Edited

Autumn of 1870

The blue light of dawn shines on Anne's wrists, making them glow a pale, milky white. The veins stand out, blue and prominent. She thinks of the blood that runs in them. How nice it would feel to... she does not continue the thought.

She has not slept at all since her Eleanor left, despite how exhausted she feels. She hasn't done anything but think and think and think when she should have been sleeping, but truly, what else is there to do? When someone that has constantly tormented you since childhood calls you yet another derogatory name, the only human response was to think, but Anne's mind had taken it too far once again.

Squinting, she studies the paleness of her skin in the blue light, before looking over to the fireplace. She sighs.

This too, shall pass. Anne knows the true meaning of the phrase, but that does not stop her from thinking about it, nor does that thought stop her from wanting to curl up under her bed and wait for her body to turn into dust. Somehow, the thought is more comforting than anything else her mind tried to show her.

It would be months before she could see him again, but once she did, he would be all hers. Until then, she couldn't bother him, despite how much she needs him. He has to deal with more important things. Things that are more important than her.

No, stop. Don't say that, she thinks, but it is too late. Her poisonous mind whispers, But is not that all you do? You always bother him. If you sent him a letter now, he will tell you that you are a nuisance and you are bothering him while he studies.

She thinks of him; happy with his schoolmates, the troublesome sick thing he has for a best friend confined to her bedchamber, at the back of his mind. It is better that way, but good things are not always easy. He wouldn't be smiling if she made him comfort her, would he? No. No he wouldn't. And that is her answer. He is happy without her. She could think of nothing to counter that notion with.

Regardless, she knows that he is the only one who can help her. No one else knew how to make her laugh. He could protect her from the malice people had begun to treat her with. They had found out that she had epilepsy, and now it had begun to ruin her life. Rumors flew around that her father was a demon. She does not know. Her mother had told her that he had left when she was a baby. She is possessed, they claimed. She needs to be hanged, drowned, burned like a witch... She knows that eventually, her inheritance would be taken from her. She wouldn't be allowed to marry.

A tear drops onto her lap. What good are her and Ray's promises to each other, then? Only you. No one else, they had sworn to each other when they were young; hands wound tightly around the other's. She buries her face in her hands as the thought of her living alone forever seeps into her mind. Ray would tire of her tears. He would marry someone else. He would forget about her. Irrational, her conscience whispers, He loves you. You love him. You know that. but a tiny, toxic voice fired back, He will tire of you soon. You are just an ill little girl that no one will miss. She has to stop overthinking things, but the dark voice in her has a point, oftentimes. Raymond would be better off without her. Happier. Why does she lean on him so much?

"I am something to him. I am not just a problem," she whispers shakily, even if it were true. She was epileptic. Nothing but an invalid. An abomination in everyone's eyes. Except Raymond's.

When they were children, he had told her that he did not care whether or not she was ill. When her first doctor had given her the wrong medication for years, Raymond had taken care of her and prevented her from developing another illness. He had introduced her to his Aunt Eleanor.

Back when her condition was worse, she could not even bring herself to finish threading together a single flower crown. She had been a pale, sickly thing, so no one took much notice of her, but Raymond had been different. When she was forced to come back indoors, Raymond stayed behind to finish the flower crowns she had started on. He learned how to weave the loveliest of them, often with several different flowers, and he placed them on her head the moment he was finished. He had painstakingly learned how to braid flowers into her hair.

He would kiss her cheek and whisper wedding vows into her ear when they had gotten older. He would still do it once or twice every summer. All because she had let what she actually thought of herself come out of her mouth. She told him that she thought herself ugly and worthless, so he stayed with her and valued her and constantly reminded her how he claimed she should see herself. Lovely beyond anything else. Perhaps Raymond needed spectacles.

She looks at the old flower crowns. She had pressed them to keep them from ever fully wilting, placed them in glass frames and hung them all about her bedroom walls. They remind her of those nice summers spent by the lake. Looking at them brings back memories of shared kisses and the loveliest words that would never escape her memory. Lady Arianne Beaumont-Howard is the best of them.

When he kissed her, he made her feel like she was not an outcast, like she belonged with someone. That she belonged with him. Her heart quakes. She is dragging him down. No one needed to be associated with her, but she cannot bring herself to push him away. Every time he tells her that he loved her, she believes him. Trusts him. He is the only one who understands her, and it scares her. She does not want him to be unhappy because of her. She wants him to live a full life.

She loves him more than anything, so she decides to give him a chance, and it was worth it, for she would be free as well.

Once, she had dreamt of herself. She hung from a chandelier, both wrists slit, one holding a red-hot, bloodstained fire poker. She had hung herself and cut her wrists open.

Now, she looks at the fire, tying a blanket around her throat and decides to make that dream a reality. She leaps from her bed, driving the fire poker she had taken across her hands. The horrible sizzle of skin is welcome. Her feet sways as blood drips onto the floor below. Everything stops. Thick, inky red teardrops fall to the floor. Anne is done crying her eyes dry. Her blood can take the place of her tears.

Raymond sighs, slumping his shoulders forward.

