Edited

Autumn of 1870

Anne spends the next several hours alone, door locked and bolted. The autumn chill spreads across her body, but she remains in one corner, hugging her knees to her chest. Even if it isn't so close to winter, she is sure that she had never felt so cold.

Madness. That is what her mother calls it. She had heard her arguing about sending her to an asylum with Eleanor. Anne looks at her nails, no blood staining them, but there might as well have been. Her mother is right. She does not even know what to do anymore. Everything is just darkness. Nothing she can ever climb out of. The worst part is that she does not even feel any guilt towards hurting Raymond, or screaming at George and Eleanor. As a matter of fact, she does not even feel anything. She feels empty, yet she wants to claw out of her own skin. Aren't those the kinds of people that are committed to madhouses?

It could just be the sleeping draught that addles her mind, but Anne finds that she can barely even remember her own name. It scares her. Scares her just like those dreams of claws and blood do. Especially with all that laudanum. She has just woken up from a nightmare about bloodstained claws and fangs tearing her apart piece by piece until there was nothing left. In that dream, she knew death. And she is glad that she survived her wounds.

Raymond. He was in the nightmare too. She remembers his cold eyes, foreign and cruel, as she calls out to him. He left her defenseless. He was the one that left her to be torn apart by those demons in the first place. There is nothing to console her. Her memories are so fragmented that she cannot remember what he did to make her smile when she was sad. In that moment, he is just a monster conjured up by her mind to leave her to die.

Hot tears cloud her vision, not that there is anything much to see aside from shadows.

Then she hears a rapping at her window. It is the complex knock that only Raymond knew. Three, three, two, one, three. The beat is familiar. As the window is always unlocked, he slides in, years of experience behind him. That dark, insane part of her mind cries out. It tells her so shove him out the window, to try and carve his eyes out. She doesn't. He might have been a monster in her dream, but his stormy eyes look nothing like a demon's in the faint candlelight.

"Anne? You're not... You're not feeling better, are you?" His voice sounds defeated, though his smile remains. She can see it in the faint moonlight. Anne wants to throw her arms around him, but she is scared of those horrible feelings of hate and terror coming back. She is scared of hurting him.

She shakes her head, not moving even as he walks towards her. What is the right thing to do after she had tried to tear him to shreds? Why is he even there? Her tears have stopped, but there is still nothing but emptiness inside her. Not even agony. Not even the agony she deserved.

He settles in front of her, setting down the leather satchel he only ever brought around when he went up through her window.

Smoothing her matted hair back with his fingers, he sighs.

"I wish I could say something, do something to make you feel better, but I can't. I don't know. For once... Anne, I just don't know."

Anne's eyes snap shut. She has heard him cry before, seen him as broken as could be, but this is different. It feels as if he were breaking apart without any hope of pulling himself back together. All because of her.

Weakly, she embraces him. Takes in his familiar scent and tries her best not to collapse back into soundless, strangled sobs. It is a miracle, how she manages to keep herself together. There is a small flicker of an emotion she cannot place as Raymond leans into her arms, knees straining against the hardwood floors as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. She strokes his dark curls.

"Would it be all right if you... if we just stayed like this?" He feels her nod. This is the most peaceful it has been since the last summer he had seen her. For once, he doesn't fear for her life.

"We met like this, don't you remember?" The hand she uses to stroke his hair with falters for a moment, before he feels her relax.

"You shoved me to the floor when I was eight summers. I had just rescued you from a fit after you came in during a storm, and you were so angry." He laughs, recalling the memory of seeing the green fire in her eyes for the first time. She had been seven, and she was already a force to be reckoned with. "And then you tried to leave Arundel Castle on your own, and I followed you. When your mother eventually found you, I climbed in through your window that same evening and gave you some sweets, and, well... It's been Anne and Ray for as far back as I can remember."

He hears her chuckle softly, though bitterly.

"Anne, I know that things won't be the way they used to be for a long time, if not forever, but I just want you to know that I will always be here for you. I know that you would do the same for me, but it's not about that. It's just that... I don't know if this world would continue to mean anything if you tried again and... succeeded."

She spells out one word on his back, her fingers trembling with the effort.

S-o-r-r-y.

Shaking his head, Raymond takes hold of her other hand, covered with a thick bandage. Still, Anne laces their fingers together tightly.

"Don't be sorry, kataigída," he pauses to think of something to make her feel better. "No one could ever blame you for being human. The only thing on my mind right now is how confused you still must feel. You need to get all of that off your chest. Tell me anything. No secrets. You know you can trust me."

He pulls away momentarily to see her reaction.

Hand flying up to her bandaged throat, he realizes why she has been so quiet the whole time.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I... I forgot. You've always been so chatty, that's... I-I brought a quill and some paper, let me just..." he trails off, opening the satchel to reveal a haphazardly corked inkwell, a quill, and a worn, leather-bound journal. He hands them to her as she rights herself, moving closer to him.

Ask is the first word written. It is in shaky print.

