Title: What Remains Is Not Enough

Author: Celia Caws

Genre: romance/angst

Rating: PG

A/N: This has probably been done before, but this is my idea of when Ivy faked stumbling to get Lucius' attention, as referred to in the film. Perhaps I could've been more light and airy about it, but is there really anything airy where Lucius (ah, Lucius….) is involved? Too much intensity for airiness, right? Anyway, please leave a review, this is my first Ivy and Lucius story.

Ivy's life had not been left unmarked by tragedy—at the age of eight, after months of blurred outlines and sudden periods of darkness, her sight went and did not return.

And there were too, those little tragedies of childhood that seemed petty but were not forgotten—John Willoughby calling Noah a name and she, quite sadly and with the greatest regret, being forced to trip him. The day she and Kitty quarreled and Kitty actually won the argument.

That night, sitting on the edge of her bed, wide awake long after she had been sent to bed, when she heard her father's voice say a thing she would hold in pained remembrance forever. "This may be a place for…forgiveness, but forgiving one's self is not so easy. I am amazed by Ivy's courage—but my heart broke the day she went blind. I have never felt so ashamed." His voice had been scratchy, rough with his emotion—so delicately, calmly expressed but with such pain. Ivy even then knew she would never quite forgive herself for breaking her own father's heart. Indeed, she thought of his pain in those first months long after she had wholly forgotten her own.

For being blind, so much considered a pitiable thing, was not the tragedy that it was made out to be. Ivy was much more frightened in the time leading up to when her eyes gave out completely—she imagined that somehow the world itself would no longer exist for her once it ceased to be seen by the eye. But the world remained and she saw it still in its purity. Splashes of color…

The courage that her father spoke of, and her cheerfulness, her playful character—these things all created an illusion that Ivy's tragedies were unfelt by herself. Her smile was warm and her eyes were dancing and then, thought the elders, how could she still feel her loss? No creature more joyous, the doctor would tell himself reassuringly as he rolled over uncomfortably on another sleepless night. No, he should not feel guilty. Yes, of course, it was the right thing to settle here, to live in this village, not with regret for the past—but gratitude, for the present.

People often make the mistake of thinking that lighthearted people take things lightly and indeed, Ivy's blindness was not a thing she would ever lie awake over. The only true tragedy Ivy would feel in her life would come much later. But her lightheartedness, her innocence did not mean she did not care—deeply. She cared for Kitty, Kitty was her own dearest sister. She cared for the little ones, and for Mother, for Papa, always.

But never had she felt such an endless, deep and constant passion as she did for a boy that barely spoke. When he did speak, his voice was low, unobtrusive. Even as a child when Ivy screamed and ran and jumped and played as did all the others. Lucius was different. Lucius remained still, thoughtful. Some of the other children whispered about his strangeness. They giggled as they played and he only worked, only watched. But it was only Lucius that saw Ivy trip one day, and it was only Lucius who came to her, who took her waist and arm and lifted her body before she could even fall. But even Lucius could not prevent the odd angle of her foot as it collided with the earth and so there was another minor tragedy—Ivy sprained her ankle.

Ivy did not care for her ankle. She would've broken both ankles clean in half if it would make Lucius touch her once more. She was a child and so it couldn't have been love. She knew this. This was why she did not speak of the thing with that known innocent way she usually had of saying whatever came to her mind. It remained locked inside her chest, pressing on her. Lucius, Lucius, Lucius… there were days she would only wish to hear his name spoken aloud by another person. "Lucius is a wonderful worker…" "I'm worried about Lucius, he never stops working…" The mere sound of his name. The things she could understand, from what they said. And the glow of warmth whenever her father said he approved of him.

And he did touch her again. He watched her, too. Glimpses of his color remained permanently on the edges of her world. A lone, blurred outline of the color she knew was his—behind her as she ran up a hill, watching as she played hide and go seek with Noah. He was never idle—even as a small boy, he worked and worked hard, never seeming to tire. Or at any rate, never seeming to mind the feeling of tiredness. So when she caught him looking, it was always a surprise. Lucius had left the carpentry? Only because she'd gone beyond the rock? Whenever she and Noah flitted out of sight, he was to be found, speaking calmly to Noah—speaking almost not at all to Ivy.

