With thanks to Alinyaalethia for her help with scripture, I'm sure I haven't done it justice.

Content warning, grief and depression.


Cloven

Matthew Keith, commonly known as Matty, was a twin. That was just who he was. He never questioned it. He never minded it. He was not whole on his own. Matty existed with his brother Tommy; inseparable from the moment they were born. Tommy was born first, so said their mother, with a screaming Matty coming along shortly afterwards, "maybe because he hated being left alone," Mummy said with a smile and a caress for them both. They often asked for the details of their birth, especially after Artie was born, it seemed so miraculous. They were curious why there were two of them and only one of him? Matty felt sorry for Artie, being alone. When they were babies, the boys slept in the same cot. Mummy would try to separate them, but they'd cry until they were put together and they would sleep holding hands, wrapped up around each other, taking comfort in the breathing and heartbeat of the other.

Tommy took his older brother responsibilities seriously. He was the instigator of most of their adventures, with Matty an enthusiastic follower. They had great fun together. They ran around their fiefdom like little kings. Sometimes they went a bit far. Matty recalled the time they destroyed Granny's rosebush. They got a bit carried away that day, playing soldiers. They were pretending the rosebush was the French army as they hacked it to pieces. They regarded it afterwards with some pleasure, feeling that they had done a good job, defeating that army. It wasn't until Grandpa John had accosted them that they realised how much trouble they were in. Watching Granny stumble away in tears at the death of her rose had been, up until now, the saddest day in Matty's life.

Now? Now, Matty didn't know who he was? He wasn't anyone if he wasn't a twin. He felt naked without Tommy by his side. Matty kept seeing Tommy out of the corner of his eyes, just out of his peripheral vision, but he'd have skipped away when Matty turned his head to see him properly. The thought that he would never see his brother again made him desolate, he couldn't articulate it, but the empty years ahead echoed painfully.

They had been so excited that night. Daddy had asked them to help out and they felt very grown up going back to the barn with him to collect the last load of rubbish. But the cart travelled so slowly and there was a party ahead, with the Guy on top of the bonfire, and sparklers and penny bangers. All their friends were there, and it was just so exciting. When the cart came close, they jumped down and ran towards the fire. Matty hesitated slightly, he'd never loved running down hills, but Tommy was fearless, what's more he spied their grandfather at the bottom, and he was dying to tell him all about their plans for the night. "I'm off," he burst out to Matty and dashed away.

Away … and out of his life.


Marilla had called Anne and explained the situation. Anne clapped her hands to her mouth, dropping the receiver, Marilla heard the muffled sound as it clanged against the wall, "sorry," explained Anne when she recovered it, "I dropped the receiver. Poor Davy, poor Millie, how is Matty? How are you all?" The news brought back Anne's aching sadness when she lost Joy, "the poor things. When will the funeral be held?"

"We can't have a funeral," Marilla explained, "there's no body," she stopped for a moment, sighing, gathering her composure, "they are holding a memorial service next week."

"Oh, Marilla. Oh, my goodness, no body?"

"He burnt away to nothing, Ralph went looking the next day through the embers, but nothing. Davy wanted to go down, but we wouldn't let him. His hands were frightfully burned, he's got big bandages on them now. Can't do a thing for himself. We have to feed and dress him, and er, other things," Marilla trailed off meaningfully.

"How are you and John coping?" Anne asked after a pause.

"Well the neighbours are cooking for us all as you can imagine. The Ladies Aid has swung into action."

"And how are you all coping," Anne asked again, meaning their mental state.

"Well it's absolutely ghastly as you can imagine. Matty is wandering around forlornly. Davy was unresponsive, but Matty seems to have gotten through to him. I have been helping Millie with scripture. The minister has been by as well."

"Has he helped Davy, too?"

"Davy won't speak to him, poor soul. He can't comprehend how God could take his boy away."

"Yes, I understand, I felt the same way when we lost Joy, do you remember?"

"How could I ever forget, darling, such a terrible time?"


"It's almost crueler you know," Marilla said to John over their dinner that night. "I thought losing Joy would be the worst thing, but somehow losing Tommy is harder to bear."

"Because we knew him, Joy was just a baby," John reflected.

"I suppose so. Matthew's death was hard too," Marilla mused.

"But he at least had a life. Tommy was just starting his," John speared a piece of meat and popped it in his mouth.

