Free Sanctifying Grace (Resurrection) by Elizabeth Davies Page B

Roman had done with Wil’s body and guessed he was well practiced in disposing of such inconveniences. I hoped he didn’t blame me for what had happened (shooting the messenger, and all that), and he realised why I had done it. I pushed away the troubling thought of Roman hunting down and dealing with the unknown Charles. Yet another death on my conscience.
    But in spite of it all, I knew that if I had to, I would do it all again. Anything to keep Roman’s secret safe. Anything to keep Roman safe.

Chapte r 6
     
    I got out of bed later that afternoon, after a lot of help. I glared balefully at the wheelchair, but reluctantly accepted its mute assistance when I realised using it was the only way I was going to get around the house. My legs refused to work; I still had feeling in them but they wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do. There was little in the way of muscle control and no strength whatsoever. My right arm was only marginally better, but at least my left was, for the moment, behaving itself.
    I was pathetically grateful for this, even knowing the situation was no more than temporary. My speech was worse, too , and eating was a chore, my near strangulation notwithstanding. I was clumsy with my left hand, the right lying uselessly in my lap, but I refused to let my mother or anyone else feed me. I would try to retain as much dignity as I could, for as long as I could.
    My physical world was shrinking in on itself and the only escape left to me was my mind. Inside my head I was free to be who and what I wanted to be and over the next few days I spent a great deal of time trying to remember everything I could about my life. That these memories would die with me didn’t matter: I enjoyed reliving them as best I could. Some were hazy and indistinct, snippets of scenes : being towel dried by a well-wrapped and rather cold mother on a chilly day at the beach, me blue with cold but itching to get back into the water; standing around the Christmas tree, Ianto and I squabbling over where we wanted to place each beloved hand-made decoration; playing the lead in the school play and remembering how knee-tremblingly scared I was to be standing in front of all those people, half-blinded by the lights.
    Other memories were as vivid as if they had occurred yesterday . My very first solo aircraft flight; a holiday in Egypt with Joe; the day I found my London apartment. And each and every moment I spent with Roman. Those were the clearest memories, perhaps because they were the most recent, but possibly because in the few months I had known him, he had become the most important thing in my life.
    I had never before experienced the depth of love I felt for him. The love I had for my parents and Ianto could not come close. I loved my family without reservation , but my love for Roman was that of a woman for a man: passionate, intense, and all-consuming.
    My great regret was I would not live to see how this love could be played out. But that was also the one redeeming feature of it; he wouldn’t have to watch me grow old and frail, he wouldn’t witness my human weaknesses. My love for him would be a snapshot in time, centuries for him , but only months for me.
    When I was with him , I was whole in mind and body. I was complete. And he was the only good thing that had come out of having the tumour. There was no doubt that without this ravenous growth in my brain, I would never have met Roman. I would never have discovered the existence of vampires; a knowledge of this whole new ‘other’ world that no other human alive held. And when I dived into the depths of my soul and asked myself whether I would exchange the tumour and what it had brought me for a normal life where I would never have met Roman, then I would have to say ‘no’. This realisation brought fresh waves of guilt: if I had a choice, I would subject my family to the devastation that my early death would cause for a few short days with this man who, of necessity,