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furgoodIt's impossible to tell which loop it is. It's impossible to tell when she is. She's on the plains staring him down over the barrel of a gun. She shakes her head and there's a newcomer there instead, looking concerned as she puts down empty hands. He reaches out and takes those empty hands in her own and she puts on a smile but it takes effort to keep her hands from shaking.
It's only minutes later that he's rushing up on horseback, scooping her from the ground as a band of--natives? Bandits? Newcomers? She's dizzy with the thoughts. Is it only minutes later? When is she? He's firm against her back and she hates him, hates him with all her breath, but she doesn't. His arm is around her waist, his face pressed into her hair as he curses to himself, apologizes for taking so long to find her. She surprises herself by leaning into him, her body reacting before her mind, a sense of safety slipping over before the hatred surfaces.
It's a decision every time. And every time she chooses him. Every time she trusts and she's not sure when she stopped running from him, from his bandits, and when she started standing stock still in the chaos and waiting for him. When she starts waiting for him to recognize her, to call things off, to come to her. Maybe it happened once, maybe it happens every time, it's relived more than once.
He yells at her about that. Once he was too late. Once he caught her gaze when the bullet hit her and he'd flung himself from his mare, his sweet mare, always faithful, always there. Had he screamed? Because she hears screams now.
No. No it's the bandits behind them and he urges his mare on, bends low over her, and she feels the impact of the bullet on his arm as much as she hears his loud and awful curse.
Outside the chaos, it's easier to find what time it is. It's easier to look at her hands and see the bit of ribbon she loops around her wrist every time she wakes at home. Purple and twisted about itself in the rush, it reminds her to trust. It reminds her that this is a time after she's decided she loves this man. And she does. In every memory of him, for ages and ages, in every flash, she sees him and she sees his care and his love and it doesn't save them. It never saves them.
But she doesn't want to give up. In the moments after bandaging his wound, she presses a kiss to his shoulder and he pushes back her hair to see her face, to trace his thumb down her cheek. She's fine today, there's no marks, no wounds, nothing but her shining green eyes meeting his adoring purple and she remembers that she loves him. She remembers he loves her. And so, in a rush of emotion, she kisses him. He kisses her back and it's always the same. Eager, almost desperate, almost like she's going to be dragged from him any moment so they must hold on. They have to hold on.
It's always the hours after they find each other that are the hardest. Or at least she thinks so. And it's awful now that it's not just a life that's not hers, but a series of lives and deaths, scored over and over to the same words, to the same sounds, to hoofbeats and his rough palm in her soft grasp.
The hours after she finds him are always hard. It's a fight but it's easier every time. Every time she smiles up at him from beneath the brim of his own hat. Every time he breaks into cackles at her dry wit. Every time they save each other. Nothing can save them from this endless carnival of horrors, this waking dream that goes on and on, mirrored lives reflecting each other on and on. Nothing but these moments of joy, these bits of life and love that they steal for each other.
The moments when he's holding her hand as they walk through the world, those are the best. And they're worth the chaos.
It's only minutes later that he's rushing up on horseback, scooping her from the ground as a band of--natives? Bandits? Newcomers? She's dizzy with the thoughts. Is it only minutes later? When is she? He's firm against her back and she hates him, hates him with all her breath, but she doesn't. His arm is around her waist, his face pressed into her hair as he curses to himself, apologizes for taking so long to find her. She surprises herself by leaning into him, her body reacting before her mind, a sense of safety slipping over before the hatred surfaces.
It's a decision every time. And every time she chooses him. Every time she trusts and she's not sure when she stopped running from him, from his bandits, and when she started standing stock still in the chaos and waiting for him. When she starts waiting for him to recognize her, to call things off, to come to her. Maybe it happened once, maybe it happens every time, it's relived more than once.
He yells at her about that. Once he was too late. Once he caught her gaze when the bullet hit her and he'd flung himself from his mare, his sweet mare, always faithful, always there. Had he screamed? Because she hears screams now.
No. No it's the bandits behind them and he urges his mare on, bends low over her, and she feels the impact of the bullet on his arm as much as she hears his loud and awful curse.
Outside the chaos, it's easier to find what time it is. It's easier to look at her hands and see the bit of ribbon she loops around her wrist every time she wakes at home. Purple and twisted about itself in the rush, it reminds her to trust. It reminds her that this is a time after she's decided she loves this man. And she does. In every memory of him, for ages and ages, in every flash, she sees him and she sees his care and his love and it doesn't save them. It never saves them.
But she doesn't want to give up. In the moments after bandaging his wound, she presses a kiss to his shoulder and he pushes back her hair to see her face, to trace his thumb down her cheek. She's fine today, there's no marks, no wounds, nothing but her shining green eyes meeting his adoring purple and she remembers that she loves him. She remembers he loves her. And so, in a rush of emotion, she kisses him. He kisses her back and it's always the same. Eager, almost desperate, almost like she's going to be dragged from him any moment so they must hold on. They have to hold on.
It's always the hours after they find each other that are the hardest. Or at least she thinks so. And it's awful now that it's not just a life that's not hers, but a series of lives and deaths, scored over and over to the same words, to the same sounds, to hoofbeats and his rough palm in her soft grasp.
The hours after she finds him are always hard. It's a fight but it's easier every time. Every time she smiles up at him from beneath the brim of his own hat. Every time he breaks into cackles at her dry wit. Every time they save each other. Nothing can save them from this endless carnival of horrors, this waking dream that goes on and on, mirrored lives reflecting each other on and on. Nothing but these moments of joy, these bits of life and love that they steal for each other.
The moments when he's holding her hand as they walk through the world, those are the best. And they're worth the chaos.
