men who served with me are dead. It’s a betrayal not to remember them.”

I have failed to understand how much he suffers with what he can’t recall. But what if those letters spread over his desk contain more than stories of bravery and action against the enemy? What if they mention his time in war and the nurses there? What if they mention one in particular, and a name sparks a single memory, igniting a cascade of recollections? Has my own selfishness brought him to this moment of grief?

“No matter how many accounts you read, you will never feel what you experienced on that battlefield. You will not know if you trembled upon seeing the enemy. If you dropped to your knees and cast up your accounts afterward. You cannot experience bravery or righteousness or fear when the moment is long past. You cannot recreate what you went through there. I think you are foolish to try."

“You think me foolish," he states, each word enunciated with the bite of anger.

I shake my head, “I think you must accept that the queen has determined you are worthy of this honor, and therefore you are worthy."

He laughs harshly. “You’ve not listened to a damned word I have said." He comes out of his chair, his eyes blistering with anger. “You can’t possibly understand. You think it trivial. You think me obsessed. Perhaps you even think me mad. And perhaps I am, because I would give my left arm to have the ability to reminisce about those missing two years of my life."

I angle my chin. “You are correct. You do not know the man you were in the war. Because that man did every damned thing possible not to lose his left arm. He defied physicians. He threatened bodily harm to anyone who sawed it off. He proved to them with actions that it still worked, that it could be saved. And do you know why he did that?" I take a step nearer. “Because he refused to let his men return to the battlefield without him. When they wanted to give up and die, he urged them to live to fight again. And those for whom there would never be another fight, he stayed by their side as they surrendered to death, making them feel victorious with their last breath. That is the man I fell in love with. That is the man whose son I held to my breast and swore I would never abandon. You do not need his memories to be him. Because he is you."