A New Beginning

A Tenuous, Newfound Amity

The smell of coffee and lavender greets you good morning, or rather, good day, seeing how high is the sun. Lucidity returns to your brain as you rub an estimated near twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep from your eyes. Following the scent, you are met with a fully dressed Arthur, hat, belt, and holster to boot, handing you a warm tin mug filled with the fragrant beverage.

A jab and a jointly prepared hearty meal later, a sundry mélange of all the tender delicacy bestowed by canned goods, salted meat, and drier-than-prairie crackers, Arthur proclaims he is going out hunting – nothing too big or mean of course but rather small game like rabbit or pheasant, ensuing a demur from thee, subtly and then not so subtly inferring all kinds'n breeds of lunacy complemented by an inner censure re your preceding jest of Arthur devouring all your stock within a day or two with that insatiable appetite of his and a rejoinder from he, that he is well accustomed to injuries that'll leave behind nasty scars and that he is not one to shy away from gritting his teeth at the pain that ensues. What he is not accustomed to, however, is coddling, doting, and day upon day of bedrest and he is really, really, hankering for some fresh air. Eventually you agree on aimless, carefree saunter.

The wind has stilled and today is sunny, bright, and rather warm, latitude, elevation, and time of year considering – the kind of day that would have been too hot in mid-summer and bone-chillingly cold in the midst of winter. In late April on the other hand, it is perfect.

The land upon which the small hut of earth, wood, and stone is built is made up of mounds and depressions, steep rocky cliffs, clusters of groves, and leas dotted with boulders and stones not quite big enough to be called boulders but still too large to step over with ease. You cox Arthur where the land is easy to traverse, pointing out the areas where you have foraged flora or fauna with success, while inconspicuously avoiding the roughest of terrain. Arthur strolls beside you, his thumbs securely hooked onto his (your) belt. It is near impossible to tell from his gait that he was shot on this very day a mere week ago. The bleariness in his eyes from yesterday is replaced by the acuity of vigilance and observation and the only symptom telltale of recent recovery from fatal ague is a lankier (though far from lanky) physique and a pallor to his complexion. Buell, brought along for exercise and company, faithfully trails behind his owner. You are reminded of the equine companion only by the occasional snort or soft trampling of hooves as he hurries to catch up after nibbling on tufts of grass.

The better half of the stroll is spent in awkward, subdued conversation where the words exchanged are trite and mundane, while the ones on your minds anything but. The other half is spent in silence, where you both ponder what the other said, measuring the words spoken, in cadence and in choice, against the ones in your hearts.

Arthur is mellow, though guarded, with a modest, unassuming graciousness borderlining cordiality yet too reserved to be designated warmhearted. Talking, quite a great deal to be him that is to be said yet he is, as are you, careful to avoid any and all interpolation, opine, anecdote, jest, or query housing even the tiniest a chance of leading down the treacherous trail of tête-à-tête. You speak of the land and its ambiance and the advancement of spring, then you relay the goings on while he was unconscious and in return Arthur tells you what he can remember when prompted. Dreams mostly, that he is now not so sure were quite dreams. A voice lulling and kind (to which your heart skips a beat), songs, rhymes, and what had sounded like sobbing, far, far away. The exchange, in all its trivial undistinguished unoriginality, candid inelegance, and for want of eloquence would surely impress none of the nine muses, yet it is a conversation precious to your heart nonetheless.

As by some tacit, mutual agreement, great measures to eschew any and all kinds of physical contact are assumed, subsuming the tiniest, most causal, unintended bump of an elbow or brush of a finger, as if that alone could jeopardize this tenuous, newfound amity. The latter in particular must be avoided at all cost, which on your end translates to plucking at cuticles, tucking invisible locks behind your ear, fidgeting with, and smoothing out your ruffled clothes. It feels rather strange, bearing in mind the intimacy of yesterday, when you held his neck as he gulped down water, him leaning into your touch, you stroking his hair, and chaste, but no less tender forehead and temple kisses.