Seventeen years, ten months, two weeks, three days...
Each moment is agony.
Every second of every day, George Beaumont is reminded of his young wife's untimely death. With every glimpse of that painting up on that mantle, with every glimpse of his...
A/N: This chapter is pretty dang glitchy. It's been up since two weeks ago, and it's only appeared now. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Autumn of 1870
He would never tell her.
He couldn't ever bring himself to. This was the one thing he would lie to her about. The scars, so numerous and ugly, would forever remain his own secret. He would never subject Anne to that sort of knowledge.
It hurts, though. Knowing that he will bring the weight of all of it to the grave. He knew that those kind of secrets did things to people, but what is he to do? Anne already suffers enough without him. His father suffers enough without him. He refuses to be someone else's burden.
Cursing as the delicate stem of the sunflower between his fingers snaps, he shakes his head. It won't do any good to dwell on such things.
Disturbing the silence of the cool autumn afternoon once more, he sighs, his hand absentmindedly letting go of the flowers to search for Anne's. He has to remind himself that he cannot visit her, and that, given her current circumstances, she would flinch away from his touch.
That would break his heart. Still, his hand roams about the grass, searching for those long, graceful fingers that would entwine perfectly with his. He does not find them.
He pulls himself back together. So what if her mother despises him? He would find a way. He frowns as his skilled fingers weave the autumn flowers together, wondering if he and Anne would ever really be able to live out their plans. This is the first time he has doubted them, and it twists his heart so painfully that another stem breaks. His breath hitches. Had she been there, Anne would have laid a palm over his heart and talked him through being able to breathe again. But she isn't there, and the edges of his vision begin to blacken.
Alone, he struggles. He tries to look at the small pond before him, the blue sky above, but nothing helps. The flowers in his hand suddenly feel too warm, and the wind beating at him too cold. Thoughts- as disassociated as they come, fill his mind, and he cannot see anything. In his mind's eye, he is six summers old, feeling the full wrath of his malformed airways. He expects George to come running, but by the time the worst of it has passed, he is still all alone, with nothing but discarded flowers to keep him company until he finally pushes through it, each breath a knife through the lungs.
He eyes the pond before him, clutching his chest. Swimming is the only thing close to therapy for his ailing lungs. Every breath he has ever taken underwater makes him feel invincible. While Ravensworth Castle's pond cannot compare to the lake back home, it would suffice. Already, he is taking off his shoes.
Fully clothed, he jumps in, embracing the freezing water even as it threatens to strangle him. He feels the chilling autumn wind on his skin, and so he dives under, into a world where there is no cold and only he exists. The blue calms him, wraps around him as he swims about, his thoughts devoid of crushed flower petals, or blood covering his hands. Instead, he focuses only on moving forward. For once in his life, nothing hurts anymore. Not the scars buried under layers of soaked cloth, not the heartache that plagues him whenever he sees Anne.
