A/N: Only two more chapters to go and I am severely behind my writing schedule! Oh well, I don't want to force it. (It's just ironic because the first few chapters were literally "1k a day challenge" and then my mental health went "clinical depression meets seasonal affective disorder" and it fell downhill from there…)
When Mister Craven had left Yorkshire the sun was shining brightly. The summer rays easily burnt off the fog that usually hung about the moors at dawn, but as the train trekked along the countryside, the clouds began to grow so that, by the time Archibald arrived at the docks of Southampton, the skies were misty and grey.
The same sun struggled to pierce through the dark canopy, fighting to prevent an eternal night. It filled the day with only just enough light, turning the world monochrome – and making the master's head ache. He spent nearly the whole trip across the channel with his eyes squeezed shut and his hand desperately pinching the bridge of his nose, hoping for some miraculous relief he did not believe existed.
Although the intended destination of his present journey was Italy, he had previously planned to stop in Paris. He prayed now too that such familiarity would do more than a service to break up his travels, but would also relinquish his remnant woes that had returned with the gloomy change of the weather.
Those few days within walls familiar, he hoped, may at last be enough to burn through the ghosts of the past.
He was grateful to end his evenings being lulled to sleep by the distinct sound of carriages clopping upon the cobbled streets – so unlike the quiet, windy nights spent on the moors – as society's elite began their bustling nightlife in the City of Light.
His dreams would mingle with these sounds and transport him, sometimes back to his solitary days of university; or sometimes to days of splendor, when he would willingly parade about Town with the love of his life on his arm.
Whilst other women demanded the most fashionable dresses, the gaudiest of jewels, the plushest of furs, Lilias would laugh and skip about the Avenue, indulging in candies and pastries, befriending the flower vendors, and asking to try a new blend of tea purported to have been the favourite of Marie Antoinette.
Her cup filled her with warmth, which filled her eyes with the brilliance of a day in the Valley near Thwaite; and she reminisced upon the trees in the orchards off the kitchen gardens at Misselthwaite – the manor she was already accustomed to calling her home not a month after becoming Baroness.
The steam rose and twirled, dancing between the newlyweds as they dined at home and sampled the tea: notes of apple blossom mingled with rose hips as she thumbed her own blooms in the privacy of their rooftop garden; and he promised to take her to see the Gardens at Versailles before they returned to England.
But, of course, the base of the blend was a black tea from the Ceylon colony; and as vision of Lilias informing him that her brother (as she had taken to calling him, for she was now much closer with he than Rose) had been assigned to a regiment in Bombay, such visions ended abruptly; and Archibald awoke with reluctance, with the weight of his guardianship sat heavily upon his crippled shoulders.
He had hoped to escape the spirits which haunted him, to find some solace on the continent that would not permeate the walls of the ancient manor. However, by the time he set off to Italy, he could feel his soul's spirits falling deeper and deeper, back into the abyss he had fought to free himself from one too many times. He was falling blind, and he was tired.
On occasion, he would walk about, allowing himself to feel almost alive beneath the summer sky. He almost thought he felt like a flower; growing and changing with each new day, and he would barely think about how such a comparison would have sounded so natural from his wife's pretty lips. Yet, much like the flowers, he was prone to retreat inwardly if the sun disappeared for too long.
The nights were like weeks, and the rain clouds shrouded an eternity; but Lord Craven was still ready to fight them away. Somewhere, locked within his darkened heart, was that strong desire to live, so much like the dormant bulbs he supposed still lay untouched within the earth he used to find joy in tending. Without Lilias there to assist him, to keep him company, to clear away his storm clouds, such amusements had lost their splendor.
And the door was locked.
What use is it to put in the work to keep things alive when you know they will all just eventually die? Are we not all just stumbling toward the same end?
Italy was safer. It had no longer held the memories of better days; just lonely nights. It felt more like his former home, with its fields and valleys, the quivering of the water reminiscent of the sea of heather he grew up nestled within.