But when she was near him, he betrayed himself. He reached for her arm as she walked, as though she had not walked with a cane these three years, after the ankle had healed. When Noah turned his back to search for the rabbit he swore he saw dashing beyond the bushes, Lucius's fingers brushed along the inside of her palm—had Noah been gone a moment longer, Ivy felt sure he would've taken her hand in his.

Anxious for this to happen, she stole into his presence whenever she could. Ivy managed to do her chores near him, to walk past his mother's house, or to speak to him—hopefully, teasingly, secretly—several times a week. Soon there were smiles whenever the two children stood near each other, Lucius gazing at her as though struck and Ivy bouncing on her toes and saying the most extraordinary things she could think of, the things she thought would make him want to speak in return.

Lucius may not have spoken much but he understood the smiles better than Ivy did. He never took her arm again. He never followed her. He turned his back when she and Noah played, though his heart swelled to join them—he felt certain they would not want him. That Ivy, perplexing wonderful Ivy, did not really want him. She felt sorry for him. He saw the way they smiled and endured the patronizing pats on the head ("Why don't you go and play awhile with Ivy, Lucius? Noah, come here, you mother wants you a moment") until he could stand it no longer. He would not go to Ivy if Ivy did not want him. The village was small, contained. He could still be watchful, he could still protect her.

Ivy saw immediately when he evaded her and tried to avoid the usual places she and Noah went to play. It made her reckless, more reckless than girls should be, and she went wild, doing every thing she could think of that was dangerous. Would he not see her? Would he not follow her if she loudly told anyone that might be listening that yes, she, Ivy Walker, planned to stand on the stump and wait for Those We Do Not Speak Of? Perhaps he knew she would not, for fear of disappointing Papa.

She knew she was not the little lady she ought to be. Perhaps Lucius wanted someone who did not speak so much or so freely, someone daintier and more delicate. When she thought of this, she knew it could not be true—she knew that his was love she could believe in and a loyalty she could trust, and then, then she ran faster and more like a boy.

One day, despite his own actions to the contrary, Ivy and Lucius found themselves alone. One was almost never alone in the village. There were always people, activity, voices, laughter—work to be done. Never such stillness like this. Never such an air made thick with words he choked to say aloud. "Ivy, I've never…" "Ivy, you are the most,"

"Ivy."

And then, he knew, a boy of only thirteen, he must and would look at her. He did, he looked her full in the face but still it was no good, now he must see how her eyes were so bright, her face so shining, her pure, beautiful face. Her red hair.

But her eyes were brighter than usual. In fact, they were brimming with tears. This, Ivy knew, was the last of something. She did not know quite what Lucius was always thinking, but she always had the general idea. And she felt him turning away from her…she smiled, as tears remained glittering in her eyes—she would not cry…

Lucius came to her, as a tear rolled down the whiteness of her cheek. If nothing else, he would not let her cry. And with clumsy but gentle fingers he ran the fingers of his left hand down through the thick softness of her hair and murmured, in a voice so choked with emotion it was barely recognizable as his, "Don't cry, Ivy."

And she smiled again, wiped her cheek and laughed at her own little tragedy. "I'm not crying, Lucius Hunt. I never cry." And she ran off, looking over her shoulder and laughing. He stared as she went, he watched until he was sure he saw Mr. Walker lift her up into his arms in the distance—shrieks of delight, pretended or not, it was impossible to tell, and only then did he follow.

Days and days later, Ivy paused in her walk home, seeing that glimpse of faded, colored outline she knew was Lucius. Quite convincingly, she took another step forward, cried out and pretended to trip. But this time, she fell. Resting her cheek against the wet grass, she closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of the earth, of the fires in the houses, of the rain and the cooking meat—those smells that were home. Her world remained. Opening her eyes and getting up, she searched for his color. But it was already going, he had stayed long enough to see her clamber up to her feet. The world remained.

But if Lucius would not hold her…

His color vanished from sight.