I