Epilogue

Time…passes.
She swims in it, drowns in it, blind to its direction. However, it definitely moves, as time is wont to do.

She wakes to the smell of something baking–a pastry of some sort. It smells wonderful.

She's lying under something heavy and soft, a down comforter, it makes her feel grounded. There is sun on her face; she can sense it like a hand on her cheek. She opens her eyes.

Her sight is utterly fuzzy and no matter how much she blinks, the blur doesn't go away. From what she can perceive, she is in some sort of quaint rustic room: white walls - definitely, wooden floor - perhaps, handcrafted furniture, also made of wood - maybe. Her eyesight is still not up to par.

There is a small table close by with a white tablecloth and what seems to be a vase of freshly picked flowers–small ones, bluish and white.

"Lavender and Yarrow," she hazards, mostly by smell.

There is a sudden clatter from right beside her as a previously unnoticed occupant loses his book to the floor, startled by her scratchy guess.

"Helena, you're awake!"

The speaker says it so fondly it nearly breaks her heart.

A man then, but who?

He reaches for her hand as he rises from a chair and then sits next to her on the edge of the bed, his other hand comes up to stroke her cheek and there's something about the familiarity of the gesture that pulls at her; like a memory, like a dream re-remembered.

She tries to look harder but her eyes refuse to focus, all she can see is a semblance of a person, youngish, lean, fair-haired she thinks, and tidy looking from what she can tell.

"Welcome back," he whispers. He sounds British.

And suddenly she feels…overwhelmed, like she's about to panic from something she doesn't fully understand yet.

"I…I was…there wasn't…I couldn't-"

"Calm down, darling," he says softly. "You've been asleep for so long."

The voice is all wrong, as is the body it belongs to, but the mannerism, the accent, the inflictions.

"Charlie…" she rasps.

She feels so tired, as if she hasn't slept for forever, yet has slept far too long. Her brain is going a mile a minute yet getting nowhere, like a hamster in a ball. Exhausting, Pointless.

"Sleep again, dearest, the good kind; the healing process is not yet finished." She feels him fiddling with something at her head, a device of some sort. "There are pathways and grey bits, and white bits and all sorts of bits that need be rebuilt – or so I'm told."

He picks up his fallen book.

"When you wake again she'll be here for you. In fact, she'd be here right now if not for that elephant statue that's been shrinking the good citizens of Massachusetts, if fact it's quite the ordeal, I almost feel bad for borrowing agent Jinks again, I'm sure he's missing quite the adventure…"

She doesn't catch the rest of it, it's too much to swallow and she's so very exhausted. She's out like a candle once more.

More time passes,
this time in a linear, if not quantifiable, fashion.

The second time she wakes it's to the sweetest sensation, like butterfly wings gently caressing her lips. The sensation is just light enough to be frustrating, and she finds herself straining her neck in her search for a more gratifying contact. Alas, the presence is moving away, and with it, a sense of comforting warmth and a sweet scent.

"Nooo…" she whined with her eyes still close.

"Well hello there sleeping beauty," she hears a familiar voice. A happy voice, but also a relieved one, as if a great sadness has not quite left its owner. She tries opening her eyelids but they are so very heavy.

"It's okay, Love," She hears. "You're allowed to rest a little longer." And again those lips ghosting, this time over her cheek, her nose, her eyelids.

Love, she thinks, she called me love.

Who is this delightful creature with the butterfly lips, and the sunshine presence, and the smile–both happy and sad–in her voice?

It bothers her, this half-formed recognition, just out of reach. She knows this woman, but she's afraid that the more she thinks about her, the deeper the memory will burrow into her subconsciousness, never to be seen again; and she'd much rather bask in an unfinished dream then chase after a lost one. Therefore, she floats in a state of purposeful release, tensely trying not to peruse any strain of thought lest she lose this wonderful presence beside her.

"Just rust for now, love, the entire gang will be here shortly for the daily visit," the voice says. "Although it'd be really great if you could wake up again before they're here. It's getting harder and harder to stop Pete from scribbling all over your forehead with a magic marker."

Her eyes fly open.

"Myka."

~ END ~