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There was once a time when the beaches of Carinholm promised only pure rapture for both Hugh Apiston and Fiona Frauenfeld. Amid its endless sweep of sand and sea lay this sacred, inexplicable sort of magic, one that could neither be found nor replicated anywhere else on the dreary island. It was the perfect haven destined for sweet, innocent lovers such as themselves, who wandered its weathered pier untouched by the atrocities of human nature; their hearts yet to be tainted by the black tar that is another man's cruel sin.
Instead, all they truly knew, in their young and beautifully foolish minds, was this:
Shared laughter louder than the gull's cries as Hugh hauled her into the sea foam, then louder still when Fiona avenged her stolen dignity by splashing water against his jovial face. The way he would sling her over his broad shoulder and spin her in frenzied circles before collapsing onto the sand as she huffed, indignant, against his sun-warmed neck. Sometimes, the pair would race each other right back in (Fiona always won, quick as she was). Though more often, they were content simply where they were, heedless of the early summer chill that left their damp bodies prickling with gooseflesh. Fiona would kiss away the salt clinging to his skin, and Hugh, dizzied with the weight of loving her so very much, could only return the gesture by slipping his hand beneath the hem of her chemise and caressing the bare curve of her hip.
Such memories resurface, unbidden, as Hugh trudges along the very same shoreline.
Only now, for the first time, she does not accompany him. And Birds, it never would have occurred to him otherwise that such a wondrous place could feel so dreadfully empty without her.
Today marks four months since the peculiar children reclaimed their beloved home. Or better yet, four months since peace, at long last, was restored…That is, for all except poor Fiona, who only saw the passage of time as a torturous reminder that she was yet to heal from the savagery inflicted upon her, when all she truly wanted was to heal; to return to her bright, happy self as though everything was perfectly fine. As though it were merely that simple.
Unfortunately, there was no rewriting her narrative; she was born for sorrow.
This sorry truth was proven for the final time after the wights caged and stripped her bare of everything. Her autonomy, her voice, even her will to live — that was what wrecked Hugh most of all, to know that deep down, Fiona wished she hadn't survived that fall only to spend the next hundred lifetimes existing in a body she deemed as ruined. The very same girl who bore unspeakable hardship with her chin held high now wept into her headmistress's shoulder and spoke of her longing to just die already, for that seemed an infinitely kinder fate than surrendering herself to the prison that is her own bed, limbs aching at all hours.
Hugh stoops down to grab a wayward rock and hurl it into the ocean, eyes burning with tears.
He knew of no greater pain than watching her suffer so intensely, and his inability to lift her spirits, to coax more than a forced half-smile from her, made him feel worthless. Because that was his purpose, was it not? To be the court jester, the one who willingly sacrificed his own dignity with dreadful quips and daft antics, all to make those dearest to him laugh. If he could no longer succeed at that much, especially for the love of his life, then that meant he was failing. Not only as a sweetheart, but also as a man.
"Pathetic, is what you are." Hisses the voice nestled in some secret corner of his mind. "Can't even make your girl smile, can you?"
Hugh skids to a halt, hands curling into fists until his knuckles whiten. He takes a deep breath, and another, before diverting his attention to the sky's dappled hues of magenta and orange. For the first time in his life, he finds himself seeking the God who lived somewhere beyond the dying sun.
He never dared to welcome faith into his heart. Truthfully, he believed it to be a waste of his precious time, worrying himself silly over keeping his long-tarnished soul squeaky clean and the like. Besides, Hugh never did consider himself trusting enough to dedicate the trajectory of his every thought, every action to some ancient scripture. But his Fiona was. In fact, she was the most devoted person he never knew, with how she whispered pretty prayers to herself each night, fingers curled lovingly around the copper cross at her breast. Unfathomable hours of her day poured into asking, oh so sweetly, for salvation until her knees grew sore.
All for a God who loved her, yes, but not enough to save her.
The very notion enrages Hugh as he stares into the smug eyes of that very same God he spent years denying the existence of, all so that he could curse Him for permitting the unjust torture of the closest thing this wretched world had to an angel.
"Damn you," he breathes, choking on his own words. Again, he stoops down, this time for a handful of sand, and chucks it into the sky. "Damn you and all your false promises —!"
