Work Text:
Colin Bridgerton met his wife when he was ten years old.
It was a flash of red, a flurry of freckles, and the pain of impact as he tumbled to the ground. There, she knocked the breath out of him, and he dared say it never returned. As he looked up, his view was of the sunlight, filtered through the girl’s auburn hair.
“I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, as sincere as any eight year old who had done something wrong. Her pretty blue eyes were sorrowful, and he decided the emotion didn’t suit her well.
“Whatever for?” he replied, smiling charmingly (he hoped), “I’m right as rain.”
She lit up at that. He showed off his new lyre, fresh from his birthday the previous week, and the song he had begun to learn. It was pitchy and the timing was off, and she was so very enchanted she didn’t seem to notice.
“You should meet my mama!” She had taken him out, and was sat with his siblings a little further down the river bank. “Come, quickly.”
He took off, the dried grass scratching at his bare feet. Penelope followed.
“Mama, mama!”
Violet looked around, spotting her son barrelling towards her. Stretching her arms out, she caught him into a hug as he reached her.
“You need to meet Penelope!”
But he was alone. Violet, used to Benedict and Francesca’s rotation of imaginary friends, turned to the spot beside Colin and smiled serenely. “Hello, Penelope, dear.”
Colin turned, his chest puffed out that his mama was so willing to accept Penelope. Wait.
“Mama, that is not Pen-”
For the second time that day, the smaller redhead ran into him. This time he was a little more prepared, bracing himself so as not to fall.
“Oh, Colin,” Violet laughed, “you must not run. Penelope here has much littler legs than you.” And right she was. Penelope, barely reaching Colin’s shoulders, had been at least half a step behind at all times.
Since then, Colin kept hold of Penelope’s hand, wherever they went.
—
Colin Bridgerton lost his wife when he was twenty four years old.
She had fallen ill, a little after giving birth to Agatha, their first daughter. At first, it had not seemed too serious, a sore throat and lethargy. But it had persisted, her immunity unprepared to fight back. Each day, her moves grew slower, her eyes still bright but exhausted. Colin had made her laugh every day for the fourteen years he knew her, and it was his favourite sound on the planet. When she was healthy, full and hearty, her face pinkened with the exertion. When she was sick it was just as sweet but weaker, weezier until it became a cacophony of coughs.
The illness took her slowly, giving him plenty of time to prepare. And yet he was not prepared.
She passed one evening, in her sleep. Colin had awoken that morning, his wife cold in his arms and knew. He tried to pretend he was still asleep, not knowing what to do or how to react. He gripped her tighter, as though he could warm her once again in his arms, and wept.
Eventually, Agatha’s cries joined her fathers from the nursery. When he looked back on his life, he had made many mistakes. None made him feel as much guilt as how long he had let his darling daughter cry until he could bring himself to let go of her mother, untangle himself and tend to her. He knew this was the last embrace they would ever share. Last night, as weak as she was, she had reached for him, accepted his comfort as she drifted off to sleep. After he cared for Agatha, he could return and pull her body to his, but it wouldn’t be the same. It was her body , not her.
Tiptoeing down the hall to the nursery, he kept his footsteps light. He picked up Agatha, swaddled her in a blanket and whispered his good mornings to her. As a rule, he was a loud man; he played the lyre, his voice boomed and so did his footsteps. Somehow, though, this moment felt quiet. He thought perhaps, the softness of silence, of Agatha’s woolen blanket, would protect her from the harshness of the day.
Soon, she would realise her mama was not coming to wake her and Colin would have to figure out how to handle that. She was only a babe, half a year old. Recently, Eloise had visited after visiting the countryside for a few weeks and Agatha seemed clueless to her favourite Aunt’s identity. Would she remember her mama? Would she know where her soft crimson curls came from?
She could not forget. She would not.
They couldn’t handle it without Penelope, any of it. He had to get her back.
—
Violet didn’t live far from her son, so him appearing in the morning was a regular occurrence. What wasn’t as regular was him appearing without his wife attached to his side.
It became clear when he collapsed into her, as he had done the day he had met Penelope.
“She’s gone.” He gasped out between sobs, clinging to his mother like a child twenty years younger. She took Agatha, depositing her wicker cradle nearby, before letting her son’s tears soak through her shirt.
“Darling,” she murmured, her own voice unstable with suppressed tears. Penelope had been as good as a daughter to her since they met, attached to Colin or Eloise endlessly. She took a shaky breath, resisting the urge to join her son in his wailing. He needed her now.
