Chapter Twenty-One

He had known for sometime, the spiraling condition of his son-in-laws state of mind. It was obviously really, to anyone who spent a few consecutive days in his company, and with John being married to his daughter…he had noticed. For a long time he said nothing, did nothing, refused to give in to the nagging voice of suspicion in the back of his mind every time he visited the couple. But soon, even he could no longer deny the reality of what was upon him. And he did not know what to do about it, other than to silently offer the poor man companionship when he needed it.

Mr. Hale spent a good deal of time at his daughters home, but he was hard-pressed to see both his children together at the same time. In fact, he could count the number of times it occurred on his hands in the near six months they had been married. All of them from a formal dinner invitation he received once a month, and all in all, a very poor way to have a more concise opinion on the more intimate workings of their relationship. There were always too many other people around, and John never spoke a word in mixed company unless he was spoken to directly, and he never spoke to Margaret in any situation. Perhaps if he had a better relationship with John's mother they might have conversed together, and come to some sort of understanding as to what was ailing him. But as he was not very close to her, and the only time he ever saw her was at the monthly dinner they attended, they never once spoke of their mutual suspicion and concern. But he could see it in her eyes, and in the creases of her face when she looked to John. He could see her watching her son, as well as her daughter-in-law, trying to fit the pieces together just as he himself was doing. He doubted she had any more luck in it than he did.

It was even more useless to try and talk to Margaret about any of it. He had only tried a few times, but in the end it was the same result. She requested that he not ask her about it, and changed the subject to something entirely more cheerful. But he had seen the change in her as well. Her bright and youthful visage was diminishing. She became very introverted, and had turned to cynicism. She was no longer his little girl. She was a woman now. A woman who was rapidly understand the cruel reality of the world.

It was these events that led him to where he was now: sitting in a chair outside, staring at the tranquil beauty of Oxford, and pondering his son-in-law. It took him a while to convince himself that seeking out a companion to solve the riddle of John's behavior was the right thing to do. Especially when that companion (although being his life-long friend) was the landlord to the building that housed his son-in-laws business, and therefore, his income. But eventually the strain had gotten the better of him, and he found himself in Oxford, spilling his thoughts and concerns to his closest friend, and hoping that the fresh perspective would help Mr. Hale to help John.

"When did all this start?" Mr. Bell asked him suddenly. They had been quiet for several minutes after Mr. Hale had originally spoke his concerns. Mr. Bell sat in an identical chair to his right, nursing a cup of tea and staring out across the grounds.

"I cannot give the exact date," Richard replied. "But nearly as long as they've been married." Edward hummed in thought.

"When was the last time you saw him behaving normally?" Richard sighed.

"Well I must say that is a difficult question to answer." He replied solemnly. "Seeing him now, knowing how he is, I feel that there have been traces of it since before they were married, although I could not see them at the time." He paused and looked back over the landscape before continuing with a far-off look in his eyes. "He was so distraught at the idea of Margaret being forced into marriage with him that he refused to do it. I suppose I could say that might be the first time I noticed any…abnormalities with his conduct. He is a man of great honor as I'm sure you know."

"He refused?" Edward exclaimed, a puzzled expression on his face. "Whatever for?"

"I believe he loves my daughter, perhaps more than even he can tell."

"Well obviously he changed his mind."

"Ah yes," Richard said, smiling slightly at the memory. "He came back and begged me to let him marry her after all." Edward laughed, but he still felt doubt even after all these months. "What if I made the wrong decision?" He asked. "What if I've doomed Margaret to be alone all her days?"

"No Richard," His friend replied, his tone easing the discomfort in Richard's mind. "That boy has been in love with your daughter for many, many months now. Whatever is causing this change, I feel it must be against his will."

"What do you mean?" He asked, perplexed.

"There are many different types of sickness." Edward said slowly. "There is a sickness of the mind, that takes hold of its victims in the same way every other sickness does: without your knowledge or consent." Richard knew the scandalized emotion he felt was reflected perfectly on his face.

"Are you saying you think he's insane!" He exclaimed.

"My dear friend," Edward said wearily. "The mind is a wonderful and mysterious thing. I can say nothing for certain, but I do not believe that every sickness is fatal." And with that he stood, saying that dinner would be ready soon, and that he had a great many books on such peculiar subjects that would be worth reading.

