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That’s just the way they were together.
And as strange sounds and lights wavered in and out of his consciousness, he began to rise too.
And they were a pair, together again, watching the activity far below them, but intent now only on themselves and the hunt.
They were hungry, and the currents of life were strong, and nothing tethered either of them to the constriction of the Earth.
* * *
Chapter 67
April. Today.
There was one member of the family who had not gone to the burial service in the little chapel, apparently preferring to stay outside in the fresh Dartmoor air. He was lying in front of the three graves, facing the granite markers, his back to the people drifting out of the porch.
Two of the men who’d attended the funeral stood and regarded this lone figure for a moment, and one of them laughed, his accent, as ever, mangling his words. “He’s on guard—making sure they don’t rise again.”
Ben regarded Radulf’s keen observance and agreed with the old dog: he didn’t want these three back either.
This had been his solution, the result of his untangling of their lives.
And once he had seen the long, beautiful panoply of their time together stretching out into an unknowable future, he’d shaken off his debilitating fear and weakness and done what he did best. He’d physically defeated the mine, the slippery walls, the darkness, and his claustrophobia. But more importantly, he’d put to one side the knowledge that Nikolas had tried to leave him. That fact had almost killed him, and dead men can’t save anyone.
So, in the end, he’d just climbed. He was Ben Rider-Mikkelsen. What was a mineshaft on Dartmoor to him?
Of course, Squeezy, the bastard, would tell this story differently. And yes, the annoying one had been there with a harness, rope, and winch attached to his off-roader—but Ben had managed to climb at least halfway up before the rig had descended. And Squeezy was only there because Radulf had found his way home. So if anything, Ben owed the dog, not the moron. Exhausted, frozen, paws bloody; upon arriving at the house, Radulf had just turned around and led Squeezy to them.
Sometimes, Ben wondered what strange twist of fate had brought Radulf into their lives.
A small cloud drifted over the sun and one by one the three gravestones darkened.
Molly didn’t seem to notice, intent as she was upon planting her flowers. As she poked them into the Devon peat, Ben re-read the inscription on the first and smallest stone, the one placed to receive the warming morning sun.
Aleksey Mikkelsen. Died Aged 10. Denmark.
It was very short and incredibly simple, but entirely true. The little blond-haired boy, so full of life with such a strong, yet hopeless desire to be loved, had lived and died on his beloved beaches in Denmark. He was finally at peace.
He turned to the second stone, a much more difficult marker for him to read, but he received a squeeze of his fingers for strength and considered it calmly enough. He’d written it, after all.
Nikolas Mikkelsen. Loved By All.
There were no dates on this one. How could you put time constraints on a shadow? On a stranger who had never existed. But Ben had insisted, nevertheless, on theLoved By All. Whoever this man had been, he had been loved. Every single person at the funeral had been there for the love ofthisman.
With a sigh, he turned to the last one.Aleksey Primakov. Just that name. In some ways, Ben knew, he would miss this fractal of the man they were mourning as much as the previous two. He’d met General Primakov many times. Aleksey had saved his life more than once. He’d never understood the pull this man had over him until that split second when he’d cut the rope. At that moment he’d confirmed in his own heart that there was nothing that even Aleksey Primakov had done that would stop Ben loving him. For once, it was Tim who’d put his finger neatly on the truth: Ben didn’twantto know about the fire. He’d got along all these years not knowing. As a motto for life, the sayingthe truth will set you freereally only applied to someone who wanted to be liberated. He’d decided he was quite happy being an anchor—a heavy one with very solid chains…
The children and dogs were already bored of the solemnity in the clearing by the chapel and had started to run excitedly through the trees towards the house. Ben turned to watch them, smirking at the expression that had crept across the other’s face as he, too, had glanced over his shoulder to watch the gleeful exit.
“You didn’t…”
Ben happily admired the hundreds of balloons and streamers that had been fixed to the trees. “Yup. I did. Well, Hannibal and the others did, while we were inside.”
The other groaned, but it was a feeble attempt, and they made their way slowly with the now very cheerful adults under the old oaks along the daffodil-lined path.
As they came out from the shade into the sunlight that sparkled on the glass of their home, the family began to cheer and clap. Across the house, a vast banner had been hung:
Happy 50th Birthday, Aleksey Rider-Mikkelsen.
Ben had decided for them.
