Author's Note: Thanks to all who reviewed! You were very gracious. As promised, I'm now continuing with chapter 3. The perspective—Gilbert's--is one that I've not really written from before, so let me know what you think. As always, I own nothing.
Lilies of the Valley
Chapter 3—"Anne?"
For the first time in several hours—or was it several days?—Gilbert was resting quietly. Almost. His body was finally too weary to answer to his mind's delusions. His fever was so high. Somewhere subconsciously, Gilbert knew that his condition was very, very serious. The fever would have to break soon, or he'd die. Normal, practical Gilbert knew that this was true, and he didn't balk at it.
But then, the fevered, delirious Gilbert was torn; on one hand, not wanting to leave the earth and the wonderful things in it, and on the other hand wishing that he'd started dying much, much sooner.
Anne was in his delusions now. Before, Gilbert had only dreamed of her, and now she was here. Or, at least, he thought she was here. Practical Gilbert knew that this was impossible; therefore, he knew he must be dying. But if this was the end, then he didn't mind at all.
Because of the way the Blythe home was built, everything that went on in the kitchen could be heard with crystal clarity in Gilberts' room. After twenty-five years, he was well able to identify each and every sound. That was what caused this, his sweetest hallucination, to seem so real.
The kitchen door had opened suddenly. Gilbert thought nothing of it until he heard his mother exclaim,
"Anne Shirley!"
Anne? Anne was here? Gilbert didn't believe it until he heard her voice—and then he believed it even less than he had before. Still, he couldn't help but wonder why she'd come, even if it was his hallucination. Dream-Anne was winded and frantic sounding and she spoke so quickly and incoherently that Gilbert couldn't understand a word of what she said.
But there was something in Anne's voice that he had never heard before. Was it…fear?
Yes, yes, it was. Terror, even. Gilbert tensed. Was there something wrong at Green Gables? Was Anne in trouble? Suppose she had come to beg his help—and he was powerless to do anything for her!
But then he heard Anne in a wretched whisper, sounding close to tears when she said:
"Please, Mrs. Blythe, how is he?"
With tremendous effort, Gilbert opened his eyes, hoping that in doing so, this hallucination would end. This really was going too far. Anne coming all the way from Green Gables to ask about him? Not bloody likely!
His eyes closed again, and he began to doze off. His mother's voice was the next to intrude on his dreams.
"Why, Anne Shirley," she cried, aghast. "You're shivering!"
Shivering? Gilbert thought confusedly. Why should Anne be cold? Gilbert felt like he was being boiled alive, and it was July besides.
A loud peal of thunder rattled the windowpane. Oh! Gilbert understood now. It was raining.
Wait…wait.
It was raining! And Anne—if indeed Anne was really here—had come here on foot from Green Gables? She'd catch her death of pneumonia! He could see her now; pale and gaunt, struggling for breath, sicker than he was himself.
With strength that he didn't know he possessed, Gilbert pushed himself up on his elbow. He had to make sure that Anne was alright. He needed to see the healthy glow on her cheeks and the fire in her eyes. He had to see her, had to make sure she was dry and warm and…and…
The nurse looked up, and in the next instant, she'd crossed the room and was fussing at Gilbert. Again.
"No," he said thickly as the nurse tried to push him back down. "You don't understand. I have to—"
"Have to nothing," the nurse scolded, frowning as she felt Gilbert's forehead. Her lips formed a thin, taut line. "Hush, now. You need rest."
Rest! Gilbert thought scornfully. He needed anything but rest. He'd been lying here long enough. But he fell back on his pillow and closed his eyes. He was so sick of watching the room spin.
He began to dream again. Anne was still there. If only he could die now, with her voice the last thing he heard in life, he'd surely be happy.
His mother asked Anne something about Redmond, but Gilbert was too tired to listen. He fell asleep, finally, thinking about Anne at a dance, wearing that beautiful rosebud dress, and flowers in her hair…
The fever burned hotter.
--
Timidly, Anne reached for Gilbert's hand. She'd been watching him for half an hour, during which time he'd never moved. Anne had begun to fear for his life all over again. She felt his forehead. It was hot. Tiny beads of sweat matted the hair on his forehead and temples. She swept it aside gently.
Anne heard the door open.
"What can I do?" She asked quietly. Her eyes never left Gilbert's face.
--
The end was very near, Gilbert knew. He could feel it. The fever was taking over, taking control. And if he did live, would his kin ever feel normal again? It was so hot, so sensitive. Would everything he touched from now on melt or turn to ash? He wondered idly. Then he felt something…something cool and smooth and pleasant in his hand. But he could not grasp it, even though he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to!
His body would not respond. His ears would not hear, his eyes would not see. Blast it all! If the fever took his hearing and sight, did Gilbert want to live?
He felt something cool again, this time on his forehead. It felt like water. Yes, it was water. Someone was sponging him down. He felt the coolness on his head, neck, chest, arms. He gloried in it.
But he did not recognize the feel of the hands that did the blessed work. The touch was definitely different than that of the nurse's. Hers was skilled, calculated. No, this was not the nurse. In fact, the hands were no less tender than his mother's, but this was a different kind of tenderness entirely.
Gilbert forced his eyes to open. He had to see this stranger.
The light was murky and dim, and everything shimmered around the edges. He was able to make out the form of a woman standing with her back to him, wringing out a cloth over the basin on his dresser. Gilbert was right. This was not his mother or the nurse. The figure was too slender and willowy, the movements too graceful.
Gilbert stared uncomprehendingly. Maybe, maybe he hadn't been hallucinating after all.
"Anne?" He willed the sweet name to rise from his parched throat.
She whirled around, eyes wide. Immediately, she was at his side, smoothing his hair, holding his hand. Oh, how beautiful she was.
"I'm here," she whispered strangely. "I'm here."
He managed to squeeze her fingers. He even conjured up the ghost of a half-smile. But it faded quickly when he saw the wetness on her pale cheeks. He saw that tears were welling up in her eyes, spilling over. He reached up to wipe them away. She held his hand there, turning her face into it. A single sob escaped.
"Oh, Gil, I—" But he touched his fingers to her lips.
"Shh," he soothed in a whisper. "Don't cry, Anne."
A moment of silent communication passed between them. She leaned over to kiss his brow.
"You need to rest now," she said as she withdrew slowly. She knew that he was fighting to keep his eyes open. She squeezed his hand.
Gilbert fell asleep, and Anne stood watchfully for some time before turning to leave the room. Mr. Blythe had just returned with the doctor.
"Anne."
She heard the whisper just as she reached the door. She returned to Gilbert, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Don't go," he whispered feebly. "Don't go."
She kissed him again in response. Then his hand went limp in hers.
The last thing that Gilbert felt before he succumbed to dark sleep was the wetness of tears on his face.
He couldn't figure out whether the tears were his or Anne's.
A/N: There! I've finished chapter 3, making it as sad and pathetic as I possibly could. I also tried to stay true to Gilbert's character. Let me know it you think I succeeded a little bit. (I even tried my hand at proofreading!) As we learned in kindergarten, the number 4 follows the number 3, and so shall chapter 4 follow chapter 3 soon. But what happens next? I'd love to hear your ideas!
----SweetSinger2010