eight.
All the things we should've done that we never did
Somehow, he does not quite remember how exactly, they end up on the cool concrete floor of the garage, him propped up against the wall, her wrapped up in his arms.
She is breathing steadily, and all worries Tom might have had about the cold or the dirt or the fact that she is a lady and sitting on the floor of a garage is not really something she does, disappear. It is all about her in this moment, about the sheer fact that it is him who gets to hold her in this moment, that he will cherish until the end of his days.
They exchange quiet words, hushed whispers, apologies and words that mean nothing to nobody. Tom begins to wonder why no one has sent out a search party yet, why no lanterns are bobbing up and down in the darkness of the grounds outside. The thought that no one seems to miss Sybil at this time of night stirs up the anger and sadness that he hides beneath a layer of respect and dignity.
"I think he knows," Sybil murmurs quietly, breaking the silence of the night that is wrapped around them as tightly as a cocoon.
"Knows what?" Tom asks, no need to specify whom they are talking about.
"That I am not...," she continues, and he can see that her eyes have fallen shut, long lashes against pale skin, "That my heart does not belong to him. And never will."
Tom pulls her a little closer to him, the breeze from outside much cooler than he thought, and he can feel goose bumps covering her skin beneath his fingers. It pains him to say the next words, to think the thought that is associated with them. To look the painful truth in the eye that this is all there will ever be, that she will leave again, that she is someone else's wife now.
"Do you really think it never will?"
"Not like this," she whispers, resting her hand on Tom's chest, feeling his heart beating softly beneath her touch.
Maybe, he thinks for a moment, he should feel guilty or sad for chaining her to his heart. But when she leans up to brush her lips against his cheek, he knows he never did it on purpose. That he would return her heart gladly if only she could be happy again.
"Is he good to you?" he asks, forehead leaning against the top of her head. The desire to talk about her husband – the man whose place he should have had – is small, but he simply must know if there is any chance for the carefree laughter to return to Sybil's lips that he remembers from those early days before the war. Back when their world had been much simpler than now.
"Yes," she answers quietly, but with a sense of tired determination, "He truly is, Tom. I don't want you to worry about me."
He is about to interrupt her, to tell her that he never does anything else, but she raises her hand slowly, and he lets his words die on his tongue.
"I never get to... speak my mind, really," Sybil continues wearily, "Not the way I used to with you. But I am glad he lets me speak at all, and in his mind, he is doing everything in his might to make me happy."
"But not in your mind."
"He is not you," she replies quietly, but the words sound so sincere as if she stated the most simple truth in the world, "I don't love him like I love you. He won't ever let me discuss with him the way we used to discuss the vote. Do you remember that?"
pamphlets, stolen glances, crowds, laughs, her body in his arms, blood, despair, hope, secrets, blue
"Of course. I'll never forget that."
"Sometimes I believe I'm nothing but a naïve fool. And always have been."
"Don't say that," Tom says rather harshly, shocked and pained by her confession."You are brave, and strong. I love you all the more for it."
"I just don't see why he loves me. Loving someone but knowing that person will never love you back, where is the point in that? I feel terrible for putting him in this position. It does not matter how hard he tries."
Again, like earlier, Tom is faced with the truth that she is not his, and that she, like him, should be allowed to find happiness elsewhere, if the world were a better place.
"Are you really sure about that?"
Sybil raises her head to look at him, eyes tired and cheeks flushed.
"I will come to love him. One day. When there is no more room in me to fight and scream. Maybe I will be happy then."
"I wish you knew how much I want to make you truly happy."
Tears are gathering in her eyes again as the hopelessness of his words lingers between them. She reaches out to wrap her hand around his shoulder. Their lips meet softly, and Tom's own fingers curl in the silky back of her dress, desperate to have her closer to him, as close as he possibly can.
"If only we could," Sybil whispers as they part, lips inches apart, her breath damp on his prickling skin, "Make each other happy. I broke your heart and for that I am sorry."
"I don't want you to be sorry, Sybil. I am certainly not."
