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henrike-does-writing-sometimes · 9 months ago

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“.... Ah promised meself that Ah wouldn’t regret it if ye were safe.”

oc kiss week day 6 4: reach

i’m posting this out of order bc i had this finished first LMAO 💀 next one i’ll post is day 4 promise pff

WIP: the chronicles of lathsbury (tcol)

SHIP: erik soori (he/him, ranger) x un "dion" undershield (he/him, protector)

SUMMARY: dion knew it was his fault, but that didn't make it hurt less. the worst part was erik didn't blame him at all.

tw(s): major out of context spoilers, amputation (not in graphic detail, it's already been done) & traumatic limb loss

worldbuilding notes: erik and miona are both from diisai, which is an island to the west of terrae's mainland across the eastern sea (which is not east lmao). diisaians like themselves have a sort of highland (scottish) adjacent sounding accent, and because i like writing vernaculars, you'll see that make an appearance here. erik's accent is stronger than miona's because miona grew up in the capital of diisai while erik grew up in the highlands.

also sorry in advance for this this is so sad fr LMAO.

“I spoke wi’eh doctor.” Miona said. She wasn’t looking at him, or where Erik lay, deathly still on the hospital bed. His body was fully covered by blankets up to his chin, and his face didn’t look peaceful so much as he just looked like a corpse. If Dion knew Miona better, like Erik did, maybe he would’ve been able to read through whatever emotion her flat voice was trying to hide. He didn’t look at her either. Just kept staring at him like he had for the past week. She waited a long moment before she continued.

“After he’s granted discharge, it's recommended ‘at he retire.”

Another long beat passed.

“He can’t.” Dion was surprised hearing his own voice—the last time he heard it like this was when Fia passed and. And. He sucked in a harsh breath through his nose; he couldn’t think about her. Not now, it would break him.

Miona whirled on him, her eyes suddenly blazing. “Can’t?!” Her voice was shrill. “He lost his fucking arm, you heartless piece o’ shit!” Guilt seared through Dion’s gut like he’d been fileted, and it was hard not to double over from the pain of it. “Th’ whole damn thing!” She screamed and Dion wished he could scream too. He knew! And it was his fault. Miona wasn’t done her tirade however. “Can you stop being so fucking selfish for once in yer damn life—”

“I know what he lost!” Dion finally growled, cutting her off. He could barely breathe around the nausea that gripped him like iron from the inside of his throat, strangling him with every word, but he pushed them out. “But you and I both know he won’t!”

Miona glowered at him, grinding her teeth, knowing he was right but not wanting to admit it herself. She tried again. “Then convince ‘im! For pity’s sake, he can’t go on like this!”

Dion turned away from her, and away from Erik no matter how much he needed to stare at him to make sure that he was there. “I can’t do that.” His voice was barely a puff of air; a wheeze.

If he was looking at Miona, he would’ve seen the way she tugged at her hair in frustration. “Ye’re the only one who can!” She choked on her words, tears welling up in her voice like an overflowing dam. “He’ll ne’er be able to shoot a bow again—don’t ye get it? And you know he won’t sit around and do paperwork all day!”

“I’m not stupid.” Dion felt the stupid, useless tears that he hated to shed begin to trail down his dark cheeks and he pointedly kept his face turned away. That’s what was tearing him up—he knew that Erik was fucked over beyond repair and he fucking caused it.

The one thing Fia loved about Erik more than anything was his bow. The one thing that completed Erik, was that ridiculous thing, near as large as Dion’s own shield, at his side. He drew it with such a raw power in a way that was lost on the rangers of the mainland; a unique artform all of its own. And because of Dion it was ruined. He’d ruined Fia’s dream—as the last insult to her memory. He’d ruined Erik, as the final straw in the string of insults that Dion had taken at his character. The one man who never left him. The one man who coddled him, listened to him, cared for him even when he didn’t fucking deserve it—

“Get out o’eh way, ye stupid bastard!”

Dion kept replaying the moment over and over in his mind.

He had been so focused. So, angry, and reckless—Erik shouldn’t have had to cover his blind spot. Erik shouldn’t have known his blind spot… But logic reasoned that if anyone would’ve known it, Erik would. They’d been fighting together for… too long now. This was the price for that.

Both he and Miona were startled out of their argument by a shifting of the sheets. Of a loud, pained groan.

“A’ll get th’ doctor!” Miona said. She rushed for the door, pausing for only a moment to look back at Dion. “But remember what Ah said. And don’t ye dare hurt him.”

