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janie_tangerineEdward had thought he would rue the darkness he had been forced into, and admittedly, he had… for a while.
He had until the room filled with the sound of her voice, of Jane’s unmistakable sweet trills that felt like music to his ears, that he never thought he’d hear again, and admittedly he had thought he was dreaming when she agreed to have him, undesirable as he was now, except that she hadn’t seemed to mind, and maybe a more selfless man would have refused her regardless because no maid, and no maid such as his Jane, should have been tied to a man such as him now that he also was crippled and blind…
Except that selflessness never was quite his best virtue, and he couldn’t bear to send away the one thing that could have made his miserable life worth living, and so he hadn’t sent her away, for her own good or not.
And then she married him and kept on treating him exactly as she had before, when he still had his eyes and his hand and he most likely wasn’t burned in places he wishes fire had never touched, and as much as he hated not being able to see her, he has learned her in different ways — she always stays still when his remaining hand searches for her face in the darkness, as his fingers run through her soft hair that she used to describe as plain but that feel like silk under his touch, as he touches that thin mouth that has never stopped being generous with her kisses since they married, as he cups her face as tenderly as he knows how, and oh, he would pay a fortune all over again if it meant seeing those green eyes specked in hazel one last time, but they’re burned in his memory and he is in no risk to forget them. And maybe he can’t see her unclothed, not any more, but he’s felt her breasts in his hand and he’s kissed all of her soft skin and he’s learned how to make her peak by touch alone and so what if she guides him down to find the soft, warm flesh in the middle of her legs every time even if he could find it on his own?
Maybe he likes that, too.
But what he likes most —
“Jane,” he whispers in her ear one afternoon as they lay entangled on the bed, “how — how is it outside?”
“The sun is still up,” she says, running her fingers through his hair, so gently, “and the sky is azure. The meadows are all green — it rained before, the grass is still wet.”
“Are there any flowers yet?”
“Some,” she says, “not many. Not yet. There are some primroses. All white. Like the chemise I’m wearing right now,” she adds, her voice turning almost playful for a moment, and he reaches forward, his hand meeting soft linen.
Which —
“Wait,” he asks, “is this mine?”
She shrugs under his touch, her hand finding his own. “It seemed quite useless to dirty one of my own dresses if we are to lie on the bed doing nothing of import for the entire afternoon now,” she says, laughing, and oh, how he would love to see her in his clothes, but that doesn’t matter because he’s tugged her closer and now she’s in his arms, chemise and all, her ankle tentatively curling around his, and he might not see her but she feels bright, so bright —
He used to rue that darkness.
He still regrets being trapped it in.
But it doesn’t matter because his Jane is his light and he’ll always find her same as she’ll always find him, and with that thought he searches for her sweet, warm mouth and kisses her anew.
