Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As Christian Hollingsworth, the Viscount of Kearney, stepped out of the carriage, the weight of nostalgia and sorrow gripped him by the neck instantly. His eyes stung from the heaviness in the air, his heart palpitated hastily. How strange it all was. This was a place he used to call home, and now it was a mere shadow of what it once was.

"Are you all right, My Lord?" The estate's steward, Graham Crowe, was by his side, sensing the uneasiness and immediately offering aid. But there was nothing anyone could do to alleviate Christian's pain.

"Yes," Christian replied, clearing his throat as he did so. "Quite all right."

With a heavy heart, he made his way inside the grand manor house, with Crowe following closely behind. It had been four long years since Christian last set foot inside these hallowed grounds. Four years which felt like four lifetimes, yet the memories flooded back with startling clarity. He remembered moments of joy and happiness, moments of unrestrained laughter, which was now buried behind cold, stone walls and under the gardens which he noticed were overrun with weeds and neglect.

He regretted not being able to return in time for his brother's funeral, as the journey back home took longer than expected. Then, seeing he had already missed the funeral, he couldn't bring himself to return for a long time. It made no sense, yet he couldn't do it… until now.

He added it to yet another item on his list of life regrets. It was almost as if the house was a mirror reflection of what was happening to him, to his body, to his mind. Instinctively, he lifted his trembling fingers to touch the deep scar across his cheek. The skin responded with a shudder. Even now, he didn't feel it as his own face, as his own body, which bore the marks of combat, of war.

He walked slowly, looking about the halls he had once roamed as a child with Arden. Now, those very same halls were haunted by his specter. Christian couldn't help but shake the feeling that somehow Arden was still there, caught between this world and the next, unable to find peace in the afterlife.

As if all of that was not enough, but also the weight of responsibility loomed over him like the sword of Damocles. He knew that he would do anything to restore the estate to its former glory and honor the memory of his brother. He continued walking towards his study, pushing the door open and entering it. Sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, casting long, pointy shadows across the worn wooden floors.

Christian settled into a high-backed chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished mahogany writing table. He gestured at Graham to take a seat opposite him. The steward did as he was bid, his expression grace as he regarded his young master with a mixture of concern and respect.

"It's been too long since I've set foot in this room," Christian sighed, allowing the emotions to flood him. There was no point in trying to fight them. "So much has changed."

Graham nodded in agreement; his weathered features etched with lines of wisdom earned through years of service to the estate. "That is has, My Lord," he replied, his tone somber. "But I have no doubt we can restore Magdal Park to the splendor it once possessed, with a bit of hard work and dedication."

Christian appreciated the optimism. Lord knew that he had very little of it himself. His gaze drifted off to the portrait of his late brother that hung above the fireplace, a striking likeness captured in oils, Arden's features frozen in eternal youth.

"Arden would have wanted nothing less," Christian murmured, a note of determination hiding in his voice.

Crowe nodded, and Christian appreciated that he didn't need to delve more deeply into the memory of his brother. "Indeed, My Lord. And we'll see it done, mark my words," he declared.

This time, Christian smiled. As they started delving into the details of their plans, discussing the necessary repairs and renovations, he felt a glimmer of hope stirring within him. "We'll start with the west wing," he decided. "From what I managed to see just now; it's suffered the most damage from the years of neglect."

Crowe agreed. "That seems a wise choice. We'll need to bring in a team of skilled craftsmen to address the structural issues before we can start considering the finer details."

"Yes, absolutely," Christian affirmed. "We need to make sure to address everything. But…" Upon those words, he stood up, and Crowe followed suit. "Not today."

"As you wish, My Lord," Crowe bowed respectfully.

"I will go to the stables," Christian informed him. "My aunt and cousin should be arriving early in the evening. Hopefully, I should return before them, but in case I do not, please assure that they are settled."

"Of course, My Lord," Crowe bowed one more time. "It shall be done."

"Thank you, Crowe," Christian nodded, then headed out the door.

He reached the quiet solitude of the stables, immediately finding solace among the familiar scent of hay and the gentle neighing of the horses that seemed to welcome him back. He walked to the furthest corner, stopping in front of Arden's favorite horse, a magnificent creature with a coat as dark as midnight. Memories of his brother flooded him again as he caressed the horse's soft mane, a bittersweet ache tugging at the strings of his heart.