The familiar sound of a gull's hungry shriek rips Hugh from his fury-induced trance. Wiping fervidly at his damp face, he watches the white bird soar headfirst into the ocean and resurface with a plump fish squirming in its beak. His mind, as it always does nowadays, circles right back to Fiona; the memory of her crouched before those greedy creatures, palm overflowing with blackberries fresh from her garden. When their wings flapped demandingly, she would immediately reach into the pocket of her apron in search of more. Hugh teased her relentlessly for it, claiming she was being taken advantage of. To that, she merely shrugged and said:
"Tá ocras orthu." Though he scoffed, he couldn't deny the way his heart warmed at the sight of her forfeiting her lunch to a bunch of birds, when she herself hadn't even spared so much as a bite for herself.
Fuck. Everything here reminded him of the Fiona before. The one so radiant that her soul itself seemed to overflow and spill with boundless light, even despite — no, because of everything she endured during the famine. And that divine happiness, so beautifully unguarded, revealed itself most when she was here with him, basking in the little joys of eternal summer.
In the way she climbed one of the jagged, sharp-toothed boulders and stood atop it, then cackled from above as Hugh struggled to follow up after her.
In the way she frolicked barefoot against the sand, skirts swishing against her ankles as she took his hand and twirled him about, making a fool out of him; a lovestruck, ogling fool.
In the way she pranced ahead of him to collect seashells, saving the prettiest ones for him.
Hugh reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out a rose-pink scallop, running his quivering thumb along its ridges. This exact one was tucked in his palms nearly twenty years ago, coy smile tugging at Fiona's lips as she whispered:
"A pretty shell for a pretty man."
It is in that moment of fond remembrance that the idea strikes Hugh dumb.
Could it be that the cure for her perpetual misery was not his feeble acts of service, nor his poor attempts at humor, but rather granting her a change of scenery from the confines of her own bedroom? To take her to the place where, for decades, nothing but bliss lived for the two of them? It was anything but a poor idea, he thought to himself — no, forget that. It was a fantastic idea, possibly the best he ever had! The scenario played out seamlessly in his mind; him holding her in his arms, the calming sounds of the waves in their ceaseless motion coupled with the sight of those silly birds being all that was needed for the light to return in her dead eyes. Then, everything would go back to the way they once were, and the two of them could live happily ever after.
Be nothing but those sweet, innocent lovers once again.
Simple enough, was it not?
By the time Hugh reaches her bedroom door, it's well past midnight and the sky is already shrouded in complete darkness. He hopes she hasn't already fallen asleep, considering the seemingly endless dosages of pain medication tipped past her obedient lips. Most days, they managed to knock her clean out well before dusk; his poor, exhausted girl.
Hugh's hand is poised at her door for a solid three minutes before he gathers the courage to knock, twice.
Knock. Knock.
He waits. Five seconds turn to ten, then thirty.
"Drat," He whispers into the empty corridor. Maybe he was too late, after all.
But right as he turned on his heel to sulk off, he hears it:
Knock … Knock.
Fiona's own fist against her nightstand answers him, and Hugh is almost embarrassed by how swiftly he turns and bursts through the door, breaking out into a grin that falters the moment he sets his sight on the mournful residence that is Fiona's 'nest'. There was truly no better name for it, given the sheer number of quilts cocooning her body until nothing remained, save for the brown tresses spilling over the mattress, tangled despite Emma's efforts to give it a good brush now and again.
Hugh swallows down his nerves, his pride, and makes his careful way towards her. Even as his boots creak loudly against her old floorboards, she does not so much as acknowledge him. Rather, her back remains to him, gaze fixed intently on the floral-papered walls. At first, he was able to stare at her like this all day, even when she never spoke a word or so much as regarded him. The sight of her chest rising and falling was reassurance enough that she was there. Maybe not whole, but there nonetheless.
As time went on, however, Hugh — selfishly enough — had become a starved man for the way she used to light up whenever he entered a room, laughter already at the tip of her tongue as she pulled him into her waiting arms.
He knew she was struggling. But still, it never hurt any less.
"Hullo, Fee." Hugh clears his throat, raking his fingers through his black, wind-mussed curls. Her own mute greeting comes in the form of a twitch in her shoulder. At least, he likes to think that's what she meant, to say hello.
"Geez. Sure is spooky in here. All dark and gloomy."
Well, of course it's dark, you daft man. It's well past midnight!
He winces at his own idiocy, then valiantly continues to blabber on.