—
The sun scorched the ground, the thin material of Colin’s shoes doing nothing to help. He had been walking for hours, Agatha kept obliviously at her Grandmother’s, and his feet had been aching for the majority of the time. That said, he had not noticed much. Everything, even the pain, felt less. The sun, while scorching, was just a star, and the colours of the world around him seemed less saturated. All he could feel were his own breaths, heavier than ever. It was as though, when Penelope died, she returned the breath she had knocked out of him that day they met and now there was too much air to keep in. He gasped, he sobbed, he contained himself, and then he repeated the whole process.
Villagers turned to look as he passed by, his lyre beneath his arm. Being a small community, many had known Penelope was ill, so they probably knew. Still, no one stopped him. He did not want the company, or the compassion, of any one. There was only one person he needed.
He kept walking until the village became the countryside and the morning became the evening. As the sun began to set through the trees, he caught sight of a cave. It was an unassuming thing, the opening barely taller than him and shaded by the looming trees around it. And yet, it seemed as though something was inside of it. He couldn’t tell, almost an imperceptible glow from the depths, only seen from his peripheral vision as he turned to walk away. The crickets, which had been chirping happily all day, fell silent as he approached the gaping darkness.
It was cold inside. Damp, too. Despite this, and despite finding nothing of note, he kept walking. He took a deep breath, unsure if the cave smelt oddly salty or if it was simply the remnants of his tears clinging to his raw skin. Perhaps he was led by curiosity, or simply wishing to distance himself from the events of the day. Every step he took was a step away from reality, from his life alone. The cave split off into many routes, and he took whichever felt right at the time, unworried as to if he could find his way out. He would either live or die; he couldn’t find it in him to care much which.
The cave opened out abruptly into a much wider space. Cavernous walls echoed his footsteps, but something else too. It wasn’t the crickets or the locusts, which had fallen surprisingly quiet since he entered the cave. Honestly, everything had fallen silent when he got here; he could not think of one sound he had heard in the last few hours apart from his own footsteps. The sound persisted. It was soft, like calm waves upon the shore or someone gently dragging their fingertips across a pond’s surface.
As he often did when alone, he reached for his lyre. He plucked at the strings, hesitant at first, trying to replicate the gentle sounds without disturbing them. The cave was its own beast, he was simply the man who walked into its maw and followed his way down. His mind often quietened when he was playing, allowing his fingers to take control, and so they did. The song changed, from something soft and completive to something lower. A mourning song.
When he ceased playing, he noticed the sounds of water were louder. Whilst he had been sure he was alone when he entered this place, he was less certain now. Sometimes, you can feel when someone is hovering behind you. You cannot see them, or hear them, but you know that they are there.
The air whistled as he spun around. Nothing.
But when he turned back, the darkness of the cave was not as oppressive as it had once been. He could make out shapes and shadows, as if a fire was roaring just around the corner. And in front of him was a lake. The inky water seemed to extend forever, but perhaps he could simply not see the other shore.
Your fare? Some strange source whispered.
What was that? The scene had shifted in the last few minutes, since he began his melancholy tune, from a blanket of darkness to a semblance of reality. He was in some situation, and yet he had no idea what.
“Pardon?” he called out, his voice scratchy from disuse.
Your fare?
The voice repeated, sounding more like a whistle in the wind than a person’s voice. Colin reached for his breeches, finding a few gold coins. Unsure what to do with them, he threw one to the water and listened as it splashed and sunk.
Something took him by the hand. Not another person, it felt more so like someone had tied a rope to his wrist and tugged him forwards. He kept walking until the ground felt unsteady, swaying beneath him, at which point he sat. Glancing around in the dim light, he realised the ground around him was water, he had made his way into a small sailboat. The thing drove itself, almost as if it were following Colin’s example from earlier, summoned to some strange place and hopeless to stop it.
When the boat did stop, at the edge of the lake, it was brighter. Well, he could see at least. He couldn’t remember leaving the cave, but he must have, for fields spread as far as the eye could see. Yet, there was something strange about this place. The colours before had seemed dimmed, but here they truly were. The fields had a monotonous grey tone to them, as if passed through a filter. It was almost as if a soft wind would blow away the land itself. Colin, who had always been a big, imposing man, felt it particularly as his every footstep set off a cloud of dust from the impact. The sun, which had been so scorching, was absent. The skies were as grey as the ground.
And, in the distance, was a tower.
It stood tall upon a hill, the houses in the town below all turned to face it. Colin supposed that if he were to get any answers, he should begin there. With that thought, he started towards it. The air was heavy, but not warm, akin to wading through shallow water. Maybe nothing would come of this. Maybe he would turn around and life would be the same as how he left it that morning (in tatters). Likely, it would be.