Try as he might, he cannot bring himself to ask her why. He does not want to push her too far. Not while her wounds were still open, at least.

"What can I do to help you?"

Anne shrugs, gaze landing on the floor. Her shoulders slump down. Usually, she would be demanding and order him to go and fetch her some fairy cakes doused in unicorn tears after a particularly bad cry. That, or he would face the consequences. But now? She cannot even eat or speak and make him go fetch impossible things or send him on the strangest errands. He isn't even sure if she has it in her to smile.

"I brought your favourite book, if that helps." He produces a gilded tome from the satchel, something that was a nightmare to bring with him as he scaled the slippery marble. Anything to make her smile again, he supposes.

Anne's eyes light up as she beholds the book of Greek tragedies they grew up reading together. He used to read it out to her whenever she felt particularly downtrodden. She loved how he changed the endings. She still loves it.

"I suppose I'll have to go through the entire book tonight, hm? We won't be sleeping."

Thank you, she scrawls on the journal, tracing the letters on the book's cover with a stiff finger. Surely, they have both memorized the whole thing a long time ago, but seeing it still makes Anne as close to giddy as she can get. All those horrible thoughts are gone, replaced by nights spent with Ray before the fireplace, reading and reading hours past bedtime. Still, none of it is enough to make her smile.

She allows him to embrace her, one arm around her waist while the other flips open the tome. The last time he had read it to her was right before her presentation to the Queen, nervous as she was. It had been the tale of Eurydice and Odysseus, but he had made the ending better. In the way Raymond made everything better.

"What do you want?" he asks, that easy smile spreading across his face. He pulls her closer, and she lets him, leaning into the warmth that has not failed her in almost a decade.

Pushing the book away, she shakes her head, embracing him tighter. She is lucky to have someone to hold on to, but she does not think that Raymond is lucky to be a shoulder to cry on. He deserves better.

There are so many things she wants to tell him but cannot. She cannot speak, and even if she could, she would still not be able to find the right words, but she wants him to speak. Years of reading each other bedtime stories on cool summer nights made his voice synonymous with comfort and warmth to her. On the journal, she writes two words: speak and song.

He runs his hand through her hair.

"I am not mad, if that is what you are thinking. I would take you feral over you dead any day. Honestly, I wish that I could take care of you like this forever. It's... nice, isn't it? Not having to count down the days we spend together for once? But I'd rather you be without the injuries."

She nods weakly, stroking his cheek. She sees him wince as her bandage grazes his neck.

"It will be like this one day. You, me. A nice bedroom in some seaside cottage with a library. Maybe we'd have a baby in a cradle, or maybe your belly would be rounding. That would be perfect. A life of our own with no one putting a limit on our time together."

As faint as the first wisps of sunlight, she can imagine that future, but it is still dim. She can imagine it much clearer with another woman sharing stories with him, though. Another woman making him smile. Perhaps she would be some pretty noble girl. A charming face and a sweet disposition. Raymond would be happier.Her heart seizes momentarily. Just because it was ideal did not mean that it would not hurt.

"It will get better, kataigída. Have a little faith in yourself. We will get through this, but what is more important is that you will get through this. I believe in you."

All of it sounds like lies to her. Still, she forces herself to believe. She needs to find some sort of fibre to hold onto.

Keep talking, she writes, holding the journal up for him to see. All she wants is to hear is his voice. She looks up at the mural on her bedroom ceiling, the one they had painted together. That beacon. Her eyes land on him.

"I... Have I told you that after I finish my schooling, I wanted for Aunt Eleanor to continue to teach me about medical practices?"

Lips curling into something that remotely resembles a smile, she nods. Only a thousand times before. But there is something under his tone. Below that smile. And she does not like it.

"Remember when I tried to memorize all the bones in the body? There was a journal opened on the floor, and you would sprawl out on the carpet for me, but you would not stop laughing. And so I jabbed you here," playfully, he elbows her in the ribs. "And then..." he trails off, a knowing smile on his comely face.

She remembers how those times usually left them kissing and fondling on the carpet. There is a blush that blooms on her cheeks.

Sighing, he takes her hand. His eyes begin to glimmer differently, gaze focusing on the moonlight coming in through the window.

"One day, we will get past this. It-" he falters, voice quivering. He turns away, but not fast enough. She sees the tears falling out of those beautiful eyes. "When we're living by the ocean with a family that's finally complete, all of this will just be a memory."

"Just a memory," she whispers, voice raspy.

But that is exactly why she hates that she did it. Memories were the worst kind of reminder. Imprints left by profound events. And the worst part? They would never leave you.

Memories are why she knows she will remember how he flinched away from her as she lays her bandaged hand over his heart. Memories are why Raymond, her everything, would never be able to look at her the same way.

They are the reason that when she tries again, she knows she has to succeed. She does not care if his world would cease to have meaning. She wants to destroy it so that another world, a better world for him would rise out of the ashes.

She would give him that second chance.