"You're like a little vampire."
A chuckle forces its way from his mouth, but Fiona meets him with her usual silence, shoulders drawing in on themselves. From the edge of his vision, he can see her picking at a loose thread in one of her most cherished quilts. He watches as she wraps it tight about her index, pauses, and tugs with an intensity that borders on lethal. Annoyance, or at least what he perceives as annoyance, is radiating off of her, and suddenly the moss-green carpet at his feet looks far more interesting.
"I...I know you haven't been in the best of spirits," Hugh starts, taking a seat next to her. The mattress dips beneath his weight. "Can't say I blame you, neither"
"But I —"
I'm worried, and I miss the old, happy you so, so much. To the point I can scarcely breathe.
No, now is not the time to go all soft, Hugh.
You're the man. She needs you to be strong.
"I was wonderin' if you'd like to go to the beach. With me."
"I just, I dunno, I—" He takes off his newsboy cap, tattered from years of wear, and wrings it anxiously in his hands. "…You've been cooped up in this bed for weeks, is all. And I think some time outdoors would do you some good." His gaze drifts to the window. "Besides, night swimming always was fun with you."
Silence thick enough to cut with a knife hangs between them, and Hugh feels himself growing more antsy by the second at her lack of response, which, to him, feels like an answer enough. Still, he gives her a full minute to respond before he huffs through his nose, a hint of frustration threatening to bubble to the surface.
"Fee, I asked you a —"
"Okay," She croaks. After the loss of her tongue, words arrived with far more effort.
"…But, may we —" The we slurs into oblivion. Fiona purses her lips together and wraps her arms tight around her abdomen, self-conscious. Hugh feels a suffocating urge to take her in his arms and tell her it was all right, that she needn't try and speak if it's too difficult. But touching her was hard, now. It made her flinch and shrink into herself even more. So, with his nails biting into the flesh of his palm, he holds back.
"…May we go tomorrow instead? I…I'm too tired right now."
Hugh blinks, pleasantly surprised. "I — yeah. Yeah, of course. Perfectly fine by me." He stands and lets out a relieved breath. This will be their first proper date since that entire mess with Caul and his men— he was no less elated than a red-faced little schoolboy. "Alrighty, then! I'll come fetch you at nine-thirty."
She doesn't answer. Not with words, anyhow. But he does happen to catch the weak nod she gives into her pillow.
At the first light of this new day, Hugh, overcome with hope, discovers that the beach was exactly as he left it. Only now, his lovely girl who smelt faintly of bergamot, wet earth, and the harsh tang of liniment was in his arms. For that, he couldn't possibly be more thrilled.
At promptly nine-thirty when he arrived at Fiona's door, he found that she had already attempted dressing herself. Seated quietly at the edge of her bed, she wore an ivory dress that brushed against her bruised ankles. It was a lovely thing, Hugh thought, with its ribbon at the waist and the daintiest ruffles lining the sweetheart neckline's exterior. Except, the once form-fitting confection now seemed to swallow her whole, puffed sleeves hanging down past her bony shoulders. Hugh tried not to think about it for too long, lest he sickened himself with worry. But still, he insisted that she wear her baby-blue cardigan. "So you don't catch a chill", he explained when she furrowed her brows at him. Fiona allowed it, albeit with a small frown.
Its wool fabric tickles his neck as he carries her to the spot he arranged earlier with the precision and fervor of a madman.
"This'll be such fun, just you wait." Hugh chirps. His distress from the previous night was foreign to him now, because against all odds, he managed the impossible: dragging Fiona out of bed. Making her smile, even if only slightly, was his next triumph, and there was not a singular doubt in his mind that he absolutely could.
From time to time, his eyes graze over Fiona's face. Her own are closed as the morning rays highlight every newly formed edge of her once soft features. Most prominently, the deep hollows nestled in her cheekbones, which used to be as round and flushed as the apples she grew in her garden.
The sight makes his jaw tick. He ought to have her eat something, and soon.
Thankfully, it's then they reach their destination, where a gingham blanket and wicker basket lie waiting for them on a steep hill bordering the sea.
A beach picnic, their first of many in quite some time.
