I'm living in an age
That calls darkness light
Though my language is dead
Still the shapes fill my head

I'm living in an age
Whose name I don't know
Though the fear keeps me moving
Still my heart beats so slow

— "My Body is a Cage," The Arcade Fire

WHETHER YOU FALL

007

The human body is nothing if it is not resilient. Bones knit back together. Lacerations scab and scar. Helpless to resist, the human spirit does the same. If given enough time, wounds of the heart and wounds of the soul stop bleeding, as well. As much as she wants to scream, Vesper Lynd knows that she can better exert her energy elsewhere. Raging at the world will do her no good, will not bring him back, will not allow her to begin anew. Time heals all wounds, whether or not healing is fair, whether or not fair is the appropriate and valued outcome.

James Bond does not visit. M, also, does not deign to see her. She spends her days with doctors, with physical therapists and nurses, and, once, a government bureaucrat who presents her with the option to assume the name that was always rightfully hers.

Besides this dubious company, she spends her days with herself for company. The walls of her mind are prison enough.

A cage, looking for a bird.

—

In time, she is released on her own recognizance. Another apartment, then: a new neighborhood, a different route to work, different faces in crisp suits to watch her in the grocery store. M has not forgotten her.

He does not show himself.

At times, she feels eyes on her, eyes that do not belong to the anonymously handsome MI6 agents who are sent to watch over her. The eyes feel blue, though one cannot be certain. She dreams of hands, wrapped lovingly around her neck, squeezing her, slowly, inexorably, toward the nightmare release of death. She does not permit herself the comfort of wine and cigarettes. She does her duty, keeps her head low, and does not dwell on the nowhere path to which she has been assigned.

A bird, now looking for its cage.

—

She is so thirsty that she cannot think, absurd for one who has been so full to the brim, who has felt the pressure of water from the inside, pushing everything out and away. But she is not drowning. It follows her, the sensation, but she breathes dry air and does not suffocate.

A head above water is a lonely thing.

She is not above performing a little spying of her own. In time, she comes to discover personnel files: names, pseudonyms, home addresses. And he is notorious; his file is three times the size even of older, more grizzled figures. She waltzes into the room with the top-secret clearance, does the deed, and exits unscathed.

For two weeks, she languishes in bed when she is not moving small cogs in the large MI6 machine. The paper is quiet, despite her eyes which implore it to speak back to her, to tell her the right thing to do. Her eyes grow moist, and the words swim, and that is oddly satisfying. No tears fall: even more satisfying. Her grief is impervious to drowning.

—

But she cannot stay waterlogged for long. Everything dries. Equilibrium waits around the corner, and catches even broken hearts by surprise. She awakens, bids the world good morning, smiles at the birds outside her window. Does not bother with seducing them inside. Merely listens to their flirtatious trills, gazes thoughtfully after them as they lift into the sky. She is not jealous. Somehow, she cannot bring herself to trade places with them.

Holding the top-secret paper by the tip-top corner, she flicks a lighter and sets the lower edge ablaze. Releases only as the flame crumbles to ash on her lap. Dusts her fingers through the remains, does not mind the smudges on her dress.

—

An upscale winery, darkly paneled, filled with quiet murmurs of patrons who ignore her as they peruse. Red wine, for blood, for passion, for death. For guilt, love, lust. White, for truth, for exoneration. So many choices.

What would he do? How does one charm the consummate charmer?

She whispers, "Take a deep breath. You've only got one shot. Make it count."

—

Clutching the bottle of wine and the bouquet of roses, cognizant of the little packet of cat treats in her purse, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath to steady the hummingbird pace of her heart, and knocks on his door.

Fin.

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Thank you all so much for standing by this story. In the past few years, I've lost everything I owned in a tornado and started a Ph.D. in history. Needless to say, life has been busy. But this chapter has been sitting on my computer for a while, and I thought I'd finally get around to uploading it. I hope it's been worth the wait.