He would walk aimlessly, closing his eyes. And sometimes, he pretended he was back in Yorkshire – and a feeling of not-quite nostalgia would pass across his eyes. The feeling was brief, fleeting; but it would come.
One marvel of a day, he had walked so far that, when he returned, the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver. The golden sun had long since set, draping him in another endless night. The light of the moon reflected off the slate lake; and, as he sat upon the low lawn, Archibald watched these sparkles glitter and shake whenever a particularly full gust of wind blew. And he breathed in this rough, clean, warm air, filling his lungs as he shut his eyes and thought.
His mind wandered on its own, drifting to his son. He had no way of knowing that, at this moment – just like him – his son sat up, staring at the moon and thinking about Lilias. Archibald had supposed instead that the boy was sleeping, hopefully undisturbed by the "fits" the servants would whisper about when they did not know their master was around – tantrums that his brother always conveniently neglected to include in his letters.
The air carried to him scents of roses – petals of the past – from the bushes that bloomed freely along the banks, and he was reminded of the ones hidden within their stone prison, mayhaps still fighting to survive. They offered a bittersweet relief; the past days, weeks, months, he had been growing stronger; but he knew, too, that he was not quite ready to fully part with his ghosts.
The strength that had come to him filled his thoughts with a call to the unknown, that sweet, sweet siren beckoning him once again to submit to the satisfying embrace of death. He felt fair drunk on the image of being able to hold Lilias close once more, and nothing else mattered. All hope of happiness had at last been relinquished.
Nay, he realised now that it had long since died – been laid to rest right beside her.
All this he pondered as he looked upon the lake, glistening upon the thoughts of releasing his hold on life itself. He tried to consider what may come of what his niece would call "black magic" – not that he had known she would say such. He was too wrapped up in his melancholia.
The servants would hear a shot; the young footman would be sent to investigate it.
Mr. Pitcher would wire to Misselthwaite; Mrs. Medlock would be the one to inform the doctor.
Neville would don an indifferent black armband whilst running his nephew's estate with conceited ease.
Colin would eventually come of age, blind to the world that weeded out the strangers he knew by the name of "parents" from his life.
And Archibald would be at peace.
Oh, but Mary.
The girl who so much resembled her aunt, who had been the newest addition to the household; whom he knew was getting on well with his son (if her sneaking into his chambers was any indication.) She knew the boy better than his own father.
How he wished he could have been a better father.
How he wished Lilias could have been the mother she once dreamed of becoming.
The lure was intoxicating. It was consuming; and his eyelids grew heavier the more he focused on it, the moon climbing higher and higher.
Archibald felt a chill brush across his shoulders. Then, an even gentler warmth quickly took its place, engulfing his whole being, his mind, his spirit.
The lake hardly made a sound anymore as the water gently rapped upon the soft grass at his feet. He thought he heard a voice – his name? – an echo of the past. His eyes were still fixed upon the moon. Or, perhaps it was her reflection calling. Calling out to him, calling him – where? He tried to speak, but hardly a murmur sounded in the still night air.
But the enveloping warmth remained, and grew as he continued to wordlessly move his lips. And his heart burned. It blazed. It ached with desire and guilt, grief and hope bundled together and twisting through his veins, squeezing the fire into every crevice it could find, not stopping until his whole body ignited.
It grew so hot he felt cold; yet it was blissfully different from the numbness he had grown accustomed to in the last ten years.
His eyes darted around the purple skies, following constellations and forging fantastical new ones as the corners of his vision grew blurry, grew dark.
Black
Everything was turning black; and he felt so warm, so light – and the moon shone so bright. He was cold.
A whisper – a name – but from whose lips it came? – he still knew not. He hardly knew he had been lulled to sleep by that familiar siren's call, until he awoke, burning under the late summer sun as it peeked over the horizon.