For the third time in five minutes, he looks out the only window in his entire dormitory chamber. The view still does not change. The tree stump lies unmoving, and the solitary sheep continuing to munch grass.

Relish it, little sheep, Raymond thinks as he taps his pencil impatiently against the oakwood of his desk. The chill of winter has already begun to set in, despite it being barely November. It makes him long to spend Christmas with Anne. He wants to push her around in a sled. He wants for them to be able to throw clumps of snow at each other as they had done when they were children. Well, at least until Anne claimed that the tingling in her spine had started again, or until Raymond's own vision began to dim as his lungs struggled for air. Either way, they would end up cuddling by the fireplace, perhaps an open book sprawled before them. Those memories hurt. He misses her.

He imagines her as idle as he was, perhaps lying on her bed and looking up at that mural on her ceiling. Drawing one of her lovely artworks or singing long-forgotten love songs in dead languages while she braids her hair.

Stricken with a horrible bout of longing, he rests his chin on top of his desk and begins to read through her old letters, pushing a small box around with the edge of his pencil. Imagining Anne speaking the words she had written is almost as good as hearing her truly speak, but he still misses her voice. And her smile. And how she laughs, and how she makes him laugh- dear Lord, he misses her everything. His eyes sting with tears.

Staring out the window again, Raymond lets a small smile cross his features as the sheep grazes. That sheep has always been a constant distraction, and he was thankful for it whenever he thought of Anne.

Pushing the small box around his desk again, he decides to write to her, despite the likeliness that he would arrive before the letter. His father is on his way to their estate in Durham, he claims, but Ray knows that the duke would stay with his sister, therefore taking up a vacation residence at Ravensworth Castle. He envies that the Duke would see Anne first.

Anne,

You cannot begin to imagine how unbearable these past few days have been.

Please do not think to throttle me for this, but I miss you rather terribly. It is so tedious that I cannot stop thinking of anything but you, and how you surely must be having a more wonderful time than I am. At least your mathematics lessons are not mandatory. And you are actually able to solve the problems.

By the time this letter has reached you, I am certain that Papa has already arrived. He is as sorry as I am for surprising you (or, in my case, currently trying to surprise you), it was all my idea. To make for a sufficient apology, I have bought you a Christmas gift I am sure you will adore, and a little something to make sure you do not stay angry at me, well, if you are angry for being surprised like that. It is always hard to tell with you.

Raymond opened the box, satisfied with a fleeting glimpse of the ring it contained. It would replace the bland silver ring she always wore, which he had left her as a promise of sorts. Anne was never one for jewelry, but he was sure she would adore it, especially since the ring would come with a little something that would allow them to carry out what they had planned as children. Yes, a proposal. After so many years. He certainly hopes that it will not turn out as horribly as the time he had tried to propose to her when they were eleven. Now that was a story. It took him hours to wash the caramel from his hair.

He runs his hands through his hair. He misses her too much. The only comforting thought he has is that by the end of the year, she would be Arianne Lucinda Elspeth Beaumont-Howard. Laughing wistfully to himself, he thinks, Yes. I would be giving her a longer name, but what else do I have to offer her?

Ever since they were children, he never understood why she smiled when he did seemingly the most mundane of things, yet seeing her smile always made him happy in a way he has never, in more than a decade, grown tired of. He intends to marry her so that he can keep her close and make sure she is always happy. His own happiness is entwined with hers.

On some days, he has to pause to believe that someone as wonderful as Anne chooses to dance with him every single time, even though she easily could have swapped the dance card he had filled up with his name years ago.

He is amazed at how someone like her smiled simply because he told her that her dress was lovely, or because he had held her hand. He never thought that when he had confessed his love for her all those years ago, she would tell him that she loved him back.

Suddenly, he feels a pang of lovesickness worse than the previous one. He wants to be able to kiss her and watch her as she plays the piano, climbs a tree and did whatever it was that made him love her so damn much.

This week has been so bloody unbearable because I long for you horribly, he writes.

Everytime I hear a word of Greek, I think of you and I cannot focus because my thoughts stay with you and only come back when I am fast asleep, dreaming that I am holding you when in fact, my pillow is no longer under my head and I have fallen halfway to the floor. That is how much I miss you. I am sorry to keep this letter short, but I might run out of things to talk about with you if, in my excitement, I end up writing a novel about all of the tedious things I have done in this pit of boredom, despair, and severe lack of a certain Miss Arianne, and subjecting you to read such a bland piece of work. I hope you are faring much better than I am.

Yours even after this longing consumes me,
Ray

Back at Ravensworth Castle, there is barely any sunlight as of yet when Eleanor thinks to check on Anne.

Yawning, she takes the breakfast tray from the maid and puts a small pot of salve on it, just in case the swelling from Anne's bruise has not yet ceased.

She expects Anne to still be asleep, perhaps drawing on her desk or writing musical scores because she might have woken up too early. After knocking without a response, Eleanor opens the door and immediately drops the tray.

A faulty makeshift noose hangs from the chandelier, untied. Anne is on the floor, a pool of blood seeping into her dress and staining her skin. She is rasping, struggling to breathe. Her eyes are barely opened.

Eleanor screams for help at the top of her lungs.