He Bleeds Flame ✔️

27. drifting time

twenty-seven
"Tempus rerum imperator."

DRIFTING TIME

———

Snow dusted the courtyard in a thin sheet of ivory flakes, autumn slipping through William's grasp as it often did. The season faded much too quickly in his humble opinion—it seemed to vanish, like water seeping through cupped hands.

Simply there, and then gone. Only the remnants left behind.

Two weeks had passed since he had kissed Lucien in the closet. Two weeks since the stretched space between them had collapsed. Two weeks, and already, they were parting ways.

In that timeframe, they had barely been together. When they weren't working on their English project—not an often occurrence thanks to Briar Harding—William spent his time forcing himself to catch up on his studies. On the other hand, Lucien poured all his time into his studies. He tutored other students. He studied for hours on end.

And when Lucien wasn't monitored by his father, he escaped to William's room, usually during the later hours of the night. When the hallways were as silent as falling snow. As the moonlit courtyard at midnight.

William spent those quiet, dream-like moments drifting asleep, running his fingers through Lucien's hair as the golden boy slept, exhausted from Briar Harding's demands. He learned Lucien snored when he slept, though just barely. He learned he had not known what true peace felt like; those nights were his favorites. Even exhausted, William's thoughts strayed from the worry about returning home for break, about seeing Mary and not being able to take her pain away, to wake her from the coma. About watching Tom and being unable to convince Mary to leave the bastard.

William spent every waking thought about seeing Mary. It wasn't until a letter had arrived the other day that he felt he could finally breathe. That the weight settled in his chest no longer suffocated him, no longer drowned him.

It read:

My dear William,

I wrote as soon as I was able. The hospital staff would not answer my demands of writing utensils upon waking. However, my first thought was of you.

It is always of you.

I am told I fell down the stairs. I am told I have been out for weeks. I am told much, but I have found it very hard to listen when all my worries surround you. I was so worried, William, that Tom had taken you from the academy, that he had offered you to a new foster family without a chance for me to say my goodbyes, that he had thrown you to the streets.

Nonetheless, I am writing this letter to let you know that I am okay. Tom, for once, does not linger over my shoulder as I write, so I must say all that I have not been able to the past few months.

I love you dearly, and I wish I could have given you better. I know I am not your birth mother; that is something I will never be. I often find myself thinking back to the day you first came to us. Tom was not so terrible then. I wish it were like those days, still.

You do not deserve the pain we have put you through, William. My biggest regret is the pain that I have caused you. I wish I could be a better parent. It is something I will do as much as I can to improve. I am sorry for worrying you. I imagine you felt what I would have if the roles were reversed.