A/N: Hello there friends, I'm back again (and still trying to establish a routine with this thing!) Next chapter is pretty long, so it may take a bit longer to get out, but I'm hoping to have it done next week… though I have not been doing too well with my "one chapter a week" goal so we'll see soon if that's too ambitious!
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The summer heat was a prison to the master of Misselthwaite Manor, especially due to his hardly leaving his apartment in near on seven months. He'd slowly let some of the staff go; without a mistress, there was no gaiety to justify keeping them on. He knew most of the few remaining members gossiped about his reclusive ways, but he did not care. It was just like his old life anyway – when he had figured he'd always be a bachelor.
Not many were allowed an audience with the Lord Craven since his return, but those who had could feel the palpable melancholy in his presence. In the two years since his wife's passing, he grew more and more doubtful of his place on earth. He did not deserve to take up such space in his loneliness, he had no reason to remain.
The last few months, particularly since his wedding anniversary, saw him take a sharp turn for the worst. Most days he stayed in bed, clutching an old miniature of Lilias from her debutante year – a lifetime ago – murmuring to her as though still at his side.
He would tell her about the books he was reading, sometimes. Since the doctor insisted on taking over the finances of the estate, he hardly had anything to do, to distract himself from his sorrows. However, reading – once his favourite and most comforting escape – seemed to bore him, drain him, do nothing to dull the pain or clear his mind.
His thoughts would wander freely, and he would simply finger the pages, rereading paragraphs, because he hadn't processed the information within them. The tedious flow of words frustrated and disappointed him; nothing, save dreams of his dearly departed wife, could hold his attention long enough to distract him from worsening thoughts.
But even that was no help.
Archibald Craven knew his physical limitations, knew he could not defend himself with his weak hands alone. As a young man he had been sure to be an excellent shot with a pistol, and kept one on him ever since – until his return to Misselthwaite.
The gun he kept in a locked drawer of his bedside table was now in the care of his valet.
"If you do not plan to leave the estate, why would you need it? You're safe within these walls," Mr. Pitcher had reasoned.
But he was an older man, one who had known Archibald as a boy, one who knew all about his troubles and struggles and sorrows. He knew now still why his master had fought this ultimatum; both men understood the kind of safety and ease-of-mind Archibald had hoped to gain from such a weapon at his disposal.
"It's for the boy, just as you promised," he would ponder whenever he found himself sinking deeper and deeper into that dark depression.
At least his son was looking healthier – that was what the doctor had told him, at least.
He awoke one day from a mid-afternoon nap – he had been growing more and more fatigued as of late – and felt he suddenly had to check on the boy.
Colin – he had a name, a life, and a face with eyes so like his mother's.
Archibald slowly allowed his body to readjust to waking life as the remnants of a dream played in the back of his mind. What was it he dreamt of?
Lilias! He knew it had something to do with Lilias. Perhaps she had been telling him to check on her son – their son – for her.
He mindlessly walked through the halls, ignoring the wild stares he received from servants who had nearly forgotten that their master was at home. Weren't Mr. Pitcher and Mrs. Medlock the ones running the estate?
They bowed slightly as he passed them, for the first time in months, before scurrying away, fearing what could have happened to have drawn him out of his chambers. The ones particularly close enough to his destination to recognize the young master's room as such lingered, trying to overhear what may be amiss.
In the corridor to his son's room – the one behind the door he had ordered covered by an old tapestry – he stopped abruptly. He felt a chill run down his spine as his blood ran cold. All the heat in his body seemed concentrated in his heart.
"Lilias." He spoke her name softly, afraid that his voice alone would send her away. And yet, he struggled to convince himself that the spectre before him was not in fact real. On the surface, he knew she was gone, but deep down, he wasn't quite sure – he hadn't been able to completely accept it.
"Lily, I need you," he continued, still stuck motionless in the middle of the hall.
His shoes were like lead, unforgiving, forbidding him from moving; each step he tried to take to get closer to her was cumbersome and strenuous.
"Where are you now?" he asked her, but her mouth remained closed, her laughing eyes mocking him with their lifelessness. "I can't live my life without you."
Abruptly she was gone; and he – he found himself inside the nursery.
The boy was sleeping peacefully in his cot. The sight of him so still, so grown since Archibald had last seen him, hypnotized him, pulling him closer to the child. He had not even noticed that his wife's portrait was uncovered, looking down on her husband and son, protecting them.
Archibald surveyed his son's sleeping form, breathing slowly. There was an air of tranquillity around him, untouched by the cruelties of the world.
In sleep, Archibald thought the boy appeared healthy – a bit pale, perhaps, but fine enough.
He stood still a moment, trying to imagine a future with his son, but he could not. He could only see him growing up with his mother's guidance to encourage him along the way. But such a future would be impossible.
The master lingered a moment longer in an effort to inspire in his heart the love he first felt for his boy when he was born, when he was swaddled in his mother's frail arms. He could not recall this feeling, though. Ever since Lilias left, he had been unable to experience love, connection, anything that justified his staying on earth.
"She took us both," he murmured into the darkness.
"My body, my flesh and bone, was left down here, but she took both of us with her when she departed this world. I have no one left worth keeping me tied to the earth any longer."
As he let this observation hang in the air, he figured out what he was truly trying to understand.
"I'm all alone."
He sat and wept on the chair beside his son. Instinctively he clutched his right wrist.
He had said that he burned it adjusting kindling in the fireplace a few weeks ago; but even with the pain passed, the scars remained.
"A foolish mistake, really," he had told his valet, who had come running at the sound of his master's crying out, "I've just been so out of sorts as of late. I was not thinking clearly; but I will be more careful next time, I assure you."
He doubted the old gentleman – who knew his ways so well – had believed him, but Mr. Pitcher said nothing. He bowed his head politely and solemnly walked away.
Would it happen again? He remembered the pain of the moment, the rush of his pulse, the quickening of his heart. It had made him feel something, anything.
It had made him feel alive.
Proud of himself for having stayed so long in that room, Archibald calmed himself and rose to make his way back to his own chambers.
He hesitated in the doorway, looking back at his son.
Impulsively, he approached the bedside again and brushed a feather-light kiss upon the boy's brow. And Colin did not stir.
The master slowly made his way to his apartment, meandering down halls which brought him further from his destination. He knew. He wanted to get lost, to explore. It had been so long since he was last out in these halls that he felt as though he was seeing the house he grew up in for the first time.
The many rooms and corridors had hardly changed in the 600 years since the house was erected. But seeing them now, Archibald almost felt like he was a boy again.
Almost, as back then he had not known the love of a woman who was not his mother. Now, he had known that love and lost it too soon; and he had a son who would grow up to be crippled like him, without the love of a mother to comfort him.
As he continued to wander, as he lost himself, he heard a sweet, far way voice calling his name. He followed it through halls and stairs and secret passageways he had once explored with his brother.
The voice, which seemed to stay in the distance, never left his side. And when he returned to his bedchamber, the fire was blazing, waiting for him.