"There was a cavalry charge. June 18th, 1815. Waterloo. Perhaps you've heard of it."
"Gabriel…"
"We were supposed to break their lines. Simple plan. Charge, break, retreat, repeat. Except the mud was deeper than expected. The horses could not proceed and thus we were without defence.” We were sitting targets." His hands clenched on his thighs. "I watched men I'd served with get cut down like wheat. Boys…young boys…”
Clara did touch him then, she defied the rules as her hand covered his clenched fist.
"My commander's horse was shot and as a result was he was trapped beneath it. The French were advancing. I went back for him." Gabriel laughed bitterly. "Heroic, they said later and gave me a medal. But it wasn't heroism. I should have perished there.”
"But you didn't."
"No. Just my face." He touched his scar unconsciously. "Sabre cut. The French officer was probably aiming for my throat, but his horse slipped in the mud. Small mercies."
"That's not a small mercy. That's survival."
“That is good fortune, certainly.”
His ruined face reflected in the dark window as he looked around the room.
“I have a title I never wanted, an estate that's falling apart, a face that frightens children, and a soul that's..." He stopped.
"That's what?"
"Broken. Irreparably."
"Nothing is irreparable."
"Some things are."
"Name one."
"Death."
"That's not broken, that's ended. Different things."
"You and your…"
"Different things, yes. But I'm right." She squeezed his hand. "You're not broken, Gabriel. You're wounded. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Broken things can't heal. Wounded things can."
"I'm not healing."
"Because you're not allowing yourself."
"Because I don't deserve to."
"According to whom?"
"According to the men who lost their lives while I lived. According to the families who lost sons and husbands while I came home with nothing worse than a scarred face."
"That's not how it works."
"Isn't it?"
"No. Survival isn't a betrayal of the dead. It's a responsibility to live well enough for both of you."