Dion didn’t bother to deign what she said with a response. He was too busy falling to his knees by the bedside, grasping Erik’s trembling left hand in his own—what was left of him.

He was forcibly moved from the bedside when the doctor rushed in.

It was another week before Erik awoke again. And in all that time, Dion stayed by his bedside. He tried to read, but his mind wouldn’t follow the words, but there was nothing else to do so he forced himself through passage after passage of drivel until it made his eyes burn and his head swim.

During that time, the room was constantly fluctuating with visitors: Miona came in nearly every day, and the barman—Papa, whatever his name, stopped by as well. The Diisiain they spoke rapidly between each other was too hushed for Dion to catch any of, but he noticed the forlorn look the burly man gave Erik when he finally ambled out. Cameron stopped by, and that archer his sister fancied, along with other people Dion hadn’t bothered to learn the names of. He’d never… realized how well liked Erik was. He’d been so focused on himself, his vengeance, his pain—its like he never even knew who Erik was. Is. He wasn’t dead. He had to keep telling himself that.

It was a sentiment proven true when Erik began to stir. Dion almost didn’t notice, given how quiet this awakening was compared to the previous outburst. His honey brown eyes were barely visible under his drooping lids, but visible enough for Dion to start when he said, all rasp, “Ne’er thought Ah’d see th’ day where ye’d voluntarily read somethin’, bubble boy.”

The silly nickname that normally Dion hated constricted something fierce in his chest, and his heart stopped, before it began to hammer against his ribs. “You’re awake.” He said dumbly. “You’re actually awake.”

“Fer better or worse.” Erik sighed heavily, so much that Dion could almost hear the creak of his bruised lungs. “Though Ah feel like th’ Lady o’ tha Universe sent th’ planet crashin’ down on me brow an’ knocked me clean oot. I feel awful.” Despite it, Erik chuckled and Dion felt his heart crash down to his stomach. How could he do this? How was he this endless well of optimism. When Fia died, Erik hadn’t shed a tear that Dion could see. Just held him, helped him bury her body—their bodies of the rest of their team. When Dion shunned his jokes and his cheer, he’d let it roll off of his shoulders without even blinking. He almost wanted to ask—what kept him cheerful when the world was cruel and heartless? But then Erik sat up on the bed. With some difficulty, Dion could add. The book he was reading fell from his lap as he lunged to reach Erik, helping him get to an upright position with a hand steadied on his back. The blanket dropped from his shoulders, and suddenly it was bared to the world. Bandaged; but enough that Dion felt the nausea of guilt arrest him again. Where Erik’s right arm should’ve been, there was nothing but a nub right at the shoulder. It was a clean break, like someone snapped it off like an icicle or chalk, and not the horribly mangled, jagged thing it had been when Dion and Jace managed to drag him to the hospital, already passed clean out from the pain. They must’ve had to amputate slightly further up, to salvage what they could… even if it wasn’t much.

Aware of it, Erik stilled, and how he was turned obscured his expression from Dion. Without warning, his left arm came grasping at the place where his arm once was.

“She’s really gone… Isn’t she?” Erik’s voice was threadbare. But surprisingly, he wasn’t the one who’d begun to cry.

When Dion didn’t give him an answer, Erik turned his head. The worried expression on his face was swimming in Dion’s vision.

“Oi… Ye… ye’re cryin’?” Erik looked about as lost as Dion felt. When he tried to open his mouth, no sound came out. “Ah…” Erik’s left hand reached out then hesitated, unsure. But, steeling his resolve, he reached out all the way, and grasped Dion by the front of his shirt. It only took one tug to pull Dion into his embrace, and any other day, any other time Dion would’ve shoved him off but now… His arms just felt too weak.

Against his hair, he felt a brush of Erik’s lips.

“Ah didn’t think ye’d cry.” He said, hushed. The lips pressed into Dion’s hair again, this time more purposeful and it hit Dion so sharply that he felt dizzy. Despite the fact that Dion caused his injury. Despite the fact that Dion couldn’t do anything but growl and scowl and give him grief for his troubles to be friendly, that no matter what happened between them, Erik was always there whenever Dion fell. He couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t bear it.

“If Ah thought Ah could’a gone fer me bow, I woulda but…” Erik tried to laugh but it came out watery and broken. “An’ now… Ah’m ne’er gonna shoot me bow again.” He laughed again, but this one was more pained and Dion pulled away, if only to look into Erik’s eyes. Tears had begun pouring down his face like a river’s spring flood.

Dion wished he knew what to say.

