Cross-stitch and Brimstone

The cat hissed again, and Beth sighed. "Fine, I'll let you out, you stinking beast," she muttered, going to the side door that released to the wraparound porch she loved. "Go on now, and don't you— Who's there?"

The figure at her front door, only three feet away from her, froze. It was the middle of the night, so she'd long ago turned off the porch light. Terror welled. Her longevity was a given, but she was still as easily broken as any human woman under five feet tall and just as susceptible to villains of the night.

"Elisabeth?"

The figure turned with her name on his lips. That voice. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it. She flipped on the light switch for the hall behind her, but it didn't help much, not until he came into the light.

"Marcato? But...how...how?"

She ran for him, the three steps taking only a heartbeat before she launched into his arms. He felt just the same as when she'd given him one final embrace before he'd gone off to fight with his brothers so long ago. How she'd loved her soldier boy, though before the war he'd been sweet and gentle, a young man on his way to the seminary to be a preacher.

She ran her fingers down his face, the same face she remembered in her dreams. Not so often anymore, but there was no way she could have forgotten about him. Not him.