Chapter 62: Diogo

For days my wife is a listless shell of herself. The only things that she's willing to show any interest in is her tomato plant and the baby birds. She doesn't eat more than a few bites of food and wouldn't have bothered showering if I hadn't stripped the clothes from her body and cleaned her myself. In fact, she's done very little without my direct intervention except wander to the roof and stare out at the city or watch the baby birds.
I've been more than patient, allowing her to grieve for a man that was nothing to her. Nothing to us. I tell myself she's not grieving for him, but for his memory. She's grieving for the first person in Sanctuary to take her in and show her any kind of family. For the few things that they shared in common and for the rebellion.
The fact of her grief eats me up with jealousy. I want to kill him all over again. Only this time I would erase all memory of him. I thought I'd be giving her closure by telling her we found a body. Now I think that was a mistake. I should have told her that we didn't find him, that he escaped into the mountains during the attack. Left her behind to face the Primitives and an uncertain reunion with her husband.
I stand behind her, watching her as she sits on the warm stones of the rooftop terrace. She digs her fingers into the dirt of her tomato plant but stares into the distance, her thoughts far away. Far away from me.
Is she grieving a dead love? Did I murder a man she actually loves? He didn't deserve her regard in life and he certainly doesn't deserve it in death. He was a deeply flawed man with only a few redeeming qualities that made him a good leader for a half-assed rebellion. He'd been useful to me for a while, keeping the rebels occupied. Now he is more useful to me dead, and, under different circumstances, his death wouldn't cause me a single moment's thought. Now, however, I'm forced to think of how my action might affect my wife. I can't force her to stop loving someone, can't control her emotions.
She hasn't said she loves me. She's had plenty of opportunity, yet the words haven't passed her lips. Is it because she's spent all these years pining after another? I search myself, looking for an ounce of remorse for the death of Xavier Gunther. Even if just to appease my wife. I find nothing. Given the chance, I would kill him over again. Same time, same method.
Gunther was correct when he stated that his execution would create a martyr. And martyrs can be very dangerous. Can serve to stir dangerous public sentiment if allowed to flourish. Taking Gunther out of the picture quickly and quietly was the only answer. I won't pretend that his death doesn't also serve the purpose of removing him from my wife's affections. I'm not a saint, and I will never be a martyr. I'm Sanctuary's Warlord. My love for Taran doesn't weaken me, doesn't change me. It gives me incentive to be even more vigilant than before.
My gaze drifts over her slim back, bent over her precious plant. She can have her grief. She can have her love for another man. But she won't be allowed to harm herself in the process. I step up to her and crouch at her back, hovering over her, casting a shadow on her and the plant. She doesn't react. Does she even know I'm here? I've been out here for the past half hour watching over her.
I lean forward and speak in her ear. "Enough, Taran."
She doesn't move, doesn't react in any way, telling me she knew I was there but was ignoring me. I shove the fury down. Anger is not a reaction that will help in this instance. It would be an indulgence on my part to take my wife in hand and shake the self-pity from her. She needs time with her grief and I've given her that. Now her time is up.
I reach over her shoulder and take her hand in mine, pulling it from the dirt, then I take hold of her chin and force her head sideways until she's facing me. Her grey eyes are cloudy, faraway, unfocused. She's looking at me, but she's not seeing me. I pinch the skin between my thumb and fingers until I know it must hurt. She blinks, her gaze focusing on me. A frown creases her forehead, drawing her eyebrows toward each other. She tries to move back but I hold her in place.
"Enough, Taran," I repeat.
This time I see a flare of acknowledgment in her eyes, then a flash of resentment. She jerks her chin to the side and looks back down at her plant. "I don't know what you mean," she mumbles.
"You do." I take hold of her shoulders and turn her until she's facing me. Then I indulge the jealous anger, just a little, digging my fingers into her flesh and giving her a small shake. "You're allowing the death of one man to affect your health. I can't allow this behaviour to continue."
Her eyes narrow at me and she shrugs out of my hold, scooting backward, putting a few feet of distance between us. "How do you think the death of one man should affect me? Should I just get over it, get over him? Should I move on and be happy with my life?"
"Yes," I growl impatiently, longing to grab her again, but holding back, trying to give her the space she apparently needs. "He was nothing to you in life, Taran. He should be nothing to you in death. Shouldn't affect you to this extent."
"You don't know me!" she snaps furiously, going to her knees and slapping a hand against her chest. "You didn't know what I was like before you took me and you haven't bothered to get to know me now. You just boss me around, giving me rules and expecting me to be content. I can't live this way!"
I stare at her, surprised at the outburst. "Where is this coming from?" I try to moderate my tone into something reasonable. "You've spent weeks patiently trying to get me to know you and understand your point of view, and now you tell me I can't possibly understand you? I don't believe it."
She blinks, trying to get rid of tears, but fails when one escapes trailing down her cheek. "You're the Warlord. You don't care about us, about the rebellion. You don't care about what's happened now that both rebel leaders are gone. They needed us."
Relief floods me as I realize where her despondency is coming from. She might be upset over Gunther's death, but she isn't heartbroken. She's upset that the rebellion can no longer continue without the key players.
"They still have you," I tell her.
"They don't!" she yells, blinking hard, more tears falling down her cheeks. She swipes them impatiently with a dirty hand smearing soil across her face. "How can they have a woman who's locked up in a tower?"
I don't answer. I can't. There's nothing I can say that will calm her right now and still be the truth. She glares at me, her beautiful eyes, tilted at the corners, sparkling with moisture.
"You have no answer, do you?" she demands. "You know that the rebellion can't survive. Not now, not without without "
"You?" I ask softly.
She stares at me for a moment then lifts her chin and says, "Yes."