But something felt different. Not just the air, or the colours, or the cave, but in him. Absent-mindedly, he plucked at his lyre as he journeyed. Normally, Penelope would be at his side, humming along to whatever tune he landed on. With his hands preoccupied, she would rest her dainty hand in the crook of his arm. A soft pressure, a reassurance of her presence. If he tried hard enough, he could convince himself the denser air almost felt the same.
When he reached the tower, the door was unmanned. The place, seemingly rather regal, had no security in place. He walked the halls, decked out in treasures which should glimmer but didn’t have sufficient light to do so. Eventually, he found a larger room, and inside of it two people. They seemed to be the most solid things there, the woman having bright flowers woven into her hair. The man spoke first.
“You are lost.”
He was technically right. Colin didn’t know where he was, but he felt he was supposed to be there. Even if it was a tower he didn’t own that he had barged into carelessly.
“How do you presume?” He replied, perhaps a little too smug.
“You are alive.”
Colin chuckled humourlessly. He was very rarely reminded of such a fact of life, and for someone to bring it up on today of all days. Irony was not always kind.
“You do not understand,” the woman added placatingly, perhaps seeing the slight annoyance in Colin’s stance. “We are not. You should not be here, should not have found this place.”
His head tilted, not sure what the woman meant.
“I only followed the cave.”
The man scoffed.
“Oh, and I’m guessing you bribed that bastard Charon to take you across the river.”
Colin was a little taken aback. The man hadn’t seemed openly hostile, but he did seem disgruntled to see him.
“I mean, I threw a coin into the lake, if that counts.”
He was beginning to become unsure as to whether he should be there. Actually, that’s a lie. He was beginning to feel like he should be unsure as to whether he should be there, but bone deep he knew something was here for him.
The two muttered between themselves- how did he even get to the lake- but eventually turned back.
“Your music was lovely when you arrived.”
“Thank you, miss.” He had not expected the compliment, thinking they had likely not heard him approach, but he had been raised with manners.
“What are you mourning?”
“My wife. I- she,” his voice cracked. “She was everything to me. I dreamed of her most nights, and missed her the nights I did not. And now she is gone.” His voice faltered once again, the gone coming out more like go, but the two seemed to understand.
The man’s gaze softened, as he glanced over to his companion. Perhaps his wife, but Colin could only guess.
“What was her name?” he prompted.
“Penelope.”
“A strong name. My wife rather liked your music, could you resume?”
And so he did. This day had been so strange, his grief so pronounced and yet the confusion almost seemed to dull it. It was as if he had cut himself and bled green- yes, it would still hurt, but he’d take a moment to question the green of it all.
The couple spoke in hushed voices. Colin wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t been asked to play so that he couldn’t eavesdrop.
Another man entered the room frantically. He was dressed as a guard, but Colin didn’t know what he was guarding if not the entrance.
“Hades, my lord, we need…”
He didn’t stop speaking but Colin had stopped listening. This was Hades. He was right, he shouldn’t be here. Penelope shouldn’t be here. But she was, he bet. He bet that incessant tugging sensation had been pulling him to her. His wife, no longer his but still somewhere. A sense of hope flickered to life in his chest.
When the guard left, so did Colin’s sense of dignity.
“Please, if there is something you can do for my wife, I implore you.” Tears welled in his eyes. “She is only young, two years my junior. It is not– can not be – her time.We had a babe, not seven months ago–”
The woman hushed him with a palm to his cheek, which he leant into. She sighed, as though she hated to have this conversation. As though she had already had this conversation, times over.
“Dear boy, life and death do not concern themselves with fairness. If she has gone, that is the end of her time. I’m very sorry.”
His breath hitched. He turned himself away from the couple as he succumbed to sobs once again, hunching over. The hope he had found, the warmth he had felt, had been ripped away.
“She has not yet crossed the river.”
Colin stopped mid sob. He inhaled.
“What do you mean?”
The man– Hades– hesitated, looking towards his own wife. Then he snapped his fingers, and they heard footsteps from just outside the door. Familiar footsteps, a tiny bit slower than his own. They faltered down, seeming uncertain. Well, he would be uncertain too, if Hades had summoned him from the cave.
“Stay turned away.”
He did, unwilling to anger the man and have the footsteps fade back into silence.
