Hey wonderful readers. Now, I know that I've been in the midst of an update frenzy of late; however, all good things must come to an end. Unfortunately, school is back, which means less time devoted to FanFiction, more time devoted to maths homework – blah! Despite the terrible inconvenience of education, I will try my best to not leave you marvellous lot hanging.

I'm not certain about this chapter; I'm a little tired, and my mental editor is not all that it should be. I would really appreciate some feedback on this one, guys. I know it was a little longer than usual, but I just really wanted to write this encounter between Thomas and Sybbie as it should be written.

I'm also sorry if my portrayal of Thomas has been a little 'not-what-you-were-expecting'. Keep in mind; this is eight years on from the end of S3. No one can hold a grudge forever – even Thomas! So, I hope that you're all enjoying this as much as you were when we began.

Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers!

lizzy384: Despite your currently being MIA, I still love you! Thanks for all the lovely reviews and encouragements – they mean the world!

Davy Tex: Hey-hey! Thanks for all the wonderful chats we've had! Don't stop, you silly sausage!

: You're wonderful! I'm sorry that I constantly make you cry, though ;)

Saya White: Yep, I hate him too. Jimmy, that is.

Oh, there's so many of you' I can't mention all of you here and now. But I love you all, and without you, I probably would've given this up ages ago!

Sparki: I own nothing!


"Mr. Barrow?" James whispered. "Are you awake?"

Staring into the emptiness between his cot and the bare wall, Thomas said nothing. In the painful silence that followed, he heard the footman sigh.

"In that case," he whispered, "would you turn around? Just for a moment?"

Thomas pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. He didn't want to speak – at least, not to James. He was afraid that, in a moment of panic or passion, he would say something that he would later come to regret. Still upon his mattress, Thomas bit away his own words. From across the room, he heard a creak, as James sat up in his own cot. He could almost feel the man's uneasy breathing upon his neck. Thomas shifted away at the thought.

The line, drawn so prominently in the bleak, white chalk, remained, undisturbed upon the cold floor. Despite the childishness of the notion, neither man had dared cross such a divide. It seemed that they both understood, without sharing a word, that to do so would be the beginning of the end. It was ridiculous, Thomas knew. But there it was.

And there it would stay.

"Thomas," James breathed. His hushed words were sad, and the pain in his throat was unmistakable. As his own name tumbled from the younger man's lips, Thomas flinched away. "Please look at me." But Thomas shook his head.

"Go to sleep, James." His own voice, although quiet, was deceptively unbroken. He could imagine the look in James' eyes – and it hurt him. Thomas didn't want it to, but it did.

"Please, go to sleep."

For a time, there was silence. Then;

"I can't," James whispered, miserably. "Not here. Not when we're like this." Thomas heard the man rise from his cot. The ageing floorboards groaned, even beneath James' slight weight. "I need to talk to you." Finally, Thomas rolled over. He stared at James, unblinking. The younger man had his lamp turned on, and the sudden light made Thomas want to close his eyes. But he didn't. He pinned James with his pale gaze. It was a gaze devoid of all emotion; a gaze he had spent years perfecting.

"I don't want to talk," he muttered, the underlay of ice in his voice barely concealed. James heard it; Thomas could see the sting of rejection in his blue eyes. "I just want to sleep." James frowned.

"Please, Thomas, I-,"

"It's Mr. Barrow." His tone sharp and cutting, Thomas stopped James' plea. "It's Mr. Barrow, now." Silently, he rose from his cot. Fixing his eyes everywhere but James, he retrieved his dressing gown from where it hung, draped over a chair back. He pulled it around his body, revelling in the quiet warmth the worn material provided. His slippers, holes and all, waited at the foot of his bed. Burying his toes in their soft, woollen middle, Thomas reached for an unlit candle. It stood, tall and silent in its rusted holder, waiting to be burnt. The ever-present box of matches, unopened, sat heavily in the pocket of his gown. Without a word, Thomas made for the door. Reaching for the handle, he heard footsteps behind him.

"Where are you going?" His fingers brushed the knob.

"Please, don't follow me." He still didn't meet James' eyes. "I'm not ready."


Stifling a yawn, Thomas brought a finger to his lips. As he waited for the low murmur of fatigue to pass, he gazed into the candlelight. Through his sleep ridden eyes, the flickering flame was blurred, and unsteady; like a mirage, ready at any moment to up and disappear. Thomas pressed the pad of his finger to his tongue. Then, before he had a chance to change his mind, he swiped his finger through the fire.

Thomas felt the stifling heat, as it bit momentarily at his exposed skin. But the damp of his own saliva protected him, and he passed through, unscathed.

Alone in the servants' hall, well after midnight, with only his flickering candle for company, Thomas felt no conviction to cover his left hand. Should any wanderers of the night come a-knocking, perhaps the twisted, grotesque mutation that had once been a hand would frighten them back to their shadows.

