The Unchaste

The God of Loss

That day of the year things changed, she sat up in the finest morning of the elapsing summer and the nightmare began only after she had left sleep. That was to say, something very unusual happened.

Richard overslept.

The sun shone bright at their windows, casting golden shadows across the floors and the moor was green and awake over the hills. She was surprised to find him dead to the world still, knowing well that he had slept long before she passed out last night and if he was exhausted, he had given no such sign to it. Leaving the bed, Delilah made noises of all sorts- by pulling chairs and pushing open the windows, by scraping the stool on the tiled floor and knocking off the inkstand at his desk. He didn't as much shift and she had no heart to disturb him herself.

Was he dreaming then? Was that why his long lashes wouldn't stutter in restiveness? For he was not a deep sleeper, then why were his sleep suddenly so profound?

What ...must he be dreaming of?

Delilah gave up and went to dress herself, resigned. When she returned, she _not quite accidently_ pushed the door open too loud. To find him as she had left. Heaven, he hadn't even moved from the pose he had fallen asleep into last night.

Agitated by everything_ and the fact that they were saying he had been conspired against!_ Delilah seated herself on the bed beside him and rested her head at his shoulder. Her day dress smelt of lavender and his night-shirt, of pine, cotton and off-season frost.

She pressed her cheek to the curve of his shoulder and because he wouldn't, his heart talked to her in its own cadence, a talk difficult to elucidate but she understood it all too well. And it whispered into her skin, some long minutes later, that he was waking up, long before he actually did.

Delilah was not good at saying things. Neither much at expressing affection. But even as she was certain he was fully awake now, Delilah didn't remove herself from his person and instinctively held onto him tighter, because_ alas!_ there were always probabilities of separations.

Winter would come soon, and the birds would part and leaves would fall off.

"You would not wake up." She told him, her voice oddly heavy. "I tried so much to rouse you, but you wouldn't. Why did you sleep so deeply?"

A very specific question.

He did not answer and sat up beside her, running his hand through his hair.

"How can you sleep so serenely when they plot on executing you?" Delilah asked, aggrieved.

His bright, summer sky like eyes moved over her face, gently driving. "Dare I assume you are concerned in my favor?"

"There is nothing to assume." Delilah insisted quietly. "I am. You are my own hereafter."

And that was much said. It rang true and delightful, like a winter evening with ball dances in the high castles. Like man and woman swirling in lace and music and all things good and happy.

"It is good to have someone lose sleep over me."

"You do not deserve this." She observed, coiling her fingers around his palm, the back of which was still bruised from the burn. "This censor. This disrespect. If only they knew! This conflict is...irrational. On the contrary, you are worthy of every joy of the world, my lord, material or not."

"I had every joy of the world they day you came back to Yorkshire." He suggested back, easily watching as she entwined their hands. "And, my lady, how you misconstrue me! I did certainly not come this far to attend my execution."

"What do you mean?" Delilah blinked at him, not at all displeased by the calculative evenness of his voice. "They said there would be a hanging _"

"You will be surprised." Was all he said.