“.... Ah promised meself that Ah wouldn’t regret it if ye were safe.” Erik whispered, and then suddenly he was breaking. It was all Dion could do but pull Erik into his chest as he wailed, his tears wrenching and racking his whole, too thin body with them. All Dion could do was hold him and mirror the gesture; pressing the most delicate of kisses to Erik’s head as he fell apart.

#this is painfully beautiful #and I knows this is a gay ship and what I'm about to say will be wierd as all hell #but that made me miss my dad man #shit hurted

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heeyyyou · 2 years ago

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Uuuufff, you are killing me, my friend

The Anthony and Sophie moment

Tha parallel between Violet and Sophie

"Benedict was the beating heart of their family and that he himself was not the man capable of healing wounds of grief. "

"And he would be left this time to shoulder that grief alone" please, they are best friends 🥺

"Protector to a widowed sister. Uncle to a fatherless child. What could he offer to dry their tears? What remedy would prevent them from feeling entirely fractured? What would he do if the heart of their family actually stopped beating?"

Also, hello A Brother's love <3

Willow Bark - Day 3: An Arrival

Rated: T, whump and angst Word count: 5.6k

Day 2 Masterpost

No more summaries, so as not to spoil!

By late morning the next day, the fever had not broken and the medicine had done nothing to improve Benedict’s condition. Dr. Crowe and the village surgeon were jointly called back to the house to examine him. Their theories on his malady differed, with the surgeon suspecting that it may be brain fever. When Sophie refused to let them bleed him again, they were in agreement that there was nothing more they could offer. He was in God’s hands.

At Benedict’s bedside, Sophie brought his palm to her cheek and refused to look at the physicians. Eloise sank silently into a chair. Anthony stuttered, eyes wild, all but accusing them both of malpractice. He would seek another opinion, someone far more qualified from the city. He practically shoved them both out the door and began to pace at the foot of the bed, rambling. They were country hacks who didn’t know what they were talking about. He would have the best London doctor brought to sort everything out. There was still more to be done. This was not the final word.

As he strategized aloud, Sophie smoothed Benedict’s hair back from his white forehead. She didn’t protest or say anything at all. She nodded at Anthony but her eyes were such bottomless wells of grief and pity, it was clear she had no faith in his plans.

Shaking with adrenaline, Anthony stalked into the study once again and dashed off two hasty letters. One to his solicitor, instructing him to dispense any amount of money necessary in order to send the best doctor post haste. The other was to Kate, his heart pounding and fingers trembling as he wrote:

En katal,

I would not ask this of you if I did not know you were the most capable. Please tell the family, Mother in particular, that they must come now. There isn’t an hour to waste. I need you.

-Anthony

How many messengers were in the area, especially considering he had sent one off the day before, Anthony didn’t know. And how quickly they would be able to rush to the city through the interminable sheets of rain, he couldn’t guess. But he growled at Benedict’s beleaguered footman to do everything in his power to send them out and promised the man a financial reward. Then he moved in a circuit up and down the hall outside the bedroom door, assuring himself that help would arrive, that all would be well.

---

The day progressed with a kind of muffled lethargy, a thickness to the air and a slowness of movement with no one knowing where to situate themselves or what to say, but they all stayed congregated in Benedict’s room. The passage of time became impossible to contend with. Should they desire the hours to pass more quickly so that the fever might inevitably break? Or should they try to stop time altogether and stay in these moments before a darker turn occurred? They stood in silence, each tuned into the cadence of Benedict’s labored breath, each refusing to abandon hope and none of them wanting to be the first to acknowledge what they may be facing.

The relentless rain continued as the daylight faded into dusk. Anthony sat watching Eloise kneel next to Benedict, cooling his brow and neck with a cloth. Sophie stood between them, biting the nails of one hand with the other wrapped around herself. Her eyes were sunken, her frame withered. She was growing as pale as Benedict and starting to look skeletal. The thought occurred to Anthony that he had not seen her eat anything since he had arrived.

Before he could encourage her to address the matter, she suddenly spoke. “Did Ben ever tell you how we met?” Her voice was brittle but a small smile tugged at her lips as she looked down at her husband. “The second time.”

Eloise looked back. “It was at the Cavenders.”

“Yes,” Sophie nodded, smiling as she relished the memory. “We were both…escaping. He found me and gave me a ride to safety.” Then her face fell again. “We were caught in the rain and he came down with a fever. I took care of him. I don’t know why he’s so prone…” Her voice trailed off as tears began to brim in her eyes.