Tom's voice breaks a little as he cups her cheek in his free hand, brushing away a stray tear with his thumb as her eyelids fall close.
"You love me back, and that is all I can ask for in this wretched world."
Words become unnecessary after this, silence wrapping them up once again. Their eyes never part, not for one moment.
"It will change, won't it?" Sybil asks, lost in thought, and Tom kisses her temple as she speaks, "Maybe when I'm old I will remember how the world used to be, and how you were the one to make me see what it could be. How much more to life there is."
.
.
Sybil quietly returns to her room as the night stretches on. It does not surprise her to find Vincent sitting on the edge of their bed, still tidily made, him still in his suit.
"I was worried," he says simply as she shuts the door, feeling the warmth of the crackling fire seep into her bones.
"I am sorry. I forgot the time."
Avoiding Vincent's gaze, Sybil crosses the room to sit on the familiar chair in front of the dressing table. Even in the dim light she can see how pale she looks, how red her eyes still shimmer from the weight of long withheld tears.
Her cold fingers fumble with her earrings as Vincent stands ups from the bed, taking off his jacket.
"There is something we need to talk about, Sybil."
"Really now? I am rather tired," Sybil asks hesitantly, the second earring dropping into her palm.
"Yes, now," Vincent answers determinedly, standing behind her, their eyes meeting in the framed mirror. Sybil remembers the days when she had looked into this mirror and saw a young girl, days when Anna fixed her hair, days when she herself adjusted her nurse's cap. Looking into the hurt face of her husband now, it all seems like a century ago.
"I want nothing more than for you to be happy, darling."
"But I am," Sybil reassures him as she pulls the pearl necklace over her head, fearing the direction this conversation is threatening to take.
"Don't lie to me," Vincent says harshly as soon as the words have left Sybil's lips, and when he takes hold of her shoulders to pull her around to face him, she sees more anger in his eyes than she has ever seen in them before, "Don't ever lie to me, do you understand?"
Sybil knows there is no reason for her to be afraid, and Vincent's hands almost instantly drop from her shoulders to rest gently on her forearms, but she can not erase the image of the raging anger and frustration in his eyes. She nods shortly, taking a shuddering intake of breath.
"I know you do not feel for me the way I do," Vincent continues, his voice softer, more like himself, "I can't seem to figure out why. There is nothing I can do, I know that and it pains me."
Sybil wonders of she made him like this. Angry, sad, frustrated. Is it entirely her fault, or is he simply another product of a generation that seems to have lost track in the world?
"Please don't say that."
The words slip past her lips before Sybil has time to think about them. Too long has the fear rested on her shoulders that she is destroying this caring person with so much love for her. To see the reality seems too much for tonight, nothing she can face in this hour.
The impact of her words almost instantly drains the room of all its warmth. Raising to his full height, Vincent lets go of her arms, broadening his shoulders.
"I can not make you love me, and I have no desire to do so. It isn't something I can ask of you. But loyalty is. You are my wife, Sybil."
His voice is almost cold. Deliberate, and Sybil knows when she is given an order.
"I am sorry if I am a disappointment to you," she says into the semi-darkness of the room, lost for words but unable to fight the urge to apologize.
Something in the sound of her voice seems to soften Vincent. He kneels down in front of her, taking her hands in his own.
"You could never be that. I don't understand you," he whispers, and Sybil wonders how much it costs him to say all this, "But I do not blame you for that. For any of it. I owe you so much. I owe you my life, and I have so much gratitude for you, I have no right not to forgive you."
"Is that why you married me? Because you are grateful?"
For some reason she can not grasp, the connection between their hopeless marriage and the memory of his blood coating her hands and apron as she watched the shrapnel being pulled out of his side infuriates her. It mingles two lives that could not be further apart, disgraces the one and gives no value to the other.
"I married you because I love you, Sybil. Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. What I don't understand is why you married me."
Silence surrounds them as neither of them knows what to say. Too many things can not be said, must never come to light, yet fight to be revealed in the hours of darkness.
