A/N: Ok real talk – I'm currently working on 3 chapter fics, so when I update one, I kind of forget which one it was; and I lose track of time between updates – sorry! (I don't know who I'm apologising to, no one reads my stuff, but vibes ig – makes me feel better)
This is a shorter chapter; or, as I like to call it: the length I had intended all the chapters to be…
The halls of Misselthwaite were abandoned when a lonely knock rang through them. Neither the bustle in the kitchen, nor the footsteps of servants beginning their day reached this part of the house.
When Archibald opted to open the door himself, he was relieved to find his son lying before him; and what a peaceful thing he was. His dark hair framed his sleeping face like a halo, the hollow of his cheeks growing almost holy by the dim glow of the candle the master had carried with him. It cast dancing shadows on the wall as he placed it on the bedside table.
He sat down quietly, pensively, in the chair intended for the nurse, or the doctor, or whomever was charged with looking after the boy at any given moment.
At that moment, it was him.
The father.
He stayed silent, watching his son's sleeping form as he tuned into the sound of his soft, restful breaths. As he did so, his own breathing fell in rhythm with the boy's; and he calmed. Just enough doubt seeped through his finger tips, telling him to stay; so he looked around the low lit room for something that may tell him what next he should do.
The walls were dark, the blinds shut up tightly; but the sight did not disturb him. It was rather comforting to embrace the surreal stillness of a late morning not yet disrupted. The flicker of the faint glow remaining in the fireplace was like a heartbeat, and Archibald could have sworn he heard his own as he watched it swell, reaching ever so gently up – up toward the mantle. And his eyes followed the trail of smoke which passed within the walls, just behind the portrait he knew was concealed behind that slightly-faded rose-coloured curtain he had had put up nearly a lifetime ago. His gaze rested upon it, his head falling, an inquisitive hand brushing across his cheek as he thought of the woman hidden there as he pondered what else he could do.
What would Lilias want him to do?
Archibald lowered his gaze dejectedly, his eyes falling upon a stack of books on the bedside table. Something in him told him that this was what he needed. Thus, he studied the top volume, observed it was a collection of Celtic tales, then began to read aloud.
Time dispersed into the air as he got lost in the stories, passing around him like wind as the damp room warmed up ever so slightly with the help of the few persistent rays of the rising sun that managed to creep in.
And Colin did not awaken.
The boy slept soundly, so soundly that he began to mumble as he curled further into the sheets. The sound jostled Archibald. He checked the time and stood to leave, returning the book to its former home.
He dared to look back, however, assuring himself that his son was not in distress. He bore the face of a dreamer, resting in peace.
Archibald, assured of his contentment, thought he looked almost beautiful with half of a smile softening his features. The sight ignited a blaze in his heart, and such produced a small smile upon his own sunken visage.
His son looked well – mayhaps not as healthy as he should be, but well enough to alleviate the last bit of fear for the child that lurked in the back of his mind.
This change was not enough to convince the master to remain at Misselthwaite Manor, but it was enough to make him second guess himself. He had told his brother he would not be returning, but now he knew he could not stay away forever.
Colin needed him.
But he needed time away.
So, Archibald decided he would have one final chance to lose himself abroad, a few months to clear away the cobwebs and ghosts in the summer heat. Then, he could return in the autumn, wholly, as the master of his house – as the father Lilias had wanted him to be.
This plan consumed him, filling him with courage enough to risk placing his hand lightly upon his son's brow as he mumbled, "I love you… my– Colin."
One may have supposed that the Baron stood somewhat straighter as he walked out of the room, his walking stick making no sound from the lack of its typical burden. However, this added lightness did nothing to hinder the perception of the other solitary figure he encountered in the corridor; and her face revealed such none too plainly.
"Mary, what are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry, Uncle Archie! I–" she cut off abruptly, trying to hide her expression by studying her shoes. Her brow furrowed in what was presumably fear, though it may have been guilt as well.
"You haven't done anything wrong, my dear child," he replied. He checked his tone, wanting to be sure she knew he spoke sincerely.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide in surprise. "But Doctor Craven said I wasn't supposed to see Colin anymore because then he won't get better."
"I am no doctor," Archibald began in reply, kneeling down to meet his niece on more equal terms, "but I believe he is doing better than my brother acts; "– she smirked at this comment, and he pretended not to notice – "but as his father, I think I have the authority to overlook this visit of yours."
"So you won't tell the doctor?"
He placed a hand upon her shoulder, then leaned in conspiratorially and said, "it will be our secret."
"I will be away for a while," he added, standing with more ease than he had anticipated, "do look after Colin until I return."
Mary smiled, her hazel eyes now shimmering even in the darkness of the corridor. She ran back toward her uncle as he made to leave, and Archibald supposed she wanted to embrace him; but at the last second, she reached out her hand instead.
"Thank you, Uncle Archie."
He smiled through a contented sigh.
When she once again turned away, he quickly made his way to the front steps, his carriage in waiting. He walked with lighter steps, though it was not owing to his attempt to slip out unnoticed. He had chosen his path deliberately so as to avoid meeting any servants; this foreign lightness was more natural.
His spirits had been lifted by the unfamiliar warmth called pride which was beginning to spread through him.
He had gone to see his son. Even if the boy had not awoken, Archibald had risked such to say farewell. And he spoke with the girl (whom he kept forgetting was in his care) and had made her smile, had matter those eyes sparkle like the ones he had once known so well; and he had even made a promise to her and to himself.
No matter what, he would be returning.