Chapter Text
When I am telling you tales of what happened, of what once was, such ideas are not firm, nor are they fixed; what occurred back then, during those old times of the darkness, although I must admit there were times of great light, too, and happiness-they are vague, dream-like.
In fact, much like the manner in which we imagined Periclean Athens to be, which we drunk so heavily to, back when we were young enough to drink without feeling the full consequences of this behaviour, of course. Not that some of those people whom I associated myself with lived to be the age I am now. Bunny, for example. Henry, too.
Naturally, he was a rather complex character, Henry Winter. Morally ambiguous, to my way of thinking. It cannot be denied that he was, indeed, a murderer. Although none of us particularly took any fondness towards Bunny, prior to his passing, that does not mean to say that what he did was commendable, by any means. It most assuredly was not.
But, I digress. I cannot guarantee that the specific event which I am going to describe will be fully accurate in its depiction; this is the nature of the human memory, and it is a flawed one. However, it is a memory that sticks out on my mind like a ray of light bursting through the clouds above on a chilly October morning. A memory that, regardless of whether I would like this to occur, still haunts me and chills me to the bones to this very day.
The day started, as all days did, with the quiet warmth of the household, the simultaneous solitude and invisible friendship that, on a good day, crackled in the air like a flame, ready to ignite. Ignite it did, but that was not until later on.
It was a day which dawned golden and mild, the sparkling splendour of the sun illuminating all in its path, and casting long, dark shadows across the front porch. Henry had asked me to go on a walk with him, as he often did. Charles was sat skimming through his copy of Virgil's The Aeneid, chuckling good-heartedly at any section that amused him.
Camilla was seated next to him, writing a letter to one of her girl friends, I was told; I assumed she did not take a lover, and because I was not told otherwise, I foolishly believed it to be true. Oh, how wrong I was. Meanwhile, Francis was situated in the next room, struggling through some Greek composition, his pince-nez slipping down intermittently. Bunny, always the least conscientious member of the group, was lost in a deep slumber, having been around to see Marion the night before. None of us minded all that much, really.
And so, that left myself and Henry. His invitation ought to have surprised me, perhaps, due to his often solitary nature. More often than not, the twins were the ones to invite me to outings; occasionally Francis, the hypochondriac of the group, would invite me to his medical appointments, as I believe has been mentioned before. Bunny, too, would invite me to this or that, and at times, to see Marion.
That being said, I had gained quite a rapport with Henry, or so I had liked to think, so his invitation simply made sense to me. I agreed, of course, to this invitation, given that I could have used some company; and, besides that, there was something utterly compelling about the concept of taking a walk on that brilliantly beautiful morning.
It could not have been any later than eight when we set off. His long-legged stride was brisk, and I struggled to keep up with him.
"Follow me," he said. I stared at him inquisitively. "I know a place," he added, with a determination in his eyes that took me aback somewhat.
I said nothing, and my silence was satisfactory enough for Henry that he did not push nor question it, which I was admittedly very glad of.
"Well," I eventually managed, after some time had passed. "Isn't this such a splendid morning?"
Henry nodded, then.
"Hmm, it is. Quite ethereal and effervescent in its beauty, I should think."
To call what Henry felt an appreciation for nature would be a vast understatement; he had almost a spiritual connection with it, as it appeared to me. Nature and Henry, in my mind, on that day, soon became one and the same. His last name was Winter, after all.
What occurred next, in its sheer, glorious vulnerability, was to my utter, utter surprise; an opportunity to see who Henry Winter truly was inside.
After all, who wouldn't want to see that?