Chapter Text
He wasn't going to make it.
Roman C. Kitt couldn't deny it any longer. Not as he stood halfway up the shallow bluff, wheezing until his side ached and his chest burned. It had been a foolish experiment. To try to make it up the verdant sloping hill that crested behind their modest home outside of Oath. It even had a well-maintained gravel path, one he often saw from the window of his office as he worked.
Often it mocked him out of the corner of his left eye as he worked. The same way as the tins and bottles of medication did, ever vigilant to the right of the First Alouette. Both reminded him of two warring things; his limitations and his mortality. Both he was keenly aware of as he let himself sit in the tall reeds beside the trail, resting his elbows on his bent knees as he tried to gather his breath. Roman tilted his face toward the sky, cherishing the feel of the sun against his skin while simultaneously cursing the bit of breeze that wasn't helping his stalled lungs.
Five years had slipped by like the wind since the war. He often measured his life now, not in years, but fragmented moments. Precarious yet precious plot points in his life story.
Before and after Del.
Before and after the day he'd walked into The Oath Gazette.
Before and after the day one Iris E. Winnow hurried through those same doors.
Before and after that first mysterious letter had slid across his floor from the shadows of his wardrobe.
Before and after he took the chance and wrote her back.
Before and after Iris up and quit, leaving 600 kilometers stretched taut between them, within reach of the bloody grasp of war.
Before and after he'd joined her, because he couldn't bear not seeing her, even if it put himself in danger.
Before and after his clever Iris figured out the truth.
Before and after they'd kissed.
Before and after they wed.
Before and after Roman had planted and sealed promises on Iris's skin in the sacred darkness.
Before and after their hands slipped apart.
Before and after the gas.
When he forgot. When he remembered.
Now it was a life after Dacre's demise.
After life returned to a new sense of normalcy.
After his book deal.
Before their next chapter.
Yes, he still saw his life as an outline, as a series of events to move along his arc. Even after his near 25 years, Roman still saw his life as a rough draft he was always tweaking, reworking as he went.
If only he could rebuild and fix himself like words on a page—back to before.
Roman's lungs seized on his next inhale. He pulled out the tin of salve, screwing open the top buttons of his white shirt, rubbing the potent gel into his skin before setting it aside and taking a swig from his canteen. Sweat dripped down his spine, his forehead.
Godsdamn—or goddamn singular now, he supposed. He knew he shouldn't have attempted the ascent. But Iris was taking her afternoon nap, dozing peacefully on the sofa, a blanket bunched over her bare calves. She'd been taking more of them lately. To be expected, given her condition. Combined with her promotion and long hours at the Inkridden Tribune and the commute into the city—grateful that their friend Tobias Bexley was more than happy to expedite it via roadster—she'd been running herself ragged.
Roman had been "reading" when she'd fallen asleep, snoring through the wavy strands of chocolate brown hair with a hand resting on her slightly swelling belly. Before and after the baby, he'd mused with a crooked smile as he watched his wife growing their child. Both his Nan and mother were both ecstatic by the news. Attie and Tobias already volunteered to help out as needed, practically fighting over babysitting duty. It had been three years since they'd wed, but Roman had a feeling that having another little one around may invoke Bexley-baby fever. Really, it was only a matter of time. And, of course, Marisol and Keegan were over the moon for them.
Lives and families were finally settling, growing like weeds out of the rubble of war.
Lily Delaney or Carver Forest Kitt, they'd decided for the name. His wife's brilliant idea, actually, because "we both do love the middle names best, don't we, Kitt?" He'd kissed her after that, first on the freckles of her scrunched-up nose until she squealed and then right on that resplendent mouth of hers.
It was as he watched her sleep; it felt like a dream. The streams of afternoon sun gilding her skin, with her fingers splayed over the barely there bump. It struck him then. Shook him like the very ground had when Dacre had marched his armies below. How? How could Roman possibly keep up with a child? He remembered chasing after his little sister when she tore through the halls. Remembered sneaking her out beyond the garden to sled up the hill that separated their property on the side of 1345. It had been exhausting, and he himself had been at his peak. How would he be of any help if he also needed assistance?
True that in the five years, more had been discovered about his condition and fate of many of those who had taken in the heinous gas during the battles. There'd been many advancements in treatments and protocols to scan for advancements—but no cure. Roman was one of the lucky ones, though. Yes, his lungs were scarred, irreparably so. He had to be careful with physical activity, not to create undue stress to his heart and lungs. Because there was a chance, a very real one, that he would…
What would Iris need to set aside because her husband couldn't join her? What would she miss? What would he miss experiencing with her?
Now with a child on the way?
So as Iris slept in the afternoon light, Roman had set aside his book and quietly gathered his emergency salve and breathing treatment, and a leather canteen before slipping on his well-worn boots, setting off to the mocking bluff behind their property. He was determined to make it to the top, just as he had back in Avalon Bluff. Not as agile as before, to be sure, but to still make it. It was a new plot point for him.
And yet, he sat midway up, breathing in his medicine and drinking water like a dying man in the desert under a midday sun. Defeated. He'd wanted to hike to the top, like he had with Iris back in Avalon, taunting her all the way. He needed to prove that whenever Lily or Carver were old enough, he could help lug up a wooden toboggan in the winter to sled down with them. Their small mitten'd hand in his. Then holding on tight as they flew down like he had to Del so long ago, screaming gleefully all the way to the bottom.
Chest tight, not just from his lungs and right leg throbbing, Roman was once again reminded that he was not the same as before—not the man he was before.
Before the grenade had exploded.
Before the gas.
Before.
Roman tossed his medicine and canteen into the gravel, the dirt pluming as it had in the trenches. How fitting. Elbows on his bent, throbbing knees, he rested his face in his hands and continued to breathe as he had before.