The Greatest of These

All previous disclaimers apply.

He was floating. Somewhere between sleep and something he couldn’t quite call wakefulness. It was a strange sensation for one who had always been so in control of his body. He couldn’t seem to put himself further under to achieve the former, nor could he force himself back into the latter. He remained as he was, aware of what was happening around him, but detached from all of it. He wasn’t even sure that he’d be able to rouse enough interest to really care what was going on in any case. Off and on someone spoke to him. It was an oddly comforting voice, a smooth baritone that called to the very center of his being. Someone he knew, he realized when he bothered to think about it at all, someone he cared for. Someone who, more importantly, cared, and was caring, for him. It didn’t really matter what the voice said. He was merely content to drift in the space between dream and reality and listen to the rise and fall of the pitch, concentrating more on the pleasant feelings the tone brought than what the words might reveal to him.

Occasionally, he felt his body lifted in strong arms. Sometimes a second voice joined the first. He identified it as his own in one of his more aware moments, but he didn’t understand even what he was saying. Seeing as the pleasant voice never really replied, he assumed it was always something unintelligible and unimportant. Sometimes when the strong arms carried him he was placed in water so cold that it felt as if it would freeze him straight to the marrow of his bones. He was aware enough to work up the tiniest amount of disgust for himself at these times because he knew that his physical form whimpered at the cold. He knew because every time he was placed in the cold water the beautiful voice was right with him. And the tone was always comforting. He took what comfort that was offered, leaning into the warmth of the strong arm wrapped around his shoulder, holding him, preventing his death by drowning. He wasn’t even aware enough to be ashamed at the fact that someone else was washing him. He just concentrated on the voice and the strong arm around his shoulder, knowing in the back of his fever clouded mind that both came from someone he cared for.

Sometimes he heard the voice raised in song. Never in the room. Never right next to him. It was always far away, separated by walls. Singing. Soft lullabies. Lullabies meant for a baby. His baby. The voice was singing to his baby. His Sheira angel. Every time heard the singing he was grateful to the voice for taking care of his baby just as he himself was being taken care of. Always the lullabies put him into a trace of pleasant dreams. Cool dreams that allowed him to mercifully escape the heat of his body . . . and his mind.

Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross
To see a fine lady upon a white horse
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
She shall have music where ever she goes
Nursery rhymes. Calming rhymes.

In darkest hour of darkest night, I will be here
When flowers bloom in morning light, I will be here
I will be here, my love
I will be here
Promises made in music.

Wee Croo Din Doo, and where are you?
Wee Croo Din Doe, did you have to go?
Wee Croo Din Dee, far across the sea.
I pray that you’ll return to me
Sadness in the voice that couldn’t be explained.

Always when the songs ended he came out of his cool dreams, but the comforting voice was always right there next to him. He found pleasure and comfort when his hand was held gently and a cool cloth was set to his burning forehead.

Duo. At his best moments, he recognized that the voice, the arm, the hand holding his, they were always Duo. Duo Maxwell, his friend from the war. Yes. Duo. Duo would take care of him. Duo would take care of Sheira.

And whenever he recognized this, whenever he knew the voice was Duo’s, when he realized Duo was watching over him and his Sheira angel, he fell into a deep, comforting, healing sleep with no trouble.