Anthony perked up. “What helped last time?”

Sophie shook her head, shrugging helplessly. “Just a night’s rest. It was only a few hours. This has been days.” Her voice cracked again and she started to tremble as tears began pouring down her face. She gasped, fighting for each word as she started to reel and babble. “I don’t know what…I don’t…I can’t…”

She was breaking. At last she had reached the end of her strength and feigned confidence. As he watched her Anthony saw the terror, the void of despair which was all too familiar to him. He had been to that place before and knew its overwhelming, inky grip. He rose and moved to her.

“Sophie,” He wrapped a steadying arm around her shoulders. She crumpled against him, heaving raggedly, unable to catch her breath, her eyes darting behind her endless tears.

Eloise watched them with concern and shared a wordless exchange with her brother. “Go. I’ll look after him.”

Anthony nodded tightly then steered his sister-in-law out the door and down to the sitting room. She leaned into him, grateful for the guidance, and lost herself to the panic that was tearing through her veins. She didn’t have the fortitude to fight it anymore and part of her wondered if she even should. This seemed the appropriate response to the news she had received that morning. She had done her best to restrain her feelings this long and now they demanded to be heard.

Anthony sat her in a chair and she continued to tremble, crying wretchedly. He kept a hand on her shoulder. “Sophie, you must remain calm. That is what Benedict needs from you right now. That is what we all need.”

Gulping through her sobs, she looked up at him. Even with the shared grief in his eyes he seemed so steady, so sure. She admired the Viscount for the many ways in which he provided for his family, including for Benedict and herself, and she had never wanted to appear vulnerable in front of him. It was enough that he had accepted her, a bastard maid, into his family when most other gentlemen would have exposed and banished her from their tier of society. Now that she was a Bridgerton, she had vowed to prove herself worthy of his name and his gracious support. But in this moment, he shared the cause of her weakness and she felt compelled to confide in him.

“I can’t lose him, Anthony.”

His lips tightened into a line as he clenched his jaw. “He will recover. I know that he will. He is strong.” It sounded like a recitation, a dogged insistence that if he said it enough times it would manifest.

As her sobs dried to shuddering breaths Sophie inhaled deeply, locking into his eyes until he could see something desperate in hers. “Anthony…I am with child.”

He froze. If there was one thing that could make this situation even worse than it already was, surely it was this. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Sophie wasn’t showing any indication of her condition. Benedict’s words echoed back to him, his desperate plea for Anthony to take care of her. The urgency of his request made even more sense now, though he hadn’t mentioned…

“Does he know?” He tried to keep his voice calm.

Sophie stared at her lap and nodded, wiping tears from her cheeks. She began to ramble again but devoid of energy, her voice was faint. “I can’t…I don’t know how your mother…” Buried within her fear he detected a layer of sympathy. “Anthony, I’m so sorry. I don’t want anyone to go through this again.”

He nearly stumbled backward. She saw the parallel, but he hadn’t until she spoke. He instantly remembered his mother, heavily pregnant and running across the lawn at Aubrey Hall on that black day; heard her wailing in the stairwell as the maids tried to calm her for the sake of the baby; saw the utter despair in her eyes as she endured her labor without her husband by her side. History was threatening to repeat itself, to grow into some kind of curse he could not escape.

It brought him to his knees in front of her, eyes wide as he gazed into a future that was also his past. He recited the words again though there was no conviction in them. “We wo…we won’t. He won’t... It will be alright.”

Sophie stared off over his shoulder, her sunken eyes misted over. After a moment she spoke, her voice hollow. “He is my soul. I will die.”

Anthony shuddered. How many times had Benedict used that same phrase? Claiming that he and his wife shared a soul. It was what he had lobbed at Anthony when justifying his reasons for marrying outside their class. It was what he had said in his toast at their wedding. It was a well-worn declaration Benedict fell into when the brothers had too many drinks together. Anthony had always written it off as his brother’s typical dramatic flair, his poetic temperament run amok. But now his wife was before him, asserting the same in their darkest hour when there was no space for hyperbole. It was enough to make him consider that it may actually be true. That there may be a level of magical connection between Benedict and Sophie that he couldn’t perceive or understand.

The thought ignited something desperate, nearly angry in him. Magic or no, fate would not wrench his family apart again. Whatever it took, whatever he could give of himself to prevent or mitigate a tragedy, he would do it. He would not watch Sophie wither as his mother had. He would not hold Benedict’s child the way he had held Hyacinth, cries echoing around an empty nursery devoid of either parent. Grief had nearly taken his mother and left his family with scars that would never fully heal. It wouldn’t run its cruel game over the Bridgertons again. He would not let sorrow swallow them all whole.

