Once and Always

by Alyssa Deane

  Roxane threw herself into the enveloping embrace of his left arm, clinging to his rumpled jacket. She wept as she had not done in belief that he was dead, for the shock and joy of finding that he was not. He moved his single hand to stroke her hair, over and over. She could smell the familiar scent, beyond the smoke, of maleness that she had more cause to know than any other, and of the soap he always used, and she wondered, at a giddy tangent, where he had managed to come by it again.

  “Didn't you get my letter, Roxane?"

  “I've all your letters, Collier. I—I just read them, tonight. I couldn't bring myself to do so sooner. Oh, Collier,” and she wept anew.

  “Shhhh. No, I mean the letter I had Unity write for me. You see, I have not yet learned to use a pen left-handed, but I suppose I shall, with enough determination."

  He laughed, above her head, but there was little humor in it.

  “I never opened that letter today, Collier. In truth, I forgot about it. I ... I think I left it here on the porch.” She began to move away from him, to search for it, but he held her back.

  “Later,” he whispered, against her hair.

  With her forehead against his chest, Roxane gazed down at the empty sleeve. The sun was just lifting above the horizon and limned the fabric, gently, in gold. She grasped the hem in her fingers, and tugged.

  “Is your arm gone, Collier?"

  “Hmm?” he said, as if his thoughts had been drifting. “No. No, Roxane, but it has been so badly damaged that I most probably will never have full use of it again. Right now, it remains in a sling, beneath my coat."

  “Then ... then you cannot be a soldier any longer, can you?"

  “No."

  “What will you do?"

  For a short time, he was silent. She could hear the cadence of his breathing, a quiet respiration, with nothing in it of trepidation or uncertainty, or anything but contentment.

  “We can go home, Roxane,” he said, at last.

  Stepping away, she took his fingers into her own. There was strength in the hand he had left to him, and a treasured warmth, and a curve of flesh and bone and sinew that she had sorely missed. She led him toward the back door. As she opened it, she heard India calling from her crib in the room at the top of the stairs. Collier paused, tipping his head toward the sound. The sun lifted above the treetops, illuminating his countenance, drawn and tired, but tranquil. He was smiling, though it was only apparent by the light in his beautiful, storm-gray eyes.

  “Oh, Collier, we can go home,” she agreed, “but for now, my love, come upstairs. Come upstairs,” she repeated, “and meet your daughter."

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