Not that Thomas believed in ghosts. It was simply a notion, stewed in the silence of his sleep-deprived mind.


"You have to take it seriously," Thomas murmured, his words low and dangerous, "or they'll get offended."


Thomas closed his eyes, wishing the blasted board was not only steps away, hidden upon the highest shelf of the darkest cupboard.

In the warm glow, the mangled skin was pale. As he studied his hand, where it rested upon the table, Thomas remembered a time when, had he so desired, he could push a finger through the gaping wound, straight and clean. Now, the near perfect hole, inflicted by that heaven-sent bullet was but a mass of ruined skin; a knot a flesh, piled upon bone. Thomas grimaced at his own description.

It was then, that the footsteps became audible. Involuntarily, Thomas leapt from his chair. The scrape of wood against stone was agonisingly loud. In the silence that followed, Thomas could no longer hear the soft pitter-patter of foot upon floor; only the wild beating of his own heart.

The darkness was playing tricks. The candlelight, only moments ago so warm and inviting, drew the shadows far from their corners and crevices. They crept across the cold floor, reaching for Thomas' feet. With a shudder, he stepped back; back towards the table, back towards the light.


"Is anyone there?" Despite being seated next to Thomas, who needed all his might to hold back his laughter, O'Brien's expression was solemn, and her voice was unwavering. Her eyes never leaving the board, she spoke again.

"Is anyone there?"


"Who's there?" Thomas croaked, his voice strangely weak. "If that's you, James…,"

He heard a sob, followed quickly by rapid footsteps, pounding upon hollow wood. In the darkness that seeped through the doorway, a small light appeared. From the gloom, emerged a familiar face, pale, and streaked with tears. Thomas struggled to suppress a cry of relieved disbelief.

"Sybil!" he cried, momentarily forgetting himself. "What in God's name are you doing down here?" But the little girl didn't respond. She all but threw her flickering candle upon the table. With a soft cry, she ran to the startled under butler, and flung her arms around his waist. Burying her face in the folds of his gown, the child sobbed and sobbed.

"D-Don't leave me!" she begged through her tears. "P-Please… please!"

As Thomas' confusion began to ebb away, he found himself placing a hand, warm and steady, against the little girl's head. With the other, more deranged digit – the hand that he would not dream of touching the child with – he reached for his abandoned chair, pulling it to him. Slowly, with Sybil still clinging to him, Thomas lowered the both of them into the chair. But still, she would not let go.

"Sybil, Sybil," he whispered, his voice gentle. Even in the darkness, even under the relative safety of night, Thomas knew how many rules he was breaking; how many ways of life he was disregarding. But as he sat there, huddled by the candle's light, surrounded by creeping shadows and his own fears, all seemed to pale into insignificance. Nothing was more important, than the weeping child, wrapped in his arms.

What is happening to me?

"Miss Sybil," he uttered, still holding the girl's shivering head. "What's wrong? Why… why are you down here, then? And why so late, eh?" Gently, so as not to alarm her, he pulled his hand from her head, and pressed it softly against her shaking shoulder. Sybil looked up then, her tear ravaged eyes wide and frightened.

"Papa's dead," she whispered, and Thomas felt his heart freeze. "I shook him, and I cried and I cried! I said… I said, 'Papa wake up!' but he d-didn't… he didn't!" Shaking his head viciously, Thomas pulled the hysterical child closer.

"Sybil," he soothed, "it was a dream." The girl shook her head, but Thomas refused to let her crumble. "It was a dream. Your father's fine."

Sybil threw her arms around Thomas' neck. Without a second thought, he returned her embrace.

"Please don't leave me," she whispered again. "Y-You're my only f-friend, Thomas. Please."

Thomas wanted to cry. He wanted to weep, for the poor, broken, and lonely girl who clung to him as he sat upon that cold hard chair. Hesitantly, but knowing the odd pair had already crossed all boundaries, he stroked his fingers through the child's mussed up locks.

After a long, lingering moment, Sybil pulled away. She stood, wiping at her eyes, gazing at the under butler's distraught expression.

"W-What is it?" she stammered, concerned by Thomas' silence. To her surprise, the man smiled, sadly. "I'm just… worried about you, Miss Sybil," he admitted. "I've never seen you so… so…,"

"Sad?" the little girl offered, and Thomas nodded. Now, it was Sybil's turn to smile. With a great sniff, she raised a trembling arm once more, in an attempt to hide the tears that continued to pour down her paling cheeks. But Thomas reached out a hand, stopping her.

"Here," he offered, reaching into the pocket of his gown. He found his handkerchief, neat and folded, resting by the near-empty box of matches. With a sigh, he pulled it free, and held it out to Sybil. She took it from his fingers with a grateful smile.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, burying her nose in the soft linen. "Your other one is still in my bedroom." Somewhat bashfully, she wiped at her face. "I'll bring it back to you, I promise." But Thomas shook his head.

