No Fury

Now: Fifty Nine

I feel Liam's eyes on me as I approach the cottage door, raising a fist to knock. And when I hesitate, taking a steadying breath, I hear the exhausted shuffle of his feet as he gives me privacy, turning and making his way up the trail to find Mary.

For months I have let myself into this home without warning, but here I stand, wondering what I will even find on the other side. It feels right to knock.

And then through the heavy oak, for the first time in over five months, I hear his voice.

My skin rises in goose flesh at the sound my heart has longed to hear for so long: the smoothness, the tenor.

But the words themselves shred me: "Where am I?"

Immediately forgetting I meant to announce my entry first, I push open the door and gasp at the sight of him on the far side of the room: long unshaven and thinner than I've ever seen him, with hair that curls to his shoulders. His clothes are torn, and as he hobbles in a bewildered circle, I can see his leg is clearly damaged beneath the wool trousers.

It hurts to see him like this. But still, my eyes can do nothing but track straight to him. Seeing him in the flesh unlocks something inside me, as if I am two pieces becoming one again. His presence remains larger than life, and I am desperate to hold him to me, to whisper over and over again that I love him.

Harry limps pathetically across the room, fingers pressed to his temples as if to force the memories free. "Where is my mind? You tell me I've been here before but I do not know a single thing. Please do not keep me here."

"You're Harry, I am James," James tells him with calm authority. He holds up a hand to gesture he wants me to remain where I stand just inside the door, holding in my sobs. "You're safe here, Harry. You are the King and you are safe."

"If I am the King, where is my Queen?" He closes his eyes, desperation marking his features. "Where is my wife?"

My heart drums dully in my neck, my pulse a fraction of what I require to stay upright.

"Harry. All is well. We can talk about everything once you've had some food and I've tended to your leg." James turns to me, saying quietly, "He has just now awoken. As you can see, he is very disoriented."

Upon hearing James address someone else in the room, Harry looks to me, and my breath leaves my chest in a gust. Even behind the grime on his skin and scruff on his jaw, his eyes are the same: green, passion, the brilliance of the sun.

And when those eyes meet mine, they widen, and then soften. His expression clears and for a single, perfect breath, I believe he remembers.

But then, he asks, pointing at me, "Who is she?" His voice grows worried. "Why is she here?"

Devastation rips through me.

James bids me closer to his side. "We are your family, Harry. Catie and I are here to help you recover. Right now I need to tend to your wound. And then, Harry, you must eat, and then sleep."

I cannot express the depth of my torment hearing James repeat our names again and again for Harry's benefit. The love of my life is home, and all I wish to do is run to him, put my arms around him and my lips on his and tell him that he is mine, and I am his, and everything else will come as it must.

But I can feel James beside me, tense in his worry, and I do not want to do anything to further disrupt Harry's mood.

Harry turns his back to us, looking with jerking movements of his head all around him. "I do not know this place," he murmurs. "I do not know where I am." Louder now, he asks us, "Where is the man who brought me here?"