"Mmm," Marilla mused, looking at her dinner, but not feeling the slightest bit hungry.

"When are Gilbert and Anne arriving?" John asked, after he had finished his mouthful.

"They said they'll be here the day before the service. They'll get a ride over. No need for anyone to pick them up."

"Shirley will be upset. He got on so well with them when he was here," John commented,

"He might be a comfort for Matty. Someone his own age, poor boy."


A dull drizzly morning greeted them as the families got ready for Tommy's memorial service, it seemed simultaneously apt and yet not. The weather suited the sad occasion, but it did not suit the happy little soul being farewelled. They made their way over in a solemn procession through the rain to church, umbrellas keeping the worst off. No one felt much like talking, though the children wept openly. In the little church the minister stood up at the pulpit looking down at the despondent family, he was worried for them all, but hoped their love for each other combined with their strong faith, would pull them through.

"We are gathered here today," he intoned.

Davy took one great big breath, moaned, "no" and stumbled out of the pew in a desperate rush to get away. His breakfast so lovingly fed to him by Matty that morning had turned to water and strove to escape in a gush. He had to get out of there, now. Holding his bandaged hands to his mouth to keep it all in, he rushed down the aisle and out the door, heedless of the rain pouring down. Kneeling down on the ground vomiting, Davy wanted to die so purely he felt his heart gazing up at him asking between beats, 'are you sure want me to keep doing this?' but he found he could not give the order to stop.

The congregation watched him run out, Marilla half rose, but Anne motioned for her to stay. She understood his grief and she had always been able to talk him down when he was young. Hurrying out, she found him retching in the rosebushes by the graveyard. Sitting by him, Anne ignored the downpour, it was getting heavier now and it was cold, but there were more important things than weather. When he had finished, Davy tried to wipe himself down, but it was a lost cause. Anne attempted it, but her handkerchief was not equal to the task either.

Davy swung around so he was sitting on his bottom, Anne knelt down beside him, water dripping through their hair and streaming down their faces finding the easy way through Davy's stubble, "Marilla will be disappointed in me," Davy stated flatly.

"Don't you worry about Marilla," Anne soothed him, rubbing the raindrops out of her eyelashes.

"I just couldn't, I couldn't stay in there, you know," his eyes were cast downwards, "did you go to your, to Joy's funeral?"

"I was too weak. I stayed in bed while Gilbert and Marilla went on my behalf, I wanted to be there, desperately, but I couldn't make it."

The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want;
He makes me down to lie...

The sounds of the congregation singing wafted over them, Davy went pale again and bent his head between his knees.

"It hurts doesn't it," Anne commented gently.

"I've never known such pain, Anne. Does it get better?"

"It does, it never goes away, it just becomes part of you." Anne reflected, thinking of her little girl born all those years ago.

"The thought that it may stop hurting sometimes hurts me worse than all else," Davy explained.

"Yes, I felt the same way, once. It won't stop hurting, you loved him. This pain is the price you pay for love," Anne explained.

"It hurts so much that I'm afraid of living."

"Oh Davy-boy," replied Anne, employing the nickname she used when he was young, "it will get better, I promise. This hurt, which is love, won't disappear, but it will ease eventually. Millie, Matty and Artie need you, you know. They love you so."

Davy nodded his head as it hung between his knees, tears mixed with rain streaming down, dripping down on to the already wet grass.

"I keep seeing him, running down that damned hill, you know. If I hadn't built the fire there, if it wasn't for that hill. I should have waited to light the fire. I killed him Anne, I killed To… mm… y," Davy sobbed.

"Shh, shh, Davy, don't do that to yourself. It was an accident, just a terrible, terrible accident. You've done all those things a dozen times before and nothing's gone wrong."

"But I should have known it was dangerous and now I've lost him. He was such a beautiful boy, I can't even cradle him now. I wish I could hug him one last time, even just his body."

"I know, I know," Anne rubbed his wet shoulder.

"You go in Anne, I don't want you catching a cold," Davy insisted.

"No, that's all right. I'll stay with you," Anne replied softly.

They lapsed into silence, for what else was there to say? Millie and Gilbert found them there after the service was over. Gilbert had begged for blankets from the minister and he covered them both before they were put into a carriage and taken home. Marilla exclaimed over the state of them, nearly blurting out that they'd catch their death, before she physically stopped herself from saying the words, clamping her hands over her mouth.


