Flowers, Fresh Air, and Husbands

A journalist. A purveyor of words and facts; a teller of true stories in print for all and sundry. Margarete Esch, journalist.
When she told him, there was fear in her that he would think it too small a thing. They settled that matter right quickly and now the last of the third-floor rooms was an office for her, fully appointed, including a broad and sturdy desk and promises to knock things from the corner of it now and then.
A journalist. Writer. Creator.
She had accepted his gift and raised the ante, wanting something to be shared between them. "...I want a space in the garden, for both of us, for when there is the work of reading and writing to be done but when the rest of my heart needs sights and smells of flowers and fresh air and my husband." She touched his heart with that. Now, with the first weeks of Spring turning, he's been able to get workmen out to start on things.
There isn't tremendous room in the garden. The only real option is to modify the gazebo that has been the scene of many important moments. He watches as the workers set to. Memories echo.
 
The slimness of her waist under his hands. "I fear that I have fallen in love with you and if you don't kiss me right now, I shall be very cross."
 
A gift of oleander
 
a pair of rings "one heart, one fire, one blood"
 
His heart and mind are full of important moments as they reshape the shelter. For Peg's wish, they build in a shared desk with two sides, each a little offset from the other; close, yet with enough room to breathe and work. Planters are added to the supports, raising flowers into their space. Prepared pots of crocuses and iris are hung up carefully where they can surround the couple with life. It's going to be beautiful.
 
Aloysius walks about the garden and finds himself drawn to the back corner. Oleander, foxglove, houndstooth - The season's too early and none are in bloom; their potency abides. His mind drifts between beauty and peril. His body is whole, his worst wounds are on his heart. Some have healed, some are scarred. Some are still tender and weeping; they catch him against his will.
 
...mind violated, adorned in the blood of his foes and the salt of his tears
 
...the right side of her face is covered in blood and her left shoulder and arm are badly burned... the disconnected lost sort of look in her eyes is more concerning
 
...her throat an open ruin and her belly slit, contents spilling. Her eyes empty, her fire extinguished
 
He closes his eyes and reaches for his center. It takes time but the weight of the rings on his hand pulls him back. Life is so often in perilous balance. His own, those of the people he loves, the lives that he might take. The path through his passions and fears and dreams is still fraught but his feet are becoming firmer upon it. The edge of might or might not recedes; he finds a touch of peace in the simplicity of what is.