The danger had finally receded, or so it seemed. In the quiet that had followed, the villa—a once golden prison of constant threats and sleepless nights—now lay in a heaven-like stillness. I couldn't help but question if this stillness was truly peace, or but a break from the tempest, a calm before the next rising wave of memories sought to overwhelm us.
Every morning I'd wake to the gentle light of dawn peeking through our curtains, a gentle reminder that life had finally begun to slow down a little bit. Even at these quiet times, even here, though, I could sense the reverberations of past fear quietly leaking into deepest reaches of my brain. So did Caspian, at least by the way he still pulled away from mine whenever I started to get comfortable around him. Even as Victor was defeated and the danger had passed, the lingering fear stuck to Caspian tenaciously—an omnipresent shadow that prevented him from ever really relaxing.
One morning, I found him leaning on the window of the living room, his eyes lost on the horizon. Beyond the garden lay pale golden light, dew upon the lawn, and the perfume of jasmine full blown on the air. I rose, heavy heart and hopeful at the same time.
"Cass," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the quiet buzz of morning. His eyes shifted to mine, dark and guarded with a hint of sympathy that sliced through me. Deep down, deep beneath the intense look, I saw a man trying to pick up the pieces of himself, even as fear and old habit held him back.
I put a hand on his shoulder and turned him so he faced me squarely. "You've been staring out at the horizon for hours," I joked, but there was strain underlying my tone. "I know what you are thinking about … but I want you to remember that we fought for this peace. We fought to breathe."
He stopped, chewing at his jaw, and smiled sadly at me—a darkened, gaunt thing that gave me the creeps. "I am not used to it," he said. "When I shut my eyes, I dream that I am running, still running, preparing myself for something nasty."
I wrapped his hand around mine, feelings the bruised calluses and tension still clung to him. "Then let’s learn to breathe together," I said, my voice strong but gentle. "Let me in, Cass. I don't want you to think about protecting me, I want you to let your mind be free."
For what felt like an eternity, there was a silence between us, punctuated only by the distant chirping of birds and the indistinguishable crunch of leaves on the horizon in the distance. His eyes, normally so angry and storm-tossed, were soft as they rested on mine. "I…I'm trying," he whispered, his voice weighed down with emotion. "Daily it’s a battle with who I am, with what I dread. Yet when I think of you, I remember what I fight for."
In those words, in that bare whisper, a fierce, obstinate hope sprouted in me. I stepped in until our foreheads rubbed, and in the mutual, enclosed space, our breathing was one. "Then fight with me," I pleaded, my gaze sweeping over his as if to sear the vow into my very soul. "I'm not going anywhere, Cass. We're learning to breathe again—again." We tried to get back to our normalcy that day. I spent the morning in the bright kitchen, cooking breakfast with a freedom I had not known in a while. Freshly baked bread and coffee wafted scents through the air, and I couldn't help but grin at memories of happier times. Caspian trailed behind me, near at hand as he helped set the table. When our eyes met over clinking spoons and guffaws, I glimpsed lingering regret and growing hope—a silent promise that we were, at last, trying to mend. We had breakfast on the patio in the mornings, the sweetness of the sun driving out the chill that had haunted our evenings. I got up and saw Caspian's eyes roam over the horizon, unspooling as they settled on the garden below. I rested against his hand, and he greeted me with an extended look—extended and full of everything unspoken. "I miss this," he panted, his voice filled with emotion. "I miss just being with you, without all the sound of terror."
I clenched his hand back, my own heart pounding with a mix of love and desire. "We have to hold on to the faith that we deserve this," I whispered, gazing into his eyes. "That we can have these moments of peace, even if the past still haunts us."
We made sure during the following days that we held dear every stolen moment of sanity. We danced in the kitchen to records, our laughter entrapping itself within the soft hiss of the radio. We lay at night on the balcony under a star-blanketed night, our joined hands as we schemed tomorrow—a day where our wounds would be survival stories and where our love shone like the lighthouse that kept us going.
But all these sweet moments beneath, stress of our past never lagged behind. At late nights, occasionally, I could observe Caspian staring at the dark sky with dreamy eyes—a dreamy look which sent shivers to my back, informing me that the war raging inside him was far from over. Times like those, I'd prod him, my hand tracing the edge of his cheek in gentle caress, and I'd leave his intense gaze to greet the seriousness of my vow. "We'll get through this," I'd tell him, the words spoken promises in the hush. "I'm here. I choose you—daily."
One afternoon, I sat along the garden, trees gently swaying to the gentle touch of the wind, when I saw Caspian approaching. His perpetually closed eyes snapped open and curious as if he had finally opened himself up to shed the load that he had been carrying. He sat in beside me, his hand out to brush the stray hairs out of my face. "Lily," he whispered, his breath hanging there in emotion, "I've been day to day existing—living off the memories, the fear. But to see you, it feels like to me that I'm reminded there is something worth fighting for."
I looked up at him, choppy dark eyes so desperate and so hopeful. "I'm here, Cass," I told him, my voice a bit harsh but gentle. "I know the darkness is part of you, but it doesn't own you. And most definitely not us."
The Strength in his eyes, the nakedness of his gaze, left me open and safe. As in that single moment of shared intimacy, we were opening ourselves to each other—no game of cat and mouse, no pretence. "We're learning how to breathe again," I breathed, falling back into our promise from that morning. "And I think if we're facing it together, we can do anything."