Sitting with steaming hair by the fireplace, now dressed in warm dry clothes, Davy and Anne watched the scene unfold in front of them as more and more folk arrived for the wake, murmuring their condolences to the family. Marilla and John had offered Green Gables as it was larger than Davy and Millie's house.

Millie sat on the couch flanked by Dora and Minne May who were providing comfort, listening patiently as she poured her heart out.

"Come out to the kitchen with me, Davy, your dressings are sopping. I'll change them," Gilbert offered. He gathered some clean bandages together, as well as some ointment from his case, and unwrapped the soggy bandages carefully, "ooh," he whistled as the last one came away revealing the red oozy mess that were Davy's hands, Davy let loose a sharp breath when the last of the bandages were pulled away.

"I did a job on them all right, "Davy remarked ruefully.

"You did what you had to do. I'd behave the same way in the circumstances."

"She," Davy gesticulated with his head towards Millie, "doesn't think I did enough. She thinks I should have saved him."

At Gilbert's expression of shock, he added, "oh she won't say it outright, but that's what she thinks."

Gilbert was pretty sure Millie thought no such thing, Davy was feeling guilty that he didn't do more to save Tommy, not Millie. but held his tongue saying instead "look at you Davy you just about burnt your hands off trying to get to him and I reckon your face and neck look pretty sore too, aren't they?"

"They hurt a bit. What do you mean off?"

"Look, Davy", Gilbert gently replied, "I admit I am a bit worried about your hands. It's going to be a long process and even then you may have lost some feeling in them. What did Dr Mustard say at the time?"

"I dunno. I wasn't really listening, I wasn't really present you know."

"Of course you weren't, I'm sorry," Gilbert apologised as he re-wrapped Davy's hands.

Marilla looked over Mrs Barry's shoulder at the two men talking in the kitchen. Davy looking at Gilbert as he talked gently. Marilla hadn't seen Davy's hands since that night; from this distance they looked worse.

"Could I have saved him, Gilbert?" Davy pleaded with his brother in law.

"Honestly, I doubt anyone could, "Gilbert replied, "he would have been terribly burned you know and in absolute agony. Your burns are bad, but it's just part of your body. Burns to such a large amount of his body probably would have slowly killed him." Davy gulped and went pale. "I wouldn't usually go into so much detail, Davy, but you need to stop blaming yourself, from the moment he tumbled into the fire, there was nothing anyone could have done." Gilbert placed his hand comfortingly on Davy's shoulder and squeezed gently, hoping the young father understood the depth of his concern.

Rachel found herself sitting next to Davy on the couch. His freshly bandaged hands looking starkly white against his black trousers.

"Do you need anything?" Rachel whispered in his ear.

"Actually I'm really hungry," Davy replied.

Marilla had told her that Davy needed help with eating and looking at his hands Rachel understood why. Grabbing a plate she loaded it up with food and picked up a spoon.

"You lost children, Mrs Lynde?" Davy said between mouthfuls.

"I did, Davy. I lost my little Henry when he was just just a baby and my dear Katherine from scarlet fever when she was six. It was harder to lose her," Rachel thought, guiltily.

"How so?" Davy enquired when he had finished a mouthful, then nodded for more.

"By six they have a personality," Rachel explained as she loaded up another spoonful, "they fill your life with funny quips and anecdotes as they sort out the world in their own way, don't they? You really miss them as people. Losing a baby is still terrible of course, but they haven't developed yet."

"I was talking to Anne before, during the, you know, during the service, she told me the pain will dull, but never disappear," Davy commented.

"Yes, she's right of course. I'll never stop grieving 'til the day I die, I'll always hold them in my heart," Rachel glanced over at Davy's mother, "as supportive as I'm sure Marilla is right now, it's a pain she's never experienced. Both you and Millie are welcome to come and talk to me any time, any time," she soothed as she patted his knee.

By the window Mrs Pye was muttering to Mrs Shaw, "all this fuss for a dead boy, such a melodramatic family, the Cuthberts. As if children don't die all the time."

"I absolutely agree," Mrs Shaw whispered back as she took a sandwich from the proffered platter, she had mostly come for the free food, Marilla Cuthbert was known for her table, "I understand he was a real handful too."