"Here we are," Hugh announces, feeling her arms tighten around his neck. The urge to spin her about, to hear those startled squeals that would inevitably dissolve into reluctant laughter, rises. But knows better; knows how those dreadful pain medications left her muddled with a whole manner of symptoms, including nausea. Even the slightest turn or jostle would be enough to send her puking. So, he refrained, and instead kneels before the blanket, laying her down against it with a gentleness that would've been better suited for handling Miss Peregrine's fine china. The instant her back meets the ground, she sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. Hugh feels his stomach drop. Hands that now feel terribly oafish instinctively rush to hover over her body.
"Did I… Did I hurt you?" He asks, a tremor in his voice. Fiona answers with a firm shake of her head, but her downcast expression tells him otherwise.
"I'm so sorry — here, let me help you." Before she can properly refuse him, Hugh is taking her legs and propping them against his lap. His hands, bearing faint callouses from years of farm work, smooth down skin that's stretched tight over aching bone. He only means to help, to spare Fiona of her hurt even for just a few, meager minutes. But he's oblivious to the burning heat creeping into the pallor of her neck, fingers twisting against her skirts with barely concealed fury.
"Feels good?" He asks, thumb moving in firm circles against a particularly stubborn knot in her calf.
"Hm." She turns her head away, wincing.
He takes that as a yes.
"Aw, mo ghrá. I know you're hurting, and I know that pain medicine is nasty stuff." He frowns, trying to force down the memories of Fiona hunched over the toilet, puking up her supper. Or the time she blacked out in the garden, then woke up unable to remember her own name. "But you won't need it much longer. Miss P even says your body's healin' nice and quick."
Fiona answers with a tight-lipped smile, but it doesn't meet her eyes. Almost like she doesn't believe him, and he knows, deep down, that she has every right not to. Such hollow words of comfort have been shoved down her throat the moment her healing process began — "You'll feel right as rain in no time," or "This hurt won't last forever." But after months of hearing those same, recycled old phrases, the hope gradually left her.
Nice going, Apiston. Just go and make her feel worse, why don't you?
"Hey. Remember how often we used to come here, just the two of us?" Hugh gives her upper thigh a tender squeeze, gazing off wistfully at the sea ahead. He pictures her standing there, jumping fully clothed into the ocean when her body still allowed such movements. "We'd play in the water till our fingers pruned. Then we soaked the entire house, and Miss Peregrine would give out to us for hours. Good old times, eh?"
He looks down only to discover that Fiona left her consciousness behind entirely. She is staring off into the far distance, fingers gliding through the sand. He observes the absent movement closely; the way she cups a handful, weighs it in her palm, and lets it slip past her fingers before doing it all over again. Perhaps, if the ability to read minds was bestowed upon him instead, he might be able to crawl his way into her mind and map out its complex inner workings. That way, he needn't be forced to figure it all out on his own.
"Fee?" He presses gently. The hand that wasn't massaging her leg settles on her arm, to which she immediately jolts. It's almost as if she forgot where she was and how she ended up there, in his arms.
"Huh?" She looks to her left, her right, then finally to where he is staring down at her, hurt etched on his features. "Tá brón orm, what did you —"
"Ah, forget it," Hugh mumbles, rushing to change the subject. "Do you fancy a swim? Read somewhere that water's real good for joint pain. I can carry you the whole way in."
She tenses beneath his palm and whispers something barely intelligible, muddled under her breath. Thankfully, he was able to strain his ears well enough to hear her: "No, thank you."
"It'd be fun, though," Hugh insists. "Like old times, yeah? Come on."
"M' not feeling —"
"If you're worried about me carrying you, it's no problem, really. I mean, carried you the whole way here, didn't I? And like I said, your joints —"
"I said no." Her voice, even fractured, cracks through the open air like a whip, making him recoil where he sits.
"Jesus. All right, then."
To say he was taken aback was a severe understatement. Fiona seldom snapped at him, or anyone in such a manner, no matter the situation at hand. And if she did — heaven forgive her — she would feel horrible about it immediately thereafter; his gentle love, ever so considerate of others' feelings at the expense of her own. But now, it seems that years' worth of pushing down her own hurt and praying it away so that she may remain 'good' and 'ladylike,' was beginning to make a brute out of her.
Or maybe, maybe, it was simply that she would rather be anywhere than here with him.
Could it be? That this desperate means of restoring Fiona's happiness, to bridge the ever-growing gap between them, was futile? Hugh tries to quell the possibility before it makes him even more unsettled, or worse, misty-eyed, but it curls around him like thick rope all the same, tightening about his neck and suffocating him. No. He couldn't — wouldn't — even humor the thought. Surely, his happy girl is still in there somewhere, buried beneath all of the terror, the heartache. He only needs to do a bit of digging.
