It has been… a trying time, to say the least. A trying year. One blow after another. Cassandra has done her best to bear the weight, to carry the terror and stress and worry and bury it deep. She couldn’t afford to falter. She couldn’t afford to break. Not when those she loved so deeply needed her. So she wrapped poise and composure around herself like a cloak. Even as the façade began to slowly fracture, cracks splintering across its surface.
Watching her husband toss and turn in the grips of sickness, almost echoed by Archie doing much the same in a nearby bed, had torn her apart. She’d all but refused to leave her husband’s side, and because he WAS her husband there wasn’t as much fuss as there might have been, otherwise. She’d only needed to pull rank once, quietly but firmly. Countess by marriage and duchess by birth, she refused to be moved.
And of course, it was only right and proper that she keep a watchful eye on Archie as well; as one of the men under her husband’s command, of course she would take care of him when his commander couldn’t.
It wasn’t until they were both well enough to be moved to the estate to recuperate properly that she felt as though she were able to breathe a little. She’s still afraid to leave their sides, afraid to go more than a room away; unable to shake the memory of watching them twist and turn feverishly, gasping for breath. Terrified that she was going to lose them both.
But the sight of Alexander, carefully extricating himself from Archie and making space for her to nestle between them, makes her heart catch in her throat. The smile she gives him is warm and terribly fond. And more than a little relieved. “That is very good to hear,” she murmurs softly. “And I’d love to.” She slips out of some of her layers for comfort’s sake (and ease; she’s learned that it’s far easier to join them in bed without quite so many layers to tangle and otherwise get in the way), and then she slips gracefully into bed, settling between the two of them.
They are solid and reassuringly warm beside her, and something hitches in her chest even as some of the tension eases out of her. She presses her forehead against Alexander’s shoulder for a long moment and just… breathes.
no subject
Watching her husband toss and turn in the grips of sickness, almost echoed by Archie doing much the same in a nearby bed, had torn her apart. She’d all but refused to leave her husband’s side, and because he WAS her husband there wasn’t as much fuss as there might have been, otherwise. She’d only needed to pull rank once, quietly but firmly. Countess by marriage and duchess by birth, she refused to be moved.
And of course, it was only right and proper that she keep a watchful eye on Archie as well; as one of the men under her husband’s command, of course she would take care of him when his commander couldn’t.
It wasn’t until they were both well enough to be moved to the estate to recuperate properly that she felt as though she were able to breathe a little. She’s still afraid to leave their sides, afraid to go more than a room away; unable to shake the memory of watching them twist and turn feverishly, gasping for breath. Terrified that she was going to lose them both.
But the sight of Alexander, carefully extricating himself from Archie and making space for her to nestle between them, makes her heart catch in her throat. The smile she gives him is warm and terribly fond. And more than a little relieved. “That is very good to hear,” she murmurs softly. “And I’d love to.” She slips out of some of her layers for comfort’s sake (and ease; she’s learned that it’s far easier to join them in bed without quite so many layers to tangle and otherwise get in the way), and then she slips gracefully into bed, settling between the two of them.
They are solid and reassuringly warm beside her, and something hitches in her chest even as some of the tension eases out of her. She presses her forehead against Alexander’s shoulder for a long moment and just… breathes.