He snapped to attention, gripping Sophie’s hands in his own, his eyes burning. “You will not! You will not, do you hear me?” His tone was commanding, harsh even, but he didn’t care. “You will not lose yourself in grief. I will not allow it. It was a lesson hard-learned for me, but this kind of pain is the price we pay for love.” He wound his fingers between hers. “I will not lose any of you.”

In that moment, cutting through her shroud of woe, Sophie felt for the first time in her life a novel sense of protection. Something she had longed for throughout her wretched childhood and despaired of ever finding. Someone who would shoulder her with the guidance and care of a father; a brother. The fierceness of Anthony’s grip and the fervor in his eyes left no room for doubt. She stared back at him, stunned.

The silence was suddenly broken by the footman appearing in the doorway.

“Mrs. Bridgerton, there is a Sir Phillip Crane here to see you.”

In the entry hall Anthony and Sophie found Sir Phillip dripping with rain. He brushed the droplets from his eyes with one hand while the other grasped the handle of a valise. He bowed to each of them in turn.

Anthony’s brow furrowed. “Sir Phillip. What are you doing here?”

Phillip glanced cautiously between them. “I went to Aubrey Hall and was informed of Mr. Bridgerton’s condition. How is he?”

The last time Anthony had seen this man, he had caused his sister to storm off in a fury and he still did not know the reason why. Despite Eloise’s mercurial nature, he would of course always lay the fault at her suitor’s feet before laying it at hers. He clasped his hands behind his back and stuck his nose in the air. “I don’t know that it’s any of your concern.”

Phillip retracted into himself, bowing his head. “Of course. I wanted to apologize to Eloise. But focusing on your family is the top priority.”

Anthony stared down at him, his voice clipped. “It is.”

Sophie had no patience to deal with the tension between these men, whatever its origins. It was unlikely that the mere desire for a conversation had spurred their visitor to travel through the rainy night. She kept her tone gentle, letting him know he was welcome in her home. “Sir Phillip, what is that you are holding?”

Phillip tore his eyes from Anthony and seemed to remember himself. “Mrs. Bridgerton, if you will allow me to impose myself. I came here to offer help to your husband, if I could.” He gestured toward the valise.

“Do you know something of medicine?” Her voice edged on desperation but she didn’t care.

Phillip shrugged. “As much as a botanist would. I have brought medicinal herbs. I am sure that a doctor has prescribed his own treatment, but I only sought to help.” His piercing blue eyes were impossibly kind. It seemed that Eloise had found herself a fiance with a pure heart.

Sophie felt a spark of hope flicker within. A practical stranger, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and ask him to assuage all her fears. “The doctor has said there’s no more to be done,” she rasped, biting her lip as new tears formed.

A haunted look passed over his features. “I am sorry…”

“Please,” Sophie spluttered, moving forward and taking him by the arm. She had nothing left to lose and his arrival seemed too serendipitous to question. “Please come see him. You must try.”

Fully ignoring the flustered, angry look on Anthony’s face, she pulled Phillip through the house and up to the bedroom where Benedict and Eloise waited.

When they opened the door, Eloise leapt to her feet at the bedside. “Phillip!”

Dragged along by Sophie, he couldn’t pause for a polite introduction. He tried to convey as much apology and concern as he could through his eyes alone and nodded at her. “Eloise.”

“What are you doing here?” She glanced between them all, Anthony marching grumpily at the rear.

“He’s going to help Benedict.” Sophie said with a new strength in her voice. It was clear she would brook no further questions or protests.

Anthony and Eloise huddled near the wall as Sophie and Phillip spoke in hurried, hushed tones, leaning over the bed. Sophie shared everything the doctor and surgeon had told her while Phillip felt Benedict’s forehead, his neck, his fingers. He looked into his eyes and timed his pulse all while he lay feverish and unresponsive. He tried to hide from Sophie how his own hands were shaking, overcome with memories of the last time he sat at a fevered bedside, some of the darkest days of his life. But she was so focused on her husband she didn’t seem to notice.

They called the maid to bring hot water, muslin and a tea set. Phillip stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as he began to sort through his valise, calling upon every lecture he had attended and study he had read which may be of help in this situation. With the supplies laid out before him on the bedside table, he gathered two fistfuls of dried flowers.

“Mrs. Bridgerton, can you make a poultice?”

“Yes.”