"I am so sorry. For everything," Sybil finally whispers weakly, resting her hand on Vincent's arm. He does not respond for a long time, the night dark and heavy around them. Finally, as the clock ticks away the time in a steady rhythm, he nods softly, wrapping his fingers around her hand again.
.
.
They are sitting on the back-seat of the Renault, Sybil's head resting against his chest. Her fingers are sprawled across his chest, feeling his heart beat steadily underneath her touch.
Almost as if in a dream, he kisses the top of her head, pulls her a little closer into his side. If it is only these fleeting moment they will get, both of them want to make the most of it.
Still, there is one question Tom has to ask, no matter how much he wishes he could simply stay silent in this moment for as long as possible.
"There is one thing, which I never understood and it keeps running through my mind."
"What is it?"
"Why did you marry him?
Sybil stiffens a little in his arms, the movement of her fingers halting, but she does not retreat.
"Please don't ask that," she whispers, resting her cheek on top of his heart now, arm wrapping around his chest.
"Why ever not?"
It takes a while for her to answer, quiet minutes that pass with gentle touches and calm breaths.
"Because... It makes me so terribly angry."
"Angry with whom?"
"Myself. Him. Everyone. Matthew even, some days."
He is sure this is the first time she has ever spoken about this to anyone, and, feeling her slip away into anger and despair, grasps her hand in his, their fingers intertwining so naturally, he can hear the bitter sweet sound of his breaking heart.
"But why did you do it?"
"Strange how it was always you who knew all the answers," she says with a bitter chuckle echoing in the aftermath of her voice.
"Not this time. I could have understood if you had simply chosen not to marry me. If you had proven me wrong in my assumption that you felt the same for me as I do for you. But everything you gave up for it, I never understood what made you do it."
This time she does retreat, pulls out of their embrace slowly. But her hands stays firmly within his, and she is sitting so close, he can still feel her breath fanning across his skin.
"You once told me that the war was going to change the world. And it did. But when Matthew died... My world did not change," she whispers, and he remembers his proposal, remembers promises he made that he could never have kept, "It fell apart. It's all going to shatter in front of my eyes one day. My family. Everything I knew. It's ending, right this minute. And I could not be responsible for more destruction. Who am I to take what little hope there is left?"
"So you did it for them? To please them?" he asks, a suspicion he has made long ago, but never really believed. Sybil. Fiery Sybil. Then again, has it not always been her family that was most dearest to her?
"Not to please, exactly," she sighs, resting her head against his shoulder, "But with it all coming to an end... Tom, they find so much comfort in knowing me secure."
He hesitates, but he has to know. Has to know if all the sacrifices she has made, all the pain he has endured since then, have been worth it.
"Do you regret it? You must have known it would be like this."
She kisses his neck softly, and he can feel the silent, warm tears against his skin.
"Every day. I regret it every single moment of my life."
.
.
"What will you do?" Sybil asks wearily, hating the thought of Tom chained to this life, chained to fading memories of her.
"Hand in my notice soon," he answers more quietly than suits him, burying his hands in the pockets of his uniform, "I suppose I owe them some time to find a replacement, after running off last time. And then, I have a war to fight. A cause."
"Please be careful."
Sybil's voice threatens to break as she remembers newspaper headlines and her clenching heart over breakfast each morning. She could not bear for him to suffer such a fate.
"I'll try. And who knows. Maybe one day, when I am old and grey, and the world has changed, if even just a little bit, I'll remember an English lady who should be sitting by my side."
They never say goodbye. It seems redundant. Their lips part achingly, fingertips brushing over skin, memorizing the soft touch before time would alter it beyond recognition.
Tom watches her as she walks up towards the big house. Her steps are slow and minimal in the dark, his breath ragged, eyes prickling and throat aching.
He knows there is more to life than a broken heart, he does. But as he closes his eyes to shut out the world for a moment, the pain feels so all consuming he wonders why it is still beating at all.
But finally, letting go does not feel like betrayal to him any more.
Only one more part left, and I am very anxious to hear what you all think.