Margaret sat on the settee staring at the wall opposite her without seeing, despair coursing through her veins. Her face held no expression, her posture tense and rigid, hands resting in her lap. They held a piece of paper, with writing that was now indiscernible due to its dampness from the tears that had spilled upon it. Tears that, no matter how much Margaret wished they wouldn't, fell freely from her eyes, seemingly without end, and betraying her inner turmoil to the world. For once, she was glad she was always alone. Never before had she been so grateful to be discarded and left to her own devices. It meant that no one, save herself and God, would know of her tears. She hated tears, and she hated the emotions that caused them. If she could, she would banish them from her eyes. But she could not. She had no control over tears. And that was why she hated them. There was a muffled sound from beyond the closed door of the sitting room but she did not hear it. Her thoughts were of the letter in her lap that she would never be able to read again. She had ruined it with her meaningless idiotic tears. The sound of quick steps in the hallway pierced the haze of her mind. They were John's footsteps. But what did John's footsteps matter to her now? He was not coming to offer her comfort, or condolences. That would require speaking to her, something he did not do. Margaret could think of nothing she wanted less than to have John in the room, increasing the agony she felt. Either he heard her thoughts and was doing this to spite her, or he truly had no idea how little she desired his company, for it wasn't long before she could hear the door opening, and his chaotic footsteps as they neared her.

He was always like this around her: skittish and uncomfortable, always seeming as though he might turn and literally run away. It was why they spent so little time together. She'd grown accustomed to it, even though it didn't hurt any less. Truthfully she was surprised he had even come. After all, what did it matter if she suffered something else; she'd been suffering long enough as it was. It had never concerned him before. She kept her eyes resolutely focused on the wall she had been staring at, determined not to look at him. It would be too much for her to see him now. He said nothing, as per usual, but knelt down in front of her. She would not look at him, she would not look at him! It took a great effort for her to turn her face away from him, to look at the window and the world beyond, but she knew she must. She could not help but see him out of her peripheral vision as she turned. His face conflicted, his body tense, but his eyes looking at her. Really properly looking for the first time since God only knew when. That fact alone made her want to crumble in a heap of misery.

She felt the paper being pulled out of her hands, but did not look down. It was only when his hand touched her face, gently turning it to face his own that she looked into his eyes. His hands were shaking so badly that she could not see straight, and when he tried to wipe away the overflowing wetness on her cheek, he nearly stabbed her in the eye. Part of her, the part that was so angry and hurt by him, told her to leave. To throw his hands away and walk away from him as he had done so many times to her. But more of her wanted this. More of her wanted his affection, his comfort. More of her wanted to stay here and let him do this. She closed her eyes and relished in his hands upon her face. They were still shaking so bad it was nearly comical, but he traced his fingers across every surface as gently as he could, wiping away the tears as they fell. For they could not stop, not with everything that was happening to her this day.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked in a whisper even she could barely hear. She did not expect him to answer; he never did. His hands were suddenly gone from her face, but she cold not open her eyes to watch him leave. She could pretend he was still here, holding her.

"I-I-I-" Her eyes flew open at the sound, and she looked down at him, something akin to horror shooting through her body.

He was speaking to her! Well, at least trying. It was as though something was keeping him from properly forming words. He stumbled through the simple phrase, looking at somewhere at her lap. His hands had fisted into her skirt so tightly Margaret feared he may not be able to let go. But it was his face that intrigued her the most. His eyes were closed, his body tense, and his face contorted to the most extreme look of concentration and determination she had even seen on any person in her life. As though this attempt at words might cost him his life. In his mind it could very well cost that much, she thought wryly. His pause in speaking ended then, and Margaret noticed how he leaned forward with every attempt at speech, as though he could force the words out. Why was it so difficult for him to speak to her? In that moment, she didn't care why. She didn't care what, or how. She only saw John, valiantly attempting to slay some form of beast that held his tongue and kept him from speaking. She felt as though nothing he would ever do for the rest of their lives, could ever surpass the affection she felt for him in this moment.

"I-I-I'm…s-s-s-" He paused and took a deep breath. "Sor-sorry." Margaret stared at him, shock turning her into stone. He looked up at her then, and she saw his expression mirrored her own. He looked just as stunned as she felt. "I'm s-s-sorry." He said again, so much clearer than before. His expression became somewhat pained, and he looked down, hands freeing themselves from her clothes, and making their way to his head, where he fisted them in his own hair. He fell forward onto his knees then and buried his face in her skirt, rocking back and forth as his body convulsed with sobs.

John burst in the front door of his house feeling more in control of himself than he had in a very long time. He knew what he had to do, what he must do, what he desperately wanted to do. Right now he felt as though he could do it. Maybe if only just for today, because of what had happened, he could fight the demons off and speak to his wife.

The revelation had come while he was in his office at the Mill, as he read the letter. He thought of how much he desperately wanted to go to Margaret and just hold her. Touching her was not something he had been able to do since before he lost the ability to speak to her. Something that crept up to him gradually, hiding its presence until it was too late, and John no longer had the ability to fight it off. So he succumbed to his helplessness, cherishing the touches they secretly shared in the night. He scoffed at himself. Secretly shared touches? As though he was hiding the fact that he was still desperately in love with her from himself.

Well, it was a startlingly accurate description.

It was this logic that drove him out of his chair, and towards his home. He could never think about Margaret this long without…well he didn't understand what. All he knew was that it hadn't started yet. And he felt…liberated. As though he had fooled himself and gotten away with it. Now he was free to seek her out.