“You must not look at her, the whole time.” He added. “You will take her hand, and lead her out of this place. Do not turn back until you are both safely out of the cave.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Soon, the door creaked open. The footsteps grew louder, and there was a little gasp. Unmistakably Penelope. He kept his eyes averted, and clutched her hand tight when she placed it in his.
As the two lovebirds left, another wife turned to her husband.
“Why would you let them go? I thought you couldn’t change fate.”
Hades, knowing she was right, and knowing the man would never complete his task, simply sighed.
—
Her hand was soft and small, like satin beneath his fingertips. They always had been, with Colin handling the heavy duty tasks. He liked it better that way, keeping his wife out of harm’s way. Well, he had done. If Penelope was destined to die from a nasty fall or a pricked finger, she would have lived at least as long as her husband.
Despite how soft her hands were, they were not the same as they once had been. They were cold. Penelope did tend to run colder than Colin, who would cradle her hands between his during the winter, blowing hot breaths in an attempt to warm them. He didn’t think this would work this time, however. Even so, the pressure was comforting. It was as if a gap had been filled.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
Her voice was sweet and lilting, a sound he thought he would never hear again. Sadness wove its way between the syllables, and he realised this was the first time he had held her hand without checking for her since the day they met and he had run off without her.
“I cannot. I was told I can take you home only if I don’t look at you.”
“Oh.”
She seemed appeased, if a little confused by the terms. He decided not to think more of it, simply relishing in their luck, and she must have done the same as she didn’t mention it again.
The walk back was similar to the one there, in the sense that it was dark, cold, and long. Somehow, with a companion by his side it didn’t feel as such. A set of echoing footsteps as his company did wonders for the spirit. Whilst he knew it was not true, he had always considered Penelope a ray of sunshine, brightening each room she walked into. Now was no different, even her presence made the cave less dingy, his footsteps bouncier.
But now there were actual rays of sunlight. The caves entrance came into view, and they were almost back. Gripping her hand tighter, Colin began to climb up. It wasn’t a particularly steep hill, it was just that the moss made the uneven ground a little precarious. He could feel the warmth on his skin, feel the warmth returning to Penelope’s hand.
He stepped outside.
Gasp. Thud.
Spinning around, he went to check what was wrong. Bless her, Penelope had always been a little clumsy.
Oh no. Oh, God.
She was still in the cave, she had fallen backwards. Her eyes widened, and glazed with unshed tears, met his. Acting quickly, as though he could outrun his mistake, he reached forwards to grab her.
Pulling her into his arms, he gripped her tightly. She held on, her fingertips indented in his arms.
The sunlight, which she had not been destined to see again, was harsh on her cooled skin. It felt itchy, as though she had been exposed to the cold for too long. Still, in her husband’s embrace, she registered no discomfort.
They didn’t have much time. They had taken more than was freely given already. Still, Penelope pulled back just a hair to stare at her husband; she was unsure if she wanted to spend her last moments watching him or holding him. Taking a shaking breath, he pressed a kiss into her hair.
“You should get home to Agatha.”
Her voice came out stronger than she expected. Perhaps because it was the truth. He should. Selfishly, she wanted nothing less. She wanted him to stay there, in some state of limbo with her until he could join her properly. But she had a child, a family, who he needed to care for. Her sweet girl, who she would never see again. A tear rolled down her cheek, her first.
He cradled her face, wiping it away.
“I will, just- just another moment.”
Firmly, she pressed her lips to his. One last kiss, one more moment. Then she would go. As she turned to walk away, as her blood began to cool and her movements weakened, he pressed something into her hand. A shining gold coin.
“For the fare.”
And she was back in the cave.
A guttural wail wretched itself from Colin, as he fell to his knees. He had been so close. She had been, but half a footstep behind him. And now she was gone again. He crashed his lyre to the floor, that stupid bloody thing that he only kept learning to impress her.
The walk home felt even longer than the one there. On the way there, he had no hope, no colour, and that hadn’t changed. Actually, it had changed. But now it had changed back once again and he was as lost as he was that morning. When he returned home, saw his mama and his daughter, he held them both tightly enough that not even death would wrench them from his grasp.
Agatha, excited to see her father, giggled up at him, her mother’s blue eyes shining with happiness. He would have to be enough to keep her happy now, to make her remember the woman she mirrored.
And he was. For all of Agatha’s life, he made sure to walk half a stride behind her if they ever held hands.
One night, as he was drifting off, he dreamt of a light and a cave. As he ventured in, he collected the pieces of his lyre, and collected his wife. Her hand fit as perfectly in his as he remembered, and he liked the dream so much he didn’t wake up.