“Here,” he laid the herbs on a strip of muslin. “Meadowsweet and yarrow. Place it on his chest. If this is a lung infection the permeated compounds may help.”

Working quickly, Sophie ground the flowers into the cloth, wrapped them and soaked them in the pitcher of hot water. Then she laid the bandage across Benedict’s chest and pressed it into his skin.

Beside her, Phillip produced another odd looking herb from his case and began to crush it into the teapot. At this, Anthony stepped forward.

“What is that?”

Phillip glanced over his shoulder. “Willow bark. A professor of mine claimed it could break fevers.” He wouldn’t tell the Viscount about his prior attempted use of the cure or its outcome. He still had faith in his professor’s hypothesis and had seen literature to support his claim. This was the plant in Phillip’s collection that held the most promise, regardless of what had occurred before.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Crane.” Anthony practically growled at him.

“Anthony…” Eloise’s cautioning voice behind them made Phillip’s heart flutter with gratitude but he couldn’t escape the Viscount’s steely glare.

He found himself stuttering. “Nothing should cause him any harm, I only…”

When Eloise’s hand closed around Anthony’s arm he stepped back. If he was willing to do anything to help his brother, that included having faith in someone else’s ability to provide a solution, whoever that person may be. Dr. Crowe had been of no help and there was no guarantee his letter to the solicitor would send anyone else. His methods had failed and he needed to stop interfering while someone else took the lead. He didn’t like the thought of placing Benedict’s fate in the hands of Eloise’s suitor, a man whose character they hardly knew, much less his credentials to be feeding medicines into a member of their family. But it was the only option available now. There was nothing else to be done.

“I know,” he cast his eyes down in apology. “I am sorry. You are here to help. Excuse me.” He had to remove himself before he interjected further. Watching Benedict lay so limply as a stranger picked over him was stoking something defensive inside and he couldn’t bear it any longer. Without another word, he turned and left the room.

Eloise remained, transfixed as Phillip worked with quiet care to brew the willow bark tea. When she had last seen him in the gardens at Romney Hall, she had snapped in his face, fled his presence and began contemplating whether their relationship should continue any further. Now, adding to the unresolved confusion in her heart, she could not have been more grateful to see him. She could never have anticipated that he would make the journey to Benedict’s home upon hearing that he was ill. She remembered her brother’s assurance from the day before. Deeds, not words. She felt something spreading through her as she watched him helping her brother, a steadiness that made her feel less unmoored in the gloom of their situation.

Together, Sophie and Phillip pulled Benedict to sit up against the pillows. Sophie sat beside him as Phillip handed her a cup of tea and she brought it to her husband’s mouth.

“Benedict my love,” she whispered. “You must drink.” She held his head with one hand and tipped the cup slowly with the other. Mercifully, the tea passed his lips and he did not cough. He swallowed it gently, guided by some level of instinctual consciousness. “Very good,” Sophie sighed, something hopeful lighting her features.

Patiently and carefully, Sophie fed Benedict two small cups of tea as Phillip kept a watchful eye, replenishing the drink. When Benedict fell back against the pillows with a rattling breath and Phillip confessed that these were all the remedies he could offer, Sophie thanked him with a small smile then turned back to watch her husband. Phillip left his supplies where they were. There was nothing to do now but wait and see if the herbs made any difference. This too he was familiar with, the waiting game of indeterminate length, indeterminate hope. He had played his part and now the tenor in the room was intimate and somber, no longer a place for him.

He turned and found his eyes meeting Eloise’s. She was staring at him intently, her expression unfathomable. He wanted nothing more than to take her somewhere private and gather her in his arms, to prostrate himself with apology and beg her to remain his betrothed. But this was not the time. Not when her brother was lying beside them battling for his life. It would be inappropriate for them to be alone together and the last thing he wanted was to incur more ire from the Viscount who was unsurprisingly even more raw with his emotions under their current circumstances. An unspoken agreement passed between them to grant Sophie and Benedict their privacy. He took Eloise lightly by the arm and walked with her to the sitting room where they found the Viscount, hunched with his elbows on his knees, head hung low.

They sat on a sofa across from him and respectfully distant from one another. Phillip desperately wanted to comfort his intended, even to just hold her hand. But not only was that out of the question with her brother watching them, he didn’t know if she would allow such advances anymore. He sat in indecision, unsure if he was welcome to stay or if his presence was scorned. Fortunately, the Bridgertons spoke about more pressing matters as if he wasn’t even there.

“Anthony, did you write to Mama?” Eloise’s voice was uncharacteristically unsteady.