"You need it more than I do," he smiled. Sybil let out a small laugh. Quietly, she placed the dirtied square of material upon the table. "I think I might have ruined another one," she sighed, a hint of shame in her voice. Thomas grinned, despite himself.

"It's alright, Miss Sybil," he assured the girl, reaching for the handkerchief. As his hand crept into the candle's glow, Thomas heard Sybil let out a small gasp. He froze. The candle flickered.

"What... what happened to your hand?" she whispered. Thomas felt the strangest need to blow out that burning flame. But he didn't. Instead, he pulled away, hiding his hand beneath the table, veiling the disfigured skin in shadows. But Sybil was gazing at him, not in fear, but with the beginnings of concern sparkling in her red-rimmed eyes. Thomas glanced away.

"Don't pity me, Miss Sybil," he murmured. "Please, don't." Quietly, her eyes wide and wondering, the girl lowered herself into another, empty wooden chair. She pulled her legs to her chest, and lay her head upon her knees.

"If you don't want to tell me...," she sighed, lowering her gaze. "I'm sorry, Thomas. I didn't mean-," But Thomas shook his head.

"It's alright, Miss Sybil," he told the girl. Sybil looked up, her eyes a little brighter. Thomas couldn't stop the small smile from stealing across his face. Unfolding her slender legs, the child pulled herself a little closer to the under butler. She gazed at him, waiting for him to speak.

"I...I was a soldier," Thomas began, his words soft and strangely calm. "One night, I was... I was... shot."

Liar.

Thomas closed his eyes.

No. Not to her. Never to her.

Liar.

Thomas opened his eyes.

"You had a nightmare, Miss Sybil," he uttered, studying his broken hand. "Am I right?" The little girl nodded.

"Were you scared?" Again, Sybil nodded.

"Yes," she whispered. "I was scared."

Lifting his hand from the safety of his lap, Thomas let the candle's glow flood upon his pale skin. Sybil stared at the mutation. He waited for her to run, to cry.

But she didn't. Instead, she reached out a finger, and placed its soft tip to his hand. He felt her touch, just above that place where the bullet had violated him. Thomas gave an involuntary shiver.

"I was afraid," he whispered. "I was so afraid." Gently, Sybil stroked her finger along his hand.

"Why?" she asked. "Why were you afraid?" Thomas thought for a long, lingering moment.

"Because I wanted to go home, Miss," he sighed. Slowly, Sybil lowered her hand. Thomas let his hand fall to the table. It gave a quiet thud, as it came to rest upon the rough wood.

"I was afraid," Thomas admitted, "because I wanted to go home, but I didn't think I would make it." He lowered his gaze once more. "And so, I did something." Clearing his throat, Thomas smiled down at the little girl. "Something that I would regret, for a long, long time." To his surprise, Sybil leapt forward, and threw her small arms around his neck.

For a moment, Thomas felt warm.

And then, the candle fluttered out. The servants' hall was plunged into an impenetrable darkness. Sybil cried out in fear, and clung to Thomas. So close to the little girl, he could almost hear the panicked beating of her heart. He placed a hand gently upon her back.

"Thomas," Sybil whimpered, clutching desperately at his gown. "It's... it's so dark. I... I can't see!"

"Shh!" Thomas whispered, pulling the child closer. "Don't worry, Miss Sybil. It's alright." Blindly, he reached a hand once again into the pocket of his gown. Finding the matchbox, he tightened his fingers around its crumpled body. But it took him only a moment to realise that it was empty. Groaning, Thomas left the box where it hid.

"T-Thomas...," Sybil's words were strangled. "I'm scared."


"Thomas!" Gracie reached for me, her fingers splayed and straining. "I'm scared!"


Thomas closed his eyes. Through the darkness, he forced himself to take a deep breath. He wouldn't think of Gracie – not now. Not when Sybil needed him. In his arms, she shivered uncontrollably. Thomas was somewhat taken aback – the poor child was terrified. Climbing unsteadily to his feet, careful not to stumble in the darkness, he stood by his chair. Blinking slowly, Thomas waited for his weary eyes to adjust.

After a moment, he began to see shapes; dark silhouettes, looming through the dim light. Stepping forward, Thomas lowered Sybil back into her abandoned chair. She whimpered again.

"Don't leave me!" she cried, her arms locked tightly around his neck. Thomas shook his head. Carefully disentangling himself, he reclaimed his own chair. With a painful scrape, he dragged it close to where Sybil sat, trembling in fear.

"Would... would you like me to... to tell you a story?" Thomas ventured.

Sybil nodded. "Yes, Thomas," she whispered. "Tell me a story."


Yes, that handkerchief bit was inspired by Narnia – what of it? ;D Please review, guys! Tell me if it was terrible.