"So! You don't wanna do anything. But we could still chat, eh? I daresay it's been far too long since we've done much of that,' Hugh leans back on his hands, a false display of casualness. "Have you…Uhm — Been sketching anythin' pretty lately?"
"No," She whispers.
"Oookay. Well, how about the garden? Pay any secret visits?" A rhetorical question. He already knows the answer; the flower beds wilted ages ago.
So, again: "No."
As words fail him, he fixes his attention on the cross at her neck. Its copper sheen sparkles under the sunlight, and a pang of resentment hits him — not at her, never at her, but at that cursed God he berated the previous day. However, mentioning Him now seems to be his only hope at breaking down her walls.
"Well surely, you've had some words with the Almighty above." He gestures grandly to the sky with a crooked grin, watching her closely. "What d'you speak with him about these days, anyhow?"
Silence meets him, followed by the smallest shrug of her shoulders.
Hugh raises his brows and is momentarily speechless. "Wait, you…You have been praying, haven't you?"
She doesn't answer him in words, but the way she tucks her cross underneath the front of her dress is answer enough. It was a different thing entirely for him to resent God, as opposed to Fiona; his faith-driven Fiona who spoke frantically of repentance if she so much as missed even a singular night of holy prayer, lest her soul be damned to an eternity in Hell. Hugh never understood it, and he never would. But what he did know was how much religion meant to Fiona, and her throwing away her faith feels like vital piece of herself is slipping through his fingers.
And he was absolutely powerless in stopping it.
"Fee, I—" He scrubs a hand over his mouth, brows pinched. "I…I never realized you'd quit. Why didn't you tell me?"
A single tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it harshly with the heel of her hand, and he pretends not to notice.
"Was — Was it that you were ashamed? Or worried I'd get upset? I mean, come on, sweetheart. You know I'm the last person to judge you for such a thing."
"Sguir dheth. Please." Fiona's face is growing hotter and he's completely oblivious to it. All he can think about is how Fiona went months without confiding in him about her loss of faith. She used to tell him everything, and this certainly would've been no exception!
"You gotta give me something here; I can't guess what you're feeling. Why is it so hard for you to just talk to me —?"
That is her breaking point. With shaky hands, she fumbles to unclasp her cross before flinging it with a grunt. Hugh watches, astonished, as it falls soundlessly into the sand. The Fiona from before would've fainted at the mere thought of doing such a thing, let alone the sacrilegious act itself. Hugh himself now feels lightheaded, because it's almost like a stranger is lying beside him.
Mouth agape, he inspects Fiona for what is possibly the millionth time this past hour; how her breathing has hastened, how she goes to such lengths to avoid his stare, chin tipped against her own shoulder. Then, there were her ribs — God, her ribs — protruding through the thin fabric of her dress. He could easily count every single one, and that petrified him.
Well, if all else failed, the least he could do was make sure she doesn't wither away from malnutrition.
"…You know what? I'm famished. Let's have some breakfast." Hugh reaches for the wicker basket and sifts through its contents. He lays everything out before her purposefully: mason jars packed with strawberries, a baguette, homemade fig jam, and two peach muffins, encrusted with sugar and a vanilla glaze — her favorite.
Fiona's expression, previously marked by overt exasperation, starts to flood with something akin to trepidation. She looks at him, then the food, and shakes her head.
Hugh pretends he doesn't see it. Feigning oblivion, he unscrews one of the jars, tosses the lid aside, and pops a strawberry into his mouth. He makes a show of enjoying it, letting out a pleased hum before wiping the red juice from his mouth with his brown sleeve. "Real fresh. You ought to try one, really."
Another shake of her head, only firmer this time.
"Come on, I didn't pack all of this for myself." He takes another strawberry, pinches it between his fingers, and taps it against the tip of her nose. That gesture would have been playful years ago — reminiscent of when they used to feed each other on dates — if not for the way he began looming over her, chest pressing lightly against hers. Even still, Fiona remains intent on her refusal, hand encircling his wrist to push it away. His patience begins fraying in the form of worry he cannot voice. So, as it always goes, anger takes over instead.
