The Resurrectionist

by A. Rae Dunlap

We laughed and laughed, gasping and staggering as we came together in a hearty embrace, the shared thrill of our adventure more intoxicating than the whiskey by far.

He stilled, staring down at where we were joined, the laughter dying in his throat. Then his gaze flicked up to meet mine, his sea-grey eyes dark and inquiring. I could not be certain what his question was, but I knew with all my being that my answer was yes.

The strangest thing was, it was not at all strange. Surely, that moment should have felt momentous and burdened with meaning and profound purpose, but instead it felt startlingly casual, effortless, and sure.

When I spoke, my voice was low and commanding, leaving no room for interpretation. “Don’t stop. For the love of God, don’t you dare stop.”

The world around us seemed to spin and dissolve. I closed my eyes, and let go.

I will protect their lives as I would my own, or that of any member of this crew. You cherish them, James, and I cherish you. They are therefore as dear to me as family.”

“Do I mean nothing to you?” I spat. “Nothing more than the bodies we exhumed from the ground? Because I must confess, you have flayed me open, plucked me apart, laid me bare before you, and now you intend to walk away as if I were simply another cadaver on your slab?”

“I crave no absolution but yours,” I murmured between breathless kisses, stilling him so that I might look him in the eye. “You have not brought me low; you have raised me from the utmost depths of despair and longing. I did not follow you out of desperation, I followed you out of desire. Do you not see that? Do you not see that all we have done, I have consented to do? This is my will, Nye. My truth and my reason, it’s all with you.”