Wasteland

Once again, it was nightfall when she arrived at the gate to the hamlet. The stars shone brightly over the world and the full moon lit her path. The wind blew sand in her hair and her face, making her look much as she had on the day she first arrived. She could still smell the sting smoke and the tinge of blood. The gate was open just wide enough that she could squeeze through, but it was a tight fit. With the walls protecting her from threat of sand filled wind, she pushed the goggles from her eyes to rest over her hair line. There were no guards or gunmen at the gate. No rush of desperate souls to greet her. Not even the bodies she'd expected to be lying where they fell in the dirt. Signs of battle remained, however. Bullet holes and scorch marks. Burned buildings and homes. The tavern still stood, though it had suffered damage. The windows were broken and it was clear that fire had not left it untouched by the blackened shadows of flame that twisted up the face. She saw no one. No trace of life was left in the dust or peered out at her from darkened holes. Yet she felt as though someone was watching her. As she neared the pub, her eyes sought out the small window that marked his room. Their room. The curtains hung, torn and more ragged than before, blowing tiredly in the breeze like a frail old woman about to die.

The door was opened in her hand, leaving char on her palm and fingers, with a complaining groan. The interior had survived without much proof of the war that had destroyed the town. It was dustier than before. She could smell it more than see it in the darkness. leaning columns of light held up the walls where the moon beams shone through to anchor to the floor. She thought about checking the kitchen first, but she was more tired than hungry or thirsty. She still had a few M.C.I.'s packs and water in the canteen.

The stairs groaned as her feet disturbed the dust settled there. Both the doors on the landing were open. No one was inside. The well worn beds sagged as sad as the village on their frames. The tread bare rugs were as grey as the wood, almost silver in the thin sliver of moon light that peeked through the smaller windows. His door was shut. She tried the handle. It was not locked. She fingered the key around her neck. Whatever happened here, he had clearly not planned to return. The door creaked open with a mournful cry. The room appeared the same as before. Wardrobe in the corner, oriental rug on the floor clinging to the last faint colors of it's design, the brass bed with it's old mattress and long worn grooves where the two of them had slept and loved. The chair by the door was empty as was the laundry line the was strung across one end of the room. Then her eyes moved to the window. Her heart caught in her throat with her breath when she saw Jack. He leaned against the wall of the alcove, just out of reach of the tattered hem of the curtains, staring out at the stars and the moon as it rose from it's hole in the horizon. The pale light illuminated only pieces of him from the shadow; his denims at his knee, the toe of one boot, the fingers holding the cigarette and the smoke that ghosted up to the rafters. When he took a draw the cherry burned a demonic red. His must have been the gaze she felt. Seeing him again made her eyes water. A single tear escaped her attempt to blink them back. The silver trail it left down her cheek swept away a layer of sand and grit that had accumulated there. She could barely muster the whisper that left her lips.

"I heard tale," She began.

Her words hardly phased him, or perhaps the decimation of his home had stolen his humanity. He seemed only a shell of his former self, but she knew that to be deception of her own mind. She could almost feel the clash of storm and calm within him permeating the room. He continued to look up at the night sky, turning his ear to her ever so slightly to let her know he was listening. But he did not look at her.

"That if ya stare too long out int' the black, it consumes yer soul and leaves ya empty as an egg what has noth'n inside it."

"I would have t' tell ya that it ain't so." He replied softly, tearing his eyes from the tiny dots of brilliance to look at her. His eyes found hers in the darkness. "I would have t'tell ya it be quite the opposite. I feel as though m'soul is filled wit' the light what shines through, as a candle behind black paper filled wit' holes."

"Ye speak well fer one so young."

She grinned remorsefully at him with furrowed brow. She fidgeted nervously for a moment before she attempted to speak again.

"Ye once told me I'd always be welcome back by ya. Would that still be true?"

Jack let out a long smoke filled sigh before answering. It swirled in the moon light, obscuring him further. She could see it's path altered with the breath of his words.

"Aye, 't would. An' I'd give ya an' yer bun the bed." He gestured with the cigarette to the place they'd made the 'bun', creating new ghostly arcs in the air. " I'll not touch ye if ye've no heart fer it. 'Tis plane ya ne'er loved me."

He added the last almost as an after thought spoken barely above a whisper.

"That ain't so." She said softly, sadly.

He was silent for a long while before he spoke again. The tone of his melancholy did not change.

"Will ya leave again?"

"No. I will stay with ye."

"Ye've said that 'efore an' ya lef' me t'die."

"Ya didn' die, an' I came back."

"Only cause my seed growed in ya. When ya 'ave no need o'me, ye'll leave again. Jus' promise me ya won't be by again. If I'm still breathin, you'll fin' m'heart as shattered pieces in the dust."

Her heart ached for him, for his pain and his lossas she stood by the open door to the room more full than it appeared.

"I love ye." She whispered. "Truely, I do. I have need of ya t'love me again, if ya would."

"A worm what becomes a butterfly cannot be a worm again. I've never stopped lovin' ye."

Her eyes fell to the floor as the tears fell silently from the well. Everything ached to feel his touch, but she feared his wrath. She did not have to wonder or worry. The red glow of the cigarette sailed out the window like a star racing across the sky. She heard the thump of his boots before she saw the light catch, if only for a second, in his silvery eyes. The moment allowed her to see the tears that were streaming down his own face. The warmth of his arms embraced her and held her to his chest as tenderly as any man who loves had ever held another. She could hear his lungs working the air in and out of him and the steady thump of his heart.

"I missed ya." She admitted in a breath against his bare skin.

"I'm glad ye returnt t'me. I've been a lonely man since ya lef'."

"What happened t'the others?" She asked, resting her hands on his chest.

"Most 're dead, or gone. Lucy didn' survive the battle. Anne lived only two days after the smoke. I burnt what couldn't be saved. The traitor lived, an' I keep him so. He'll not see sun or moon fer the rest o'is days." He replied bitterly.

She didn't want to think about what he meant by some of his words. She didn't want to know. She needed rest. He pulled away from her enough to rest a warm hand on the swell of her stomach, pausing by her neck to touch the key. The baby kicked at his touch and, in the darkness, he grinned. Leading her to the bed, he helped her to lie down. He brought a blanket from the wardrobe and and extra pillow and lay beside her. He didn't try to take her or touch her sensual parts. He only kept her warm and caressed her roundness. Sleep took her with his hot breath on her back and his arms keeping out all the evil that might have tormented her mind.