"For shame," exclaimed Mrs Barry as she walked past, "if you don't think we should be mourning this little angel, then I think you ladies had better leave," she shooed them out of the room and watched as they huffed in umbrage when they put on their coats.

"What was all that about?" Mr Barry enquired as he watched the ladies wade homewards through the mud.

"Nothing to concern you, dear, I just think their venomous tongues are better off out of this house." explained Mrs Barry.


And how are you faring Dad?" Gilbert clapped his father on his shoulder the following evening. John had been so busy looking after everyone else, Marilla had been caring for the family, he had been caring for her, no one had thought to ask him how he was? At Gilbert's words a dam burst, and he broke down into heart wrenching sobs. He stumbled away from Gilbert in his shame and stammered "I nearly had him, if I'd just reacted sooner, if only..." but he could say no more.

Gilbert waited for a while to let his usually stoic father pull himself together sufficiently, then gently asked, "tell me Dad."

With tears still running down his cheeks, John turned to his son, explaining, "he was running to me, to me. If I'd been somewhere else, we wouldn't be having this conversation, but he altered course on his way down, just slightly, just enough to miss me. I nearly had him, you know, I nearly caught him, but he was just slightly too far away. I should have dived for him, I should, I…" he broke down again.

Gilbert rubbed his father's back, "Dad, it was a terrible accident, it's no one's fault. Things just happen for no reason. You couldn't have done any more."

John buried his face in his hands, his voice now muffled, "but I should have, I almost could have, his shirt grazed my fingers," looking up at his son, "I can still feel his shirt brushing past." He rubbed his fingers at the remembered sensation.

"It all happened in a split second, yes?"

"Uh, huh," John nodded.

"You didn't have time to react, but you'll be reliving it for a while yet, I expect. Have you told anyone else how you feel?"

"No," dully, "Marilla's got her hands full as it is and she's grieving as well."

"You deserve some attention too, Dad. We've got to look after you."

"Gilbert," John grabbed his shirt, "don't say anything. They've got enough on their plate as it is. I'll tell her later. Just leave it for now. I feel better for telling you. Don't say anything, please," he pleaded with his son, "please."

"All right, if you insist Dad, I'll stay quiet, but you must tell Marilla at least. She'll want to know how you're feeling?" Gilbert urged as he hugged his distressed father.


"Say Matty," said Shirley shyly, "would you like Mr Moose?" The boys had been reunited, and Shirley found it difficult to know what to say to his cousin. It seemed strange that he was alone. Tommy had always been by Matty's side, He'd been quite envious. Even within a large family, Shirley felt quite lonely at times. Matty and Tommy never felt that way, they always had a chum nearby. Now, Matty seemed bewildered by his brother's absence.

Shirley took his stuffed brown friend with the furry antlers out of his case and solemnly handed it over to Matty who received it with the reverence only a small child could muster. "Gee thanks, Shirley, are you sure?"

"Yes, I think he might help you when you get lonely, he's a terrific listener, sometimes I use him as a pillow," Shirley explained.

Matty hugged Mr Moose and felt the softness of his fur against his cheek, "thanks Shirley, I'll look after him always."


"Where's Mr Moose, Shirley? Don't you need him to get to sleep?" Anne asked him when she tucked the boys in that night. They were all sharing a room, Jem and Walter only tolerating him because of the situation.

"I gave him away," Shirley explained, his older brothers looked on in shock.

"You gave him away? Anne asked stunned, rocking back on her heels. Many the night she had hunted frantically for Mr Moose because Shirley was adamant he couldn't sleep without him.

"Yes, I hope you're not too cross, Mummy. I gave him to Matty. I thought he might need a friend since he lost Tommy."

"Oh, dear child, that was a very lovely thing to do, Shirley," she kissed him on the forehead, "I'm sure they'll be very happy together."

"I hope so Mummy."

Anne walked in to find Gilbert already in bed, shaking her head. "What is it?" he enquired.

"How many hours do you think you have you spent looking for Mr Moose?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Gilbert was blindsided by the question.

"Mr Moose, Shirley's toy, how long would you say you've spent looking for it at bedtime?"

"Oh, I dunno, lost count I guess, why?"

"He gave it away to Matty," Gilbert gaped, "yes, Shirley thought Matty could do with a friend," Anne explained.

"That boy of ours..." Gilbert sighed, "how did he get to be so sweet?"