With a gentle pat, Christian led the horse out of the stables and into the sunlight. He mounted the horse easily, following an age-old instinct that seemed to belong to every man in the Hollingsworth family. He immediately headed in the direction of The Warren, and the woods, though still bathed in daylight of the afternoon, held an eerie atmosphere that sent shivers down his spine. Shadows danced among the ancient trees, whispering secrets of the past.

Despite the lingering sense of unease, Christian pressed on, the steady rhythm of the horse's hooves echoing through the silent forest. The path ahead was familiar. It was the one he always took, the one that had always been the most important one—the clearing where her lifeless body was found, the of body his childhood friend's mother. He tried not to think about any of the details and entanglements. It was too painful. Yet, he couldn't stay away.

As soon as he neared the clearing, a silhouette came into view, bathed in the golden rays of the sunlight. Christian's heart skipped a beat as he beheld the woman standing before him, her long hair flowing like liquid gold in the gentle breeze.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as his mind raced, and the memories of that fateful night flooded his conscious mind. The woman's presence stirred something deep within him, a haunting echo of the past that was now merging with his present. He remembered seeing Lyra's mother dancing in the moonlight, and the three of them, mere children, mesmerized by the extraordinary sight.

With a trembling hand, Christian brought the horse to a halt, his breath catching in his throat as he gazed upon the woman before him. Was this a trick of the light, or had the ghost of that tragic night come back to haunt them all?

***

Lyra didn't hear the horse at first. She was standing there with her eyes closed, allowing the desperation of the place to fill her as it always did. Despite the billowing sadness she felt there, it was still the place that held the last breath her mother exhaled. It was now a part of the air, of the earth, of the trees and the wind. That was where Lyra could almost feel her mother's presence rooted in the nature that surrounded her.

"Lyra?"

Someone said her name, and Lyra's entire body shivered. That voice… she didn't recognize it, and yet, it was a voice that was a balm to her aching soul. She turned around, locking her eyes with a man she didn't recognize at first. It was a stranger who bore all the marks of war, of heartache and pain the likes of which she had never seen etched on anyone's face.

He slowly allowed his horse to come closer, and although she was alone with a stranger in those mysterious woods, something assured her she was not in danger. There was no need to flee. So, she remained in place, her feet firmly planted on the ground.

Then he dismounted the horse, and her eyes locked with his. She recognized him immediately, not only with her sight, but with her soul. Something inside of her stirred, being called to awaken after such a long time of slumbering.

"Christian?" she managed to muster, feeling as if her knees would turn to jelly, barely able to hold the weight of her body. But she remained standing, only so that she would not rush to him and jump into his arms.

The moment she felt his body pressed against hers, she relaxed, closing her eyes and burying her face in his neck. His embrace was solid and comforting, just as it had always been. With tears threatening to spill from her eyes, she closed them even tighter, allowing the familiar warmth and safety to envelop her. It was him. It really was him, after all this time. He was home.

They remained like that for a long time, neither of them saying anything. Words could never describe the bittersweet moment they were now experiencing. When she finally pulled back to meet his gaze, she saw the marks that the war had left on him.

She lifted her trembling fingers, yearning to touch his face, to feel his scars, but before she could do that, he gently gripped her wrist and prevented her from doing so. His own fingers lingered on her bare skin for a few moments, letting go of her and leaving a thrilling warmth where he had touched her.

She pulled back to meet his gaze. She drank in the sight of him.

"Is it really you?" she asked, her voice on the verge of breaking. She wanted him to smile, but it was the smile of a broken man.

"Yes, Lyra," he replied.

Despite the scars that marred his once flawless face, he remained undeniably handsome. In fact, she couldn't help but be drawn in the by the intensity of his gaze. There was a rugged handsomeness to him that she found captivating. And his scars, the ones she was yearning to caress, only seemed to speak of his resilience, his determination, his desire to overcome everything and survive.

As they stood together in the clearing, Lyra found herself studying his features, committing every line and contour to memory. This was not the young man she remembered, with boyish hopes and dreams, the one that went to fight for his country. This was a broken man, a man whose very hopes and dreams were shattered against the edgy shores of reality. But he was still there, still fighting.

She had no idea why she longed to touch him so much. The very fact that he was standing there before her made her thrilled beyond description. She wanted to hear everything he had to tell her, all the tragedies he had endured, everything. As she looked into his eyes, she couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden behind them.

"Why…" she started, her voice faltering, betraying her. "Why were you gone for so long, Christian?"

He inhaled deeply, then looked about. His gaze focused on a large oak tree in the very center of the clearing, that was at the same time the very heart of The Warren.

"Come," he told her, taking her by the hand, just like he did that night. "I will tell you everything."