“Yes. I have twice.” The Viscount pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exhausted. “She will be here as soon as she can, I’m sure.”

“What if…” Eloise halted. Phillip could see the tears rimming her eyes, glinting in the low firelight. It suddenly struck him that he had never seen her cry. “I don’t know if…Do you remember? In the days after Papa…”

Anthony’s head snapped up and he shot her a threatening stare. “Eloise, now is not the time to talk about that.”

But she ignored him, struggling to find words, clearly insistent on recalling something important. “Benedict was always there, don’t you remember?”

Anthony continued to glare at her, his jaw locking, tears threatening his eyes too.

“Those days are a bit of a blur, Eloise.” He ground out.

Still she did not heed his obvious entreaty to stop. Instead she looked between them both, something of a pained smile contrasting with the sadness in her eyes. “He took care of us. All of us. He read us stories and played games when you were busy and mother was…ill. He taught me how to shoot.”

“He what?” Anthony spluttered. “It was a slingshot.” Eloise shrugged innocently.

Eager to provide even a moment of levity, Phillip joked. “Ah, so we have him to thank for that.” The mystery of Eloise’s prowess with a pistol was at last solved.

Her faint smile gave him a sliver of hope. “Yes, he made sure we were occupied. Something to distract us from our tears. Though he took care of those too.” Then she turned to look into the fire, despondent, her voice falling to a whisper. “Now he’s the one…”

With that, the Viscount snapped out of his seat and unceremoniously stormed out of the room, leaving them alone.

They sat in silence, staring after him. Though he remained somewhat terrified of the man, Phillip had empathy toward him. He knew how much weight rested on titled shoulders, and he knew what it was like to worry for a brother, but he had never juggled both pressures simultaneously. Indeed, in his life one had consequently resulted from the other. By all rights he should have been eager to leave the house, to get away from the kind of gloom that he had hoped to relegate to his past. But he found he did not want to go. Not when Eloise was there. She was why he had come, and she was why he would stay. Anything for her.

He turned to find her staring blankly ahead, mind clearly whirring. Concerns of propriety and chaperones fallen by the wayside, he was grateful for a moment alone and only wanted to give her solace.

“Your brother is strong. I have seen it firsthand.” He arched a jesting brow when Eloise looked at him. Neither of them would ever forget his eventful introduction to the two eldest Bridgerton brothers. “I’m sure he is going to be alright.”

His humor didn’t work and Eloise only deflated. “I’m tired of platitudes, Phillip. Don’t make me pretend with you too.”

Here was her honesty. He exhaled, relieved that she still trusted him enough to bare her true feelings. He would be her respite. “Alright. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, and I don’t know if I did anything to help. But I have had a brother in peril before. I know what it feels like.” She turned to meet his eyes, listening intently. Something in them was grateful. “And I can tell you that it is nothing but wasted time if you allow yourself to despair before there is cause to.”

Phillip had despaired of course. He had despaired greatly upon losing his brother. But knowing what he did now, he wished he could retrieve the weeks lost to worrying. Though his worst fears had ultimately been realized, he had cut the joy out of his life prematurely in anticipation of them. If he had only known that they were the last weeks of his life that were truly his own, where he was simply Phillip Crane, untitled student of botany, he would have savored them more. For Eloise and her family the threat was much more visible, more imminent, but he wanted her to continue to hope, not to consign herself to unnecessary grief for even one moment.

She studied his face as if searching for answers. “What if…we find ourselves facing a future that is not as we imagined it would be?”

Phillip held his breath, anguished once again that his actions were causing her to contemplate one of those uncertain futures, though in truth he was not precisely sure why. It was still unclear what he had said to cause such a strong reaction when they were in the garden. Nevertheless, he felt guilt at saddling her with so much simultaneously, though of course none of it was intended. He could only impart what he had learned from his own experiences and he would not coddle her. It was not what she wanted.

“I have faced many such futures. You adapt. The world rearranges itself into odd new configurations but just because they are unfamiliar does not mean there is no joy to be found. We must wrench our own happiness from the earth. Nurture it with care and persistence and it will grow, despite the shadows it arose from.”

Her fleeting smile lifted his heart. She knew what he was speaking of, the incredible gift of the twins. Despite their unconventional and tragic trajectory into his life, they were its brightest points, next to her.

He leaned in closer, shifting his hand to rest beside hers on the sofa. “You have already done this, Eloise. You can do it again if need be. You have the strongest spirit I have ever known. And you are not alone. Please know that.”