Anne changed into her nightgown and lay down in bed next to him, "must be from good stock, I guess. Gilbert it's just terrible, they're all so sad. I'm sad."

"I know, love."

"You saw Davy's hands."

"Shocking, as bad as anything I've ever seen," Gilbert replied meaningfully as he caressed her shoulder.

"Could Davy have saved Tommy?"

"I doubt it," Gilbert was thinking that everyone seemed to be asking him that very question, "even if he could have pulled him out, his burns were extensive, assuming Tommy was even alive by then? The heat would have been intense, he may have died pretty instantaneously, with any luck." At her shocked look he explained, "you know how much a small burn hurts?"

"Oh yes," Anne's face blanched, "and with his whole body on fire, it would have been absolute torture."

"Even if, by some incredible chance, Davy could have pulled him out, I doubt he could have survived long and those last minutes would have been pure agony. It honestly was better this way, as awful as it was."


"It's a terrible thing, Marilla," Rachel was taking tea at Green Gables as they discussed the week's events.

"It is that, we're all in shock."

"Where is everyone now?"

"Oh, they're around about. Gilbert and Anne are over at Davy's. The children are playing. I think Matty might be around here with them somewhere."

"That poor boy. How is he coping, it's a terrible thing to lose your twin."

"Poor little soul, he's like a lost puppy. They used to be joined at the hip, those two."

"It'll be a bit adjustment for him," Rachel commented thoughtfully as she sipped her tea, "and Millie, how is she?"

"I've been trying to help her, we've been sharing scripture."

"Psalms?"

"Yes, Psalm 23 in particular."

"It's always comforting at times like this, The Lord is my shepherd," Rachel mused, as she took a piece of pie, cutting it into small pieces with her fork and smothering it with fresh cream. "I found it helpful when I lost my little Katherine all those years ago."

Marilla paused thinking about her conversation with Millie the day before. Millie had been trying to keep her tears at bay, trying to find some solace in her Bible, and not really succeeding. Marilla led her into the Keith's parlour, and they sat down next to each other on the couch, their knees touching as they faced inwards. Marilla took Millie's hands in her own, and slowly talked about the meaning of Psalm 23. She knew Millie was familiar with it, but it was comforting to remind her in her time of great tribulation.

"Millie take comfort in the idea that our little lost Tommy is being cared for by our Lord up in heaven."

"Like in Psalm 23?" sniffled Millie.

"Just so, 'the Lord is our shepherd, I shall not want. Tommy will dwell in the house of the Lord forever', remember our Lord lost a son too, he will guide you through your grief if you let him.

"It is comforting, I suppose. I would rather he dwelt with us for a while longer," Millie said through her tears.

"Oh, darling, of course you do, of course you do, but he will be safe up there with God and one day you will be reunited, take comfort in that."

A few days later the younger Blythe family had returned home to the Glen with promises to stay in touch. "Really, write me often," Anne implored Millie, her hands on the grieving mother's shoulders staring straight into her eyes, "any time and about any thing. Pour your heart out to me, promise?"

"I will, I promise," sniffled Millie as she wiped her eyes, touched by Anne's sincerity.


Marilla fussed around the family, checking that Davy was eating. His bandaged hands were still proving problematic, frustrating him and making him snap, then apologise in contrition. "Now you're sure you've got everything Millie? I'll just cut some bread up and I'll fill up this water jug now. Do you need a drink, Davy?" Millie looked to Davy raising her eyebrows. For all her caring ways, Marilla was beginning to drive her a little bit crazy. Davy cleared his throat, Marilla was so busy she ignored him, but John looked across. Saying no words, Davy implored John with his eyes, 'please just leave'.

"Marilla," John ordered, "Mar, let's just go. Let's leave them."

"What? We can't, I'm busy here. I just need to make sure…"

"No, we're going. Good evening Millie, Davy, good evening Matty," he bent down and kissed the boy on the head, smelling his fresh scent, "Here are your hat and coat, Mar, time to go home."

"I? What? Why?"

"Just come with me, sweetheart. It's time."

Before she knew it, Marilla had been bundled out of the house and was climbing into the buggy. She looked back through the kitchen window to see Matty animatedly telling Davy and Milly something as they looked on fondly, Artie lying in his basket nearby. The tableau bathed in warm candlelight.