"Fiona, this is ridiculous. You're skin and bone." His voice is firmer this time as he presses the fruit against her lips, against the scars carved deep into brown skin; the permanent, lifelong brand conjured by a wight's careless blade. When his thumb accidentally grazes the deepest one on her chin, she lets out a blood-curdling shriek and slaps his hand away. The fruit, just like her cross, goes barreling into the sand.
The sudden act of her scrambling to her bare feet saps what little energy she has remaining. As she forces her back upright, Fiona's breath leaves her in heaving pulls. Hugh rushes after her, arms outstretched to steady her. She lifts a trembling hand, ordering him to a halt.
"Ná bain dom!" She yells.
"…What?"
She tries to speak — no, to scream — but only a garbled sound comes out, her hands flying to her throat where even more scars live. As the breeze, laden with salt, quickens, it makes a wreckage of her hair, causing tendrils to fly over her face. She pushes them fiercely behind her ears.
"You…You suffocate me!" She jabs her finger into his chest, causing him to stumble backward, the heel of his bare foot meeting the prying tide. "Every day, I cannot exist without being told what to do. It's like I'm a … A baby!"
Hugh lets out an exhausted laugh. "Oh, I treat you like a baby, do I?"
"Yes!"
"How so? By taking care of you?"
"…No."
"Offering to wash your hair? Giving you your pain medicine? Dragging you out of that damned room?"
"You just tried hand feeding me!"
"Cause' you can't even stand up on your own! Fuck, Fiona! Look at you!" His hand gestures wildly over her emaciated figure; those sunken cheeks and arms as frail as the twigs that used to live in her hair. "You're so eager to just…waste away in that bed, aren't you? It's like you don't even want to try and get better! It's sickening, you hear me? Sickening."
"I am trying!" That admission makes Hugh scoff — trying. If that were so, he thinks to himself, then why is it that his every attempt at making her open up is met with indifference? Why is it that she has to be pried out of her bedroom? If there is anything he hates most of all, it's a liar, and here Fiona was making all of these faulty claims straight to his face. If he wasn't aggravated before, then he certainly was now.
He hates himself for it in the moment, and will continue to for the rest of his life — but alas, the words that come tumbling out of him next cannot be helped:
"Yeah, well. I honestly find that really hard to believe. Maybe you ought to try harder, save the rest of us the worry."
Fiona's eyes widen so much he fears they might pop out of her head. Shocked, she studies his face for even the slightest hint of remorse. When she finds none, her bottom lip trembles.
"Téigh trasna ort féin." She whispers. Despite the harshness of her words, there is no bite in them. Not even as he stands before her, red in the face and indignant. Her mouth falls open with clear intentions of saying more — if it is to curse him out all over again, or apologize — Hugh is not certain. Whatever it is, she simply…Can't. So, she silently turns to limp away from him instead.
"Oh, blast it all — Fiona!" Hugh rushes to stride after her, because no matter what was going on between them, he still couldn't bear the thought of her walking back to the children's home by herself, especially in her condition. "Come on, you — ugh! You know good and well what I meant!" Her pace quickens as much as it's able to. When she trips over her own two feet, just barely catching herself with a pained gasp, Hugh grabs her wrist and forces her to face him.
"Hey —!"
The face that meets Hugh sickens him.
Tears are streaming down it, leaving behind the evidence of her reluctant heartache. She swipes away the snot dribbling down her nose with the sleeve of her cardigan, chest heaving as though she were being deprived of air. This was the most emotion Fiona had allowed herself to reveal since they were reunited, but he is in no way comforted by the revelation — because he caused this. He hurt the most precious thing that ever graced this earth. And for what? For his comfort, his own peace of mind?
"I..I really am trying." She snivels through hiccuping breaths. "I do not mean to…to be like this."
"…Oh."
Now look what you've done, you brúid.
Instinct screams at him to wrap his arms around her, but her anger — when it does come — is a force, a blazing wildfire unable to be extinguished. When he inches closer, her fists beat down upon his chest in frantic blows as her sobs hasten. It's not enough to hurt him, but it is enough to send him sprawling backward. Before she can shove him for the final time and run off, Hugh takes both her wrists and forces them at her sides. His grip is firm, yet somehow manages to remain absurdly gentle.
