A/N: I'm honestly enjoying writing these probably more than I should; I hope anyone reading feels the same.
I know this is a tiny fandom, so any love you can give would be much appreciated
- Jillian xx
The click of the key falling into place resounded in the cool mist of the crisp Yorkshire morning. Archibald held back the dew-covered ivy as he pushed open the door to the garden.
The sun was just peeking out over the horizon, yet the man was not surprised in the least when, upon entering, his eyes landed on the slim frame of his wife.
She was smiling at him, her golden curls radiating in the first light of the day, her skirts rustling in the wind as she ran to embrace her husband who was still standing in the doorway.
Her whole figure seemed to glow whenever he saw her inside their private Eden.
"Good morning, my love," her voice chimed, delicate and filled with love.
"Gor morning, my sweet," Archibald murmured into his pillow, still slightly possessed by his dream.
His eyes opened, and they struggled to adjust to the bright light pouring into his chambers – he'd forgotten to draw the curtains closed again.
The Baron had grown so accustomed to sleepless nights in his youth that he had learned to seek comfort in the pale moonlight; it was a welcome visitor during the hours he spent trying to find again the peace of sleep. In days gone by, the pain which kept him awake was in his back – it was physical – and could be alleviated with medication; there was no way to tame the pain in his heart that kept him awake now.
Facing away from the window, Archibald's gaze was instead met with the cold, empty sheets on her side of the bed.
Reality was a chill, biting into his skin, penetrating deep, despite the warm, oppressive air of the season.
He was surrounded by memories; everywhere he'd turn, he would see her face – hear her voice – guiding him along the endless days, until the blissful nights when he could close his eyes and hold her in his arms once more.
Each evening, Archibald would tell himself that she wasn't really gone – she couldn't be. It was all a nightmare, and one day he'd wake up to her sparkling hazel eyes smiling at him, taste her lips on his own, feel her warmth in his arms.
Bu, every morning (since that day, and evermore) he'd turn and find the other half of this bed abandoned – permanently – each time feeling like a piece of his already-shattered heart was breaking off and falling away into the pit of his sorrows.
Forcing himself out of bed, he dressed, mechanically going through the motions of making himself look much more put-together than he currently felt.
He splashed water on his face, hoping to shake himself from that half-waking stupor of being stuck in one's own mind.
No matter what he tried, he couldn't escape that feeling: it was his life now.
Since that dreadful day, Archibald had begun taking breakfast in his chambers in an effort to limit the amount of people he was forced to interact with.
However, the doctor had taken to joining him, so as to assure his elder brother was not completely shutting himself out of society, as he knew Archibald wished to do.
Perhaps it was also to help himself; after all, Neville was also grieving a lost love, but Archibald would never acknowledge that.
No one could possibly hurt like he was: to lose the only person who made him feel he truly belonged in such a cruel world – that was loneliness. And that was a feeling the sociable Dr. Craven would not be able to understand.
or so he thought
The brothers ate in an awkward silence, one that served as some comfort to Archibald; it reminded him of a simpler time, a time before he ever met Lilias.
The isolation of his younger days was a content alternative to the ridicule of society, but now those long-ago days were a blessing the widower wished he could get back.
He may have felt lonely then, but at least he felt alive.
Now, he didn't feel anything; he felt like a background character in a story, left to be forgotten – his life wasn't real. Everything that happened to him was completely out of his control, and no one cared enough to try to mend it.
"Archie," shattering the silence, "please can we talk about how you are feeling?"
The man in question closed his eyes and sighed, leaning his head on the back of the settee, as though overcome with a migraine, in an attempt to quiet his bothersome little brother.
"I'm worried about you… we're worried about you," gesturing to the whole of the room so as to imply his statement was about the household staff.
"Then let them go," Archibald grumbled, "with a pension or something to keep them from worrying until they find new employment."
The doctor began losing patience.
"While you mope about up here feeling sorry for yourself, the rest of the house has moved on. There are things to do, rooms to look after–"
"Shut up the rooms, then. No one will be coming to stay here anymore. Li– she was the entertainer, the one who brought life into our miserable home."
Lilias's name seemed to catch in his throat, causing his last thought to be more choked out than spoken.
"I know you want to help, but you can't. My life feels too much like a dream that I can't wake from, no matter how hard you try to shake me."
"So you admit to dreaming about her?" Neville interrogated in response, "that's not healthy."
"Good God, Neville, not everyone grieves the same! My wife is– my wife–" reflecting a moment, unable to finish the sentence, fearing it would bring reality crashing down upon him, "stop trying to psychoanalyze me like one of those new patients of yours in London – at least you still have a life outside of Yorkshire."
Somewhat flustered, but severely frustrated, Neville shot up out of his seat.
"Forgive me for trying to help! By all means, rot in here if you'd prefer, just like your wife is now in the ground," he walked across the room, "because she's dead!" emphasizing the word Archibald had been unable to utter by slamming to door behind him, shaking the chandelier above the abandoned breakfast dishes.