Prologue
Candleford moor on the eve of the first chill felt like the last place in the world. A single breath would turn to glass, tense and fragile as life, and would tumble from the lips with the ache of an old mist snatched away into icy air. It was still, always still, the sky dimmed with down-cast eyes and the shadow of a wistful smile whispering its farewells in the trees.
Perhaps his horse could sense the tension of the night, for it slowed until its hooves barely padded the ground, wary of disturbance. Sir Timothy held the reigns loosely and stared out across the moor, momentarily lost. He had no recollection of deciding to stop. For hours his mind had been a raging furnace; the fire had pursued him through the fields, fuelling an insurmountable, relentless rage until he was deaf for its roaring and blind with pain. His veins had throbbed with it, searing behind his eyes til he cried out like a demon. And he had ridden on.
His subconscious had brought him here, he realised now. The moor rolled with shadows, familiarly eerie yet eerily familiar. There was nothing for him in Candleford except these shadows of the past. Yet they were his only comfort now, and with slow resignation Sir Timothy rode down the hillside towards the house.
A/N: Flashbacks and fix-its to follow, i.e. a gradual realisation of my DorcasxTimothy headcanon. (Will try to stay away from any more Brontëan moor scenes and general melodrama.) I'm too busy to complete a fic without encouragement – you know what to do.