Just so long as he didn't let himself find out what he was doing.

"M-mm-m-mmm-mistress?" he barely managed to get out the servant he stumbled across. She looked at him as though his hair had suddenly caught fire before pointing down the hallway.

"In the sitting room Master." She squeaked before hurrying out of his way, seemingly terrified of him. He found he didn't blame her. He forced himself not to sprint to the door he was looking for, but hesitated once he reached it. There was so much running through his mind, but he willed himself not to think, and simply to act. If he acted, he wouldn't know, and if he didn't know, then he could see Margaret.

She was sitting on the settee calm and expressionless, looking off into the distance. If she heard him enter, which she surely did, she made no attempt to acknowledge him. But he didn't care. He never acknowledged her either. He made his way towards her, trying not to focus on the way that her outfit (a dark blue skirt with a white blouse he had seen her wear many times before) hung from her form, the darkness under her eyes, and the way her hair simply hung there in a very simple but loose bun. How had he not seen what had been happening before his very eyes? He had been so blinded that he was completely ignorant of her wasting away in front of him. The first prickling of warning in the back of John's mind made him anxious. Not now, not after he had only just gotten here!

He shoved the offending feeling away, kneeling in front of his wife and trying to catch her eye, but she looked away, and he was left staring at her cheek. He couldn't let himself know, he couldn't let himself know! John looked down at her hands and saw a letter that, at one point, was probably very similar to his own. Now the ink ran together, blurring each letter into the next, each word into indecipherable nothingness. He pulled the soaked page from her grip, and set it on the floor beside him. The prickling was growing now, and the feeling was spreading through him, but he made himself continue. He had to say it, he had to look her in the eyes and say it. He reached for her, his hands shaking beyond his control, but he wouldn't stop now. Not when he was this close to saying what he had to, not when he would lose this in only a few minutes. John turned her face towards his, and suddenly her eyes were piercing his.

It was growing stronger and more intense with every passing second he was this close to her, and soon he would be gone completely. He clung to this part of himself, desperate to say the words. Margaret's eyes were closed, leaning into his touch, her expression more anguished than it had been before.

"Why are you doing this to me?" She whispered, eyes still closed, tone expressing her torment. The sight of it broke his heart, his hands fell from her face, and as he lost focus and allowed the pain to enter his mind, he made way for the demons. He could sense it now, the battle storming on the edge of his awareness, and he forced himself to speak, fisting his hands into her skirt, desperately trying to stay there with her.

But he could not form the words. He had lost too much control, and his mouth would not move the way he wanted to, would not speak the things he had to say. He tried so many times, never giving up because he had to do this. He would not get the chance to do it again, and already he was quickly running out of time. "I-I-I'm…s-s-s-" He paused and took a deep breath. "Sor-sorry." Margaret's eyes snapped open, and she stared at him incredulously. He had done it! Very badly, but he had done it. He willed himself to try again before it was too late. "I'm s-s-sorry." The war in his mind was progressing, tearing him apart, and forcing pain and disquiet upon him. He couldn't take it anymore. He felt his control slipping away, even as he still tried to fight it off. But he knew it was hopeless. It was a battle he had lost many many times, and he would lose it this time as well.

He barely noticed the tears falling, or very much afterwards. He clung to Margaret for as long as he could still take comfort from her, wishing he could speak. 'I'm sorry.' He thought miserably. 'Oh God, I'm so sorry.' He was sorry for everything. Sorry for their marriage, for her dilapidated life, for himself. He was sorry for his insanity. He was sorry for everything. He could only hope that she understood what he was saying, because he knew now that he could not say it again. He could not tell her how much he loved her. How much he wished he was normal. That this monster in his mind would leave. Especially now. Now that shared a sort of kinship, a similarity that neither wanted but had nonetheless.

Now they were both fatherless.

A/N: Hello everyone! So wow, what a response to that last chapter! I understand that a lot of you were quite unhappy with the plot twist. Well….I can honestly say that I believe its because you don't understand it yet. I could have just told you, but I think that would take the thrill and mystery of reading a story away completely. So before you all throw stones at me, just know that it's not what you believe it is. Not a single one of you who reviewed with a guess (which were very amazing, thank you by the way) were correct, although some were very close.

Yes it is very very dark right now. That's the problem with being in John's perspective. He's losing his mind, it's going to be dark. I know some of you don't like it, and I'm sorry for that, but that's the way it has to be for now. I don't really enjoy writing things so dark all the time, it will stop soon actually. It's very challenging to write from John's perspective right now, and I'm sure you can understand why: it doesn't make any sense. Why? Because John's mind doesn't make any sense right now. Even he doesn't understand it.

I know this will be confusing for a lot of you, and I'll try to answer any questions you have regarding the story as quickly as I can.

A big thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, all twenty-four of you! Woo! And I look forward to hearing more from you =D Even if you still don't like it.