She looked up at him, close enough that he could feel her breath dance sweetly over his skin, but she did not kiss him. Instead her fingers inched over, covered his own and held tightly. Warmth rushed through him and they settled against one another as they reclined back into the sofa.

Resting her head upon his shoulder, Eloise sighed, “I am glad you are here.”

It was only in this moment that she felt her body truly relax, felt as if she had stepped back from teetering on an edge of raw nerves. Ever since arriving at the cottage she had felt lost somehow, out of place and waiting for someone to alleviate that feeling. She had assumed Anthony would do it but that hadn’t occurred. Then she assumed she must wait for her mother to arrive to find any relief. But it was Phillip, his steady, solid presence that made her reassured. With him at her side, she felt prepared to face even the unthinkable because she knew he would bolster her.

As she began to fade into sleep, she realized that a part of her had been longing to see him again. This entire time, she had silently been wishing for him to share in her burden and guide her through it. The anger she had felt before paled in comparison to her desire for his companionship. Ever since she had last parted from him, he had never been absent from her thoughts.

Benedict’s words echoed through her mind once more. Every deed Phillip had committed toward her had been gentle, caring, supportive. The way he had welcomed her into his home, the way he had tried to prevent the twins from bothering her despite how his efforts failed. Every touch, every kiss stolen in his greenhouse, all of it so tender. The very fact that he had agreed to marry her immediately and without question when Anthony demanded it. And now appearing, unlooked for, in her family’s hour of greatest need. His words had driven her from the gardens days earlier. Words always seemed difficult for him to say, their intention difficult for him to convey, so unlike herself. But his deeds - his intentions behind them were unquestionable.

—

Left alone with Benedict, Sophie carefully laid down beside him. Nothing could compel her to leave him tonight. He hadn’t shown any change since they had given him the tea. The only sounds in the room were his agonized breaths. She ran her fingers across his brow and down his face. His features were sunken, like a specter of the husband she knew. She continued down his arm to grasp a limp hand and press it to her stomach, ever so slightly rounded. She allowed herself to hope that somehow it would help him wake if he could feel his child. If he was reminded of the person most dependent upon him. But still, he did not stir.

She held his hand in place, stroking it with her thumb, and pressed her forehead against his cheek. She was worn through with grief and exhaustion. She had no words for him. She had spoken them already, or they were sentiments that she could not bring herself to say. She could not utter a goodbye or imagine that he would never hold their child in his arms. The cloud of such thoughts hovered at the edge of her mind but she fought not to focus on it and to focus instead on the fact that he was still breathing.

In God’s hands. She didn’t know if God’s hands were to be trusted and so she held him in her own. Curling herself around him she laid her head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, rapid and thready, and the sound of it forced more tears from her eyes. How many times had he pressed her hand against it and told her it beat only for her? How many times had he told her it was hers entirely? If the song of his blood was dedicated to her she would listen to it, even if it was drawing to an end.

Despite how she fought to stay awake, sorrow had exhausted her to her very bones. She had no energy left to fight or to hope or to sob. All she could do was cling to her husband, the love of her life, her very soul, and drift into the uneasy dark willing this nightmare to end.

When Sophie did not respond to his knock on the door, Anthony opened it slowly and peered into the room. Something clenched within him when he saw her lying with Benedict, her face still sad despite that she was asleep. He would not wake her. Quietly, he moved to the bedside chair and studied his brother. Gaunt and pale, his face sheened with perspiration, Benedict somehow appeared older and the sight made the Viscount shudder.

He was still replaying their last conversation in his mind, haunted by the weight of his brother’s words. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe that they were the last he would hear Benedict say, but a dark whisper from within was chastising him for not responding with a goodbye. How does one say goodbye to a younger brother? To a best friend?

Eloise’s recollections gripped him too. He was well aware of his own role within their family and its accompanying limitations. He was charged with steering the ship. He hadn’t seen what his closest brother had done after their father died because he had been too crushed by his own responsibilities and anguish. But a latent part of him also knew, however much he failed to acknowledge or celebrate it, that Benedict was the beating heart of their family and that he himself was not the man capable of healing wounds of grief.

His siblings were not children anymore. They didn’t need bedtime stories and games. But he couldn’t fathom the yawning pain they would all feel if faced with another loss of such magnitude. And he would be left this time to shoulder that grief alone, and for an even larger family. Protector to a widowed sister. Uncle to a fatherless child. What could he offer to dry their tears? What remedy would prevent them from feeling entirely fractured? What would he do if the heart of their family actually stopped beating?