bartholemew_eternity [Echoes]

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======Bartholemew Beaufort======

Bartholomew stumbles on in the middle of the walking party, mistrusting firm ground to meet him with each new step, and very much doubting his own sure-footedness. Rain drives down still, in a spiteful victory shower after doing all the damage it can. He muses on the persistent misery wrought by nature; no man would continue to beat down after delivering the killing blow, not like this. And yet what’s the harm in it now? There is scarce else the rain can take from him, unless it begins to wash away members of the party. 

Through the rain he can see his grandchild Lydia, steadying the nerves of their fellow travellers with sturdy practicalities. The road ahead of them looks clear in Bartholemew’s eyes; Soon they will outwalk the rain into a limitless blue sky- he knows in Leeds they will find the end of the twisting, perilous Beaufort trail he himself was lost on, and make their own way on paved streets in shoes cleansed of mud. 

A little further behind is the hum of bickering Fishers. Slowing his pace as much as he can without inspiring concern in Lydia, Bartholomew allows the family to catch up with him. There is a prick of disappointment when he sees the Fisher’s chief arguer isn’t among them, but it is assuaged somewhat by the sight of Ophelia, quietly tending to her siblings. A great tenderness is felt, and it occurs at once to Bartholemew that he does not feel bad. 

Warmth is fanning out from somewhere within, losing ground against the biting cold somewhere at his fingertips. Feelings of fondness, care, and sparkling hope are keeping at bay the weather’s wrath, leaving a disquieting void in the place Bartholemew reaches for to feel the comforting sting of pain. At once there is panic, unsteady ground and obscured roads. Alcohol has only ever muffled the thrumming echoes and regrets have weighed down; suddenly Bartholemew feels a levity that threatens to unmoor him, and a startling quiet that refuses to drown out his thoughts. It was happiness, just then, on the funeral march of the only home he’s ever known, pure, innocent and naive happiness, not won with selfishness or revenge, but found out on the moors, naturally blossomed. 

“You look quite unwell, Beaufort. Should I have put money on your dying first?” Issac Fisher appears at Bartholemew’s side, wearing a more meaningful confession of his feelings on his concerned face than he will ever be able to articulate in words. 

“Let me get a doctor; we can’t bury you at the side of the road-” Issac begins to pull away, but is easily persuaded to stay by a hand resting on his forearm, under the guide of offering support. 

“I’m fine. I was just- struck. I don’t think I feel right.”

“A doctor, Bartholomew-”

“No, no, not like that. I feel…good.”