A/N: Upon finding an article discussing the 20 Stages of Grief, I decided to challenge myself to do a (sort of) writing challenge with each stage for Archie.

Please read and review, loves - Jillian xx


Archibald was sat up in the seclusion of his library, free from the servants and visitors.

"How had this happened," he thought aloud, transferring what remained in the wine bottle beside him to his glass.

The past few days didn't even seem real. Everything played out like a dream. This wasn't how it was supposed to be; he was supposed to be happy; he was supposed to be celebrating the birth of his son with his wife.

His wife

It felt like someone had stabbed him in the heart and diminished all hope of happiness from within.

Afterall, what's life for a cripple but one of misery and ruin. It was all his fault Lilias was gone – taken from this earth far too soon – leaving him with a son who will only grow up to lead as lonely and burdensome a life as he has...if he grows up.

She's gone

He kept telling himself, but he couldn't believe the words. Pretty soon he would wake up and she would walk into the room and climb into his arms and kiss him with all the adoration her tiny frame was capable of to comfort him from this nightmare.

The memory of the day before was still vivid, though hazy all the same. The events played back in Archibald's mind like individual photographs as opposed to one cohesive experience.

"My God, it was only yesterday – how was it only yesterday?"

He awoke this morning with her in his arms, but she had already left this world.

"If she passed away in the night and we cannot determine an exact date," the doctor had been telling him," then I am obligated to list yesterday's date on her death certificate, as she died from injuries obtained then."

Archibald's mind was racing, he was hardly in control of his actions; he felt about ready to pounce upon Dr. Craven like a wild animal.

"We stayed up past midnight. I– we– we couldn't– we wouldn't– neither of us wanted to go to sleep because we knew she– we knew," he wept. "So help me God, I will not see my son's birthday written on my wife's headstone."

"Archie, without proof, I can't rely on your word while you're in such a state. It pains me so to be doing this, you know, but I can't lie on a legal document just to comfort you."

Archibald huffed at the protest.

"Well then, Neville, I will trust you to do the right thing," looking to the solicitor who had been politely ignoring the brothers' arguing, "I will be in the library."

"Lord Craven," the solicitor hesitantly said, stopping him from leaving, "as the executive of her will we need you present for all arrangements."

The meeting seemed to pass around Archibald in slow motion. He felt the entire time as though he were under the control of some unseen figure. It was as though he was a mere witness to the action, rather than an active participant.

When the legalities were settle and the arrangements set, Neville showed the solicitor out, while Archibald, much relieved, retreated to the small library he had near his chambers in the west wing of Misselthwaite. It provided him with a more intimate environment than the main one downstairs, but also kept him further from the nosy servants.

He had ordered the curtains drawn and a fire lit (in spite of the warm weather of the season.)

He sat in his chair with a book open in his lap, but he wasn't reading it. He wasn't even looking at the pages – he was looking at the chair beside his, faintly illuminated by the soft glow emanating from the fireplace. Specifically, his gaze was focussed on the book which rested on the arm of the chair: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.

"Two nights ago," Archibald mused aloud, shaking his head, "we sat up laughing about how two full pages of the novel were dedicated to the description of penguins. She said it was excessive, I said it was poetic. She asked if our child would like Edgar Allan Poe as much as the two of us did, I asked if she was ready to be a mother. And she said 'I don't know, we'll have to wait and see.' Then she asked if Arthur and Dirk (Dirk, who was Dirk? Ah yes – Peters!) would be returning to England after they left the Galapagos, and I said she'd have to wait and see."

One of them was right:

Peters and Pym sailed on to eventually explore Antarctica to try to uncover the mysteries of the southern pole, but Lilias would never get to uncover the mysteries of motherhood.

How could this have happened?

What did I do to deserve this?

Could she really be gone?

The same questions rang in his head like a mantra; yesterday's tragedy left him completely confounded.

The lonely man in the chair averted his gaze, turning instead to the dancing flames before him. The blinding light was a severe contrast to the darkness enveloping Archibald, both in the library and in his heart.

"Why do all these happy memories feel like a lifetime ago," his inner voice continued, taunting him, "why did she do this to me?"

To us; he kept forgetting about the boy.

His son was alive. Archibald couldn't comprehend how. Granted, he wasn't doing well, and the midwife had not expressed much hope.

But what does that Sowerby woman know? Of course the boy is going to live, Archibald's own brother is caring for him.

Maybe Neville shouldn't even try? Is a life like his father worthy enough for the boy to survive?

Why must the child live, while the mother is laid to rest? Why couldn't it be him instead of her?

How could Lilias truly be gone?

"She promised," the words were barely above a whisper, not that it mattered – no one was around to hear.

"Goddammit, she promised me, but she lied," he all but shout, practically jumping out of his chair.

In a sudden rage he picked up her book and tossed it into the fire.

Instant regret passed over the man's face as he lept toward the fireplace, reaching his hand in without feeling the flames.

That was her book, a book she once held close in curiosity, and he had so carelessly tossed it away like it never mattered to her.

The book had only barely caught, and he was able to smother the bit that had with his bare hands.

He didn't feel the pain of the minor burns that were fresh on his palms – he was too concerned with the heavier pain in the depths of his soul.

He rang the servants' bell.

Archibald held the singed book to his chest, sitting back down in his chair, trying to remember what it felt like to hold her in his embrace.

Never again would he know that feeling – never again would he hold her in his arms.

Never again would he hear her melodic voice floating through the fresh air of the moorland skies.

Never again would he hear his name dancing on her lips – called with joy, spoken with pure affection, whispered in conspiracy, sighed in contentment, moaned in ecstasy.

Never again would he feel the softness of her loose hair cascading across his bare chest after making love.

Never again would he know the beauty of her love for him.

Archibald heard faint footsteps behind him.

Not bothering to turn around – only one person (aside his brother, who was presently tending to the boy) knew of the Master's whereabout – he spoke,

"Pitcher, get me–" his command was cut short when his valet appeared at his side with an open bottle of wine and a (rather well filled) glass on a silver salver.

Mr. Pitcher placed the tray on the table beside his master and left with a polite nod before slipping silently away.

"My God," he whispered, taking a long sip of the sweet alcohol, looking again at the chair beside him, "how, Lily, my love, can I go on without you?"

He finished the contents of his glass, already helping himself to another.

His vision blurred as silent tears began to collect in his soft eyes, "how?"