His wrinkled, weathered hand softly fell on hers. His
calloused thumb gently traced the dancing lines of her aged palm, time hiding her
scars, a dozen times broken and bruised from the job.
She sat on the armchair next to his, sleeping silently, her body
not able to handle even the lazy days anymore. She couldn’t make it through a
sunny and warm Spring Tuesday without dozing off, her mind trying in vain to
repair the damage done many times over, so long ago.
A docile smile sat on her gentle face while she slept; she
looked so peaceful – so happy. He sat in his chair, thumb grazing her hand as a
single tear welled in the crease of his eye and slid down his cheek, navigating
the moguls that were his permanent scars and lines.
He brandished a handkerchief with his free hand and pressed
it into the tear, salt-water soaked into the thread-worn linen as he saw his
beautiful wife sleeping beside him. He saw her scars and wounds, far from pink
– now a faded purple – and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have her,
how lucky he was to have such a beautiful creature. It made his heart weep.
It wasn’t that long ago she wielded her golden blades,
armour-clad bodice hugged her tall frame and muscled body as she gracefully fought
under the glow of street lamps She fought like a dancer, beautifully deadly,
and moved like a prima ballerina. Every step focused and with purpose, she was
one of the most powerful heroes of their time. Her confident face was highlighted
by the moon as she smiled and laughed, sparring and dodging villains like she
was a leaf caught in the wind.
He could still see the joy in her sparkling green eyes,
wiping the blood that trickled down her brow, unaffected by pain.
It had been decades since they fought side by side as
partners and lovers. His knees were the first to go; the super-human strength
really wore down his joints. Twice the doctors told him he would need to get
surgery if he intended to keep up his routine. Stabs of guilt had ripped
through him like talons every time he thought he wouldn’t be unable to keep up
with his omnipotent wife. Twice he declined, and his position grew worse as the
years went by.
Other Heroes came and went, all having eyes for her. But she
only had eyes for him. He remembered her smiling, the sides of her mouth
sliding up and the corners of her eyes crinkling as she shot him a shy smile
when they met. They were being awarded the key to the city – he and a few other
heroes – and she kept glancing his way, catching his golden eyes.
They were young then, and they’ve been together ever since.
They day after his knees gave out she collapsed. Over the years of fighting, her
head set with beautiful flowing blonde hair took so many blows she had lost
count. So many times she had blacked out in alleys, home, or hospitals. Doctors
warned her too many concussions could be dangerous but she had people who
depended on her so she pressed on. He was so proud of her then. Now he felt that
familiar guilt – searing through his body, coursing through his veins. He
shouldn’t have let her continue.
She had a brain aneurysm that had burst, caused by the
constant trauma to her head and neck. She recovered but was never quite the
same.
They retired (they were in their late 40’s at the time after
all) and had lived out their golden years in a cottage by the lake that was skittled
with homes occupied by other retired heroes. Most days he gardened in the warm
caress of the sun, wiping sweat and dirt off his brow as he took iced glasses
of sweet tea from his wife, the condensation of the glass pooling onto his
fingertips as he kissed her first. The tea could wait.
She read on the porch, stories of heroes gone by, tales of
might and magic; she always secretly wished she could go back. Go back to when
her mind was as sharp as her blades, and his body was as taught and hard as his
physical love for her. She would reminisce on the porch as she watched him
garden, and on some days she would sit and read by their fountain in the grass.
The water spouting up and onto itself, the content gurgle of the streams relaxed
her as she dipped in her hands, water misting her skin.
She smiled slightly as she slept on the chair beside him; her
dreamscape was as coloured and wonderful as her memories. His love would be just
as coloured and wonderful, until the last of his days.
