The Unchaste

Wedlock

 Silver sunlight, atoned east from the window fell on her face and Delilah woke up into a mid-morning of stagnant emptiness, with a loud absence of lover's touch on her skin.

A less strident, absence of her stone pendant from around her neck too, as Delilah searched in the folds of her blankets and under her pillows, 'neath the thick mattress and under the bed_ but it was not to be seen.

It was not surprising in the least that she woke up alone, in a chamber so clean that any sign of last night crusades were unthinkable ruse. The chairs were arranged orderly around fireplace. The empty bed beside her was not at all tousled. Her white dress was cautiously placed under the blanket at the foot of the bed_ in a way careful to not crease it any more than it already was, for her to see and no one else. Birds twittered far away in the forest. The curtains were pulled aside and window was open, bathing the room with morning flush and breeze, as if, the afterglow that had ebbed out of her had ebbed into the darkened corners of the room.

The atmosphere was a quaint negation of warmth and coldth.

She dressed quickly and went out, down the corridor, the stairs, into the living room. It hit Delilah blissful that the whole house, meanwhile, smelt like milk, honey and infant-oil.

Delilah found him and lost herself.

In the small parlour downstairs, Richard sat in the corner. On a chair, along the window. Straight, but for his head inclined over the small bundle in his arms. The babe he had brought back to life seemed to have brought him back to life. It was an enthralling sight, how something so big, and so small at the same time, can change the logics of over lifetimes.

His passion and ambition, that he had dropped off not a day ago, was returned back to him with a kindling reward in affection. And there they sat, both in flesh.

The man and his namesake.

The resurrectionist and his second renaissance.

Pink little fists were being thrown around, infantile gurgles and snivels and mewls filled the bright chamber. Delilah wondered at it. At him. Richard Winter was so different right now from the man she had known last night.

His silver blue eyes studied little Richie with great deliberation. His face was set grave. It was an odd sort of scrutiny. His gaze was not moving. Those eyes were fixed to the infant's face. He was careful to hold it close to his body, sharing warmth. Careful to support the small head by his forearm and keep it covered meanwhile.

Infants may suffer hypothermia, if the head was kept uncovered for long.

Richard's hand came up and stroked the small nose. Little lips parted as if in order to suckle his fingers_ a congenital intuition. Richard nudged his long forefinger into the tiny fist of the waddling hand and Richie held his hand back, the chunky fingers trying to pull the newly acquired asset back to its mouth. To suckle.....again, a congenital instinct?

And Richard was only trying to etch the babe into his memory. To greedily hold the indentations, so that whenever he thought of this little stranger_ Richie would come to him as real as if it were in flesh.

Delilah cleared her throat.

He blinked and looked up. And there was that in his eyes. That look which warned Delilah to not misunderstand his rare interest in other things as his indifference to her.

To Richard, Delilah was a dream that went far deeper than his passion and ambition did. To him, she was the only thing personal he had gained from his life."

"I talked to Mr. Walker." He informed her. "The coach will be here in a while."

Delilah nodded.