A/N: Sorry, I know I told some of you I would try to have this up yesterday, but something came up. I should have the rest of it put up by the end of the week. I can barely believe it.

Thanks again for the reviews and favorites. This one is quite short, but the next one will be much longer, I promise.

Also, I forgot to mention last chapter, consider everything from here on out to be rated T.

Enjoy...if you dare.

Chapter 21: Gilded Over in Purple and Pall

The gunshot cracked through the air and rang in Bernard's ears. He felt as though the breath had been forced from his lungs, and he stood very still. Carruthers remained fixed on the spot with a look of shock frozen on his face, the gun in his hand still pointed at Bernard's chest. Blood dripped from his solar plexus where the bullet from William Hightower's gun had penetrated his torso. His body crumpled as the life went out of it, and he fell off the roof to the ground below where he would trouble them no more.

Bernard stared into the darkness where Carruthers had stood, dumbfounded by what had just occurred. He was quite literally shaken from his shock by William Hightower's hands on his arms. The man's face was a mess of emotions ranging from concern to fear to confusion as to why he had just had to shoot a man from the roof of his own house. His bright blue eyes looked over Bernard for any sign of injuries or answers. Whatever the man was saying however, Bernard had no idea, for his ears still rang painfully from the sound of the gunshot. He was finally able to read the man's lips well enough to make out a single question.

"Where's Lydia?!"

Suddenly, all that had happened before William's arrival slammed upon Bernard's mind like the bullet that was still lodged in Carruthers' gun never could. He forgot about the man standing in front of him, who had just rescued him, forgot everything but Lydia lying on the snow blanketed ground below, and he vanished into thin air.

He materialized on the ground below. Lydia lay in a motionless heap of scattered limbs and crumpled silk, cushioned only by the layer of snow about the ground. Her right arm and leg were bent at odd angles, and she gave no sign of life. He ran to her and knelt at her side. She was very still, but the shallow heaving of her torso told him she still lived.

"Lydia!" he exclaimed, patting her face.

She came to suddenly, and such was the agony that twisted her face that Bernard rather wished he hadn't attempted to rouse her. She took in his face however, and that focused her attention on something other than the pain coursing through her body.

"Is it over?" she gasped.

"Yeah. He's gone," answered Bernard. He picked up her hand and hoped it was the chilly air that made it so cold.

"Good," she said between heavy, painful breaths.

"Your uncle shot him. He's dead."

"Regrettable, I suppose. But better him than you."

She spoke slowly, as though every breath ripped through her battered frame like fire.

"I am afraid," she said, "that I shall be joining him rather soon."

The cold thread of fear than ran through Bernard's veins turned to ice.

"No. You're gonna be alright," he said quickly. "We'll fix you, together, like last time, remember? When we first met? Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

"This is a bit worse than a dislocated shoulder."

"Then we'll get you to the Pole. Maybe Quinton can do something. He always has an answer for everything."

"No, Bernard."

Bernard could not count the injuries that left her body cracked like broken glass. A voice inside his head that sounded very much like Quinton's told him that in the very least, her arm, leg and several, if not all, her ribs must be broken. Nevertheless, she spoke through her pain in that tone that said she knew what she was talking about and would hear no arguments from him about it. He had none to give her.

"Stay with me," Bernard begged.

"I can't," said Lydia as a sob cut through her voice. Bernard could feel his heart pounding in his ears, and he wondered, hoped even, that he was dreaming, that the world around him was a cruel figment of his imagination.

"Bernard, please, tell my uncle-"

"No!"

A terrible, desperate part of him hoped if he denied her, he could force her to remain, and to agree to whatever request she made would be tantamount to letting her go, to giving her permission to leave. He refused to believe what little say he had in the matter.

"Please!" she insisted, "Tell him, I'm sorry. Bernard, look after him, and look after yourself."

"I can't do this without you."

"You can," she persisted. "Listen to me, please. You're stronger than you know."

"It wasn't supposed to be this way. It's not fair."

Lydia coughed painfully. Drops of blood speckled her lips and stood out bright red against her skin, which had lost its color and was quickly becoming as white as the snowy ground she lay upon. Her breathing had grown short, but she gripped his hand to focus him again.

"Please," she breathed, "Be kind, be safe, and try, if you can, to be happy."

"Don't go."

He knew now it was futile to beg, but still he tried to ignore the blood in her mouth, on her lips, on her face, and just how unsteady her voice had become. With great effort, she brought her hand up to touch his face. Her normally bright grey eyes had gone stormy and dark.

"I couldn't say before," she said, her voice now barely a whisper, "Couldn't bring myself to say the words."

Bernard closed his eyes and put his hand over hers, willing the words that came next not to be her last.

"I love you."

Her eyes slid shut. Her hand went limp in his and slipped out of his grip to the ground.

"Lydia!"

William Hightower's voice broke through the night as he arrived, too late. He rushed to his niece's side, but the life had left her broken body and her spirit had drifted away. He picked her up, drawing her from Bernard into his arms, and held her to him. Bernard's vision went blurry as tears filled his eyes, and all sound cut out but the mournful cries of William as he wept over what remained of his only family. The world seemed to go dark around them both as Bernard curled in on himself and let his own grief consume him.

A/N: DON'T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME! Come back here. I'm not done yet. And put down that pitchfork. I'm not scared of you.

...

Okay, okay, I'll have the next one up tomorrow. Please don't kill me.