She gasps, horrified. "Éirigh díom! You…You…— "
"Fee, please," Hugh begs as she tries to squirm her way out of his hands, but it is futile. Her struggle lasts only a few seconds longer before she tires and slumps against him, knees buckling beneath her own weight. Hugh follows down after her on the sand, never mind how the cold seawater seeps through the tweed of his favorite trousers. His arms encircle her neck, pulling her into the shelter of his chest. As her fingers curl weakly into his shirt, he lets out a trembling breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"I know you're trying. I know. I…I didn't…I —" Panic washes over him as her wails grow louder. Every forsaken feeling she never dared express in fear of her soul being damned now possesses her, and Hugh is a terribly lost man. All he can think to do in that moment is pull to cup her face in his hands, thumbs swiping away her tears. Even in the midst of her anguish, her wrath, her cheek presses against his palm, starved for a caress that wasn't born from needless fussing, but genuine affection.
That was what she needed all along, wasn't it? He was so set on fixing her all these months, when she wanted — needed — wasn't a caretaker but her lover. Her Hugh.
"I don't know, Fee. I suppose I just got …real scared, of things changing. Or better yet, that you've been hurtin', and I can't do a thing to make it better." He presses his forehead against hers, squeezing his eyes shut. "So I… took it out on you. But that's not fair. Not a bit."
"I am so sorry, so sorry. And I… Shit —" He chokes on his own words as the lump in his throat tightens. His own tear, then another, slips down his freckled cheek, unable to be stopped. Instinctively, he turns away so she cannot see him, but Fiona is not fazed in the slightest. Instead, she takes his face in her own hand and kisses the wetness gathering at the corner of his eye.
It's her turn to soothe him, now. To be the one to wipe away the tears he spent ages biting back. And though he is deeply embarrassed, Hugh allows it just this once.
"… I really need you to know that I love you just as you are. No matter how broken or mean or quiet. I love you." Hugh whispers, pushing back the frizz that stuck to her damp face. At last, her sobs finally dissolve into hiccuping breaths. When she swallows hard, her mouth working with the effort of speaking without her tongue, he waits without a word, caressing her arm patiently with the back of his hand.
"M' sorry for…" She winces, pained by the recollection. "…swearing at you."
Hugh, taken aback, pauses. Then breaks out into a startled laugh.
"You'll have to repent for that, m'eudail." Hugh looks down to find the forgotten cross only a few paces away, and he reaches for it. Brushing the sand off it, he carefully moves all her hair to one shoulder before encircling his arms about her neck to clasp it. Fiona's eyes flutter shut as he does so, feeling his fingers trail down her neck, lingering at her collarbone.
"I…I suppose it's been hard. To love Him still, after everything." She admits quietly, as though wishing she hadn't said anything at all. The shame is unbearable; he can see it in her eyes, how they seek Hugh's face for judgment or ridicule or a look that says "I told you so!". Instead, he rubs the back of his neck.
"Well, I'm no preacher. But…I reckon Him getting you home safe was His twisted way of …lookin' out for you?"
Fiona scrunches her nose.
"Was that not comforting?"
She hums, then leans over to peck his cheek.
"Twas a valiant effort."
"Ah."
There's a long stretch of silence before Hugh breaks it.
"Well, I'm sure you're all tuckered out. How about I carry you inside? I'll even put some of that fancy tea on the kettle."
"…Or you can walk, of course! I don't have to carry you. You're. Well. You know, fully capable of walking all on your own. Strong, independent woman that you are —"
Fiona's hand settles on his broad shoulder. Instantly, Hugh clamps his mouth shut,
"If the day isn't spoiled," She starts evenly, nodding towards their little spot — the knocked-over wicker basket and blanket now misshapen by the wind. "I should like to continue our picnic."
Hugh beams, then promptly kisses the reddened tip of her nose.
"I'd like that, too."
Fiona allows herself to be hoisted to her feet by Hugh, his arm around her shoulders to steady her as they walk back. He matches her exact pace, and by doing so, he helps her to exist in this unfamiliar body; helps her to see less shame in it herself.
They would never return to those sweet, innocent lovers again; Hugh understood that fully now. No matter what he did, Fiona would still hurt in every sense of the word, and would continue to for years. As for him, he bore his own scars — both physical and mental. But as he admires the tired head resting in his lap humming old Gaelic lullabies, Hugh can scarcely believe how mere hours ago he wished for the old Fiona who now lived only in the beach's memory.
How could he, when the most splendid version of her was right before him?