A/N: Well I have, like, no idea if anyone's still reading this story, but just in case anyone is...

Dickon walked blindly across the moor. For once in his life he hardly saw where he was going, his mind oblivious to the sights and smells and sounds of nature that normally gave him such pleasure. All he could see was shadow.

He'd had a vague suspicion, of course, regarding Colin's attitude toward he and Mary. He'd have to have been blind not to notice that Colin was still hopelessly in love with his cousin. But Dickon had always assumed, what with them being family, that Colin's affections would slowly change to a more brotherly love, as Mary's had. He certainly hadn't expected Colin's absence in London to intensify his infatuation with her – for that was all it was, thought Dickon savagely, his feet splashing in the muddy bog with a lot more noise than usual – just a childhood passion, born of his isolation and loneliness and the fact that Mary had all but saved him from life as an invalid. Colin didn't love her like he, Dickon, did. It wasn't the same at all.

He could see the dim glow of the cottage on the horizon now, nothing but a faint halo of light in a sea of blackness. It was far too dark to be walking safely across the moor, not when the path was no longer visible and had been all but washed away by the rains. But Dickon knew this land like he knew his own soul, and he could walk the moor blindfolded if he needed to. Besides, he hadn't been able to stand the thought of spending the night at Misselthwaite. He didn't know how he was going to face Mary, not now, with Colin's words filling his head. And she was going away so soon…

He could see his mother through the window, sitting straight-backed before the fire. That was odd – normally she would be fast asleep by now, for it must have been well past midnight. Dickon let himself in quietly, and she turned her head to look at him.

Instantly, he knew something was wrong. His mother's face was not its usual happy self. Instead her eyes were red and blotchy, her cheeks gaunt, and her expression one of great sadness – the look of a woman whose worst fear has come true.

His first thought was that the flu had taken another of his siblings, and his heart stopped cold at the prospect. Please, no, he thought desperately, casting his eyes toward the other room where the young ones slept as though to see through the door and count them on the spot. Please not another one.

Then his mother moved, and he saw the letter in her hand for the first time.

"A man came t' see thee today," she said, her voice thick with tears. She waved the letter idly. "'E left this."

Dickon swallowed heavily. "What is it?"

"It's – " her lower lip trembled and she sucked in a deep breath. "It's thy conscription notice…. tha's been drafted. Int' th' war."

For a moment a curious sense of relief flooded through him at the knowledge that his family was safe, that he wouldn't have to help plan another funeral for one of his little brothers or sisters. Then the reality of what his mother had said sank in, and he felt a cold chill creep through his bones. War? When he didn't know the first thing about fighting? The very thought of being sent to France, of being given a gun and instructed to kill, made his body freeze with horror. But he squared his jaw and tried not to show this because his ma was looking at him and he couldn't stand to see the bleak hopelessness in her eyes.

"Oh."

"Tha' doesn' have t' go,'" she began, her hands wringing her apron fretfully. "I could speak t' Master Craven, I'm sure 'e could find a way t' – "

"No!" he said, rather too forcefully. His mother looked at him strangely. "No," he said again, softer this time. How could he ask Colin for such a thing – for it would be Colin he was asking, really – after the conversation they had just had? Maybe he would have, before… but Colin had made it abundantly clear that his presence at Misselthwaite was no longer desired, was in fact nothing but a nuisance and a pain to him. And Mary was going away, far away to London. She would meet some wealthy London banker's son and forget about him… Dickon winced as a wave of loneliness crashed through him such as he had never experienced before. There would be nothing for him at Misselthwaite… better that he went away, did something useful with himself. He wouldn't ask Colin to protect him. He wasn't a coward. If his country needed him then he would go.

His mother gave a resigned sort of grimace. "I knew tha'd say tha'," she said quietly. "Such a brave boy. Tha' always was."

Dickon shrugged. At the moment he wasn't feeling particularly brave. Instead he longed to see Mary, to let her laugh and smile and the soft touch of her hands take him away from the reality of his life. But that was just a dream. "S'only righ'," he mumbled. "There's men dyin' over there righ' now, good men. I've lived a dream for far too long."

His mother frowned at his words. "S'no a dream tha's been livin' son. It's a good, proud life."

He shrugged again, and his mother got to her feet.

"She'll miss thee somethin' terrible, I'm afraid," she said. Dickon felt his heart rate begin to pick up, and stared stubbornly off to the side. They both knew of whom she spoke.

"She's t' go t' London in a few weeks," he said gruffly, trying to say this off-hand, to not let on how much the knowledge of this hurt. But the gentle hand his mother placed on his arm told him he had not been entirely successful. She had always been able to read him like a book, and it appeared this time was no different.

"London won' change her," his ma said with a quiet confidence. "She's too strong for tha'. Her heart will always belong t' Yorkshire, an' t' thee."

He shook off her touch, because it was too painful right then. He couldn't allow himself to dream of such things. Colin had been right – Mary was never meant for him, and he'd been a fool to ever hope for otherwise.

"T'would be better if she did find a beau in London," he forced himself to say. "Wha' can I offer her? Nothin'…'cept – 'cept a barn full o' animals an' – an' too many mouths t' feed."

He heard his mother's shocked intake of breath, and felt ashamed. He had never resented his poor upbringing before, had in fact always been proud of his home and his family compared to the stuffy, restricted lives of the wealthy. But now he felt bitterness in every corner of his body at the thought of all the things he could never hope to provide for Mary. All the things that Colin could.

"I've never heard thee speak wi' such foolishness afore," said his mother sternly. "Who's pu' these nasty ideas in thy head?"

"S'nowt bu' th' truth," he scowled. "I can never give Mary wha' she deserves. I'm no' worthy of her."

"I think she migh' disagree wi' thee."

He turned away from her, wanting to put an end to the conversation. His mind was made up – it was pointless to dwell on fantasies. He would be going to war and it was unlikely he would ever return. Darkness clouded in on him, pushing out all other thoughts.

His mother came up beside him, and reached out to stroke his cheek. He allowed her to, because he sensed how desperate she was for comfort, and he wanted to offer what he could, even though he had no idea how to put things right.

"My beautiful boy," she whispered, her eyes dry now but shadowed. "I can scarce bear t' let thee go. If th' Lord has any mercy he'll no' take thee away from us."

He put a hand over her own, and attempted a smile. But he didn't reply, because there seemed nothing left to say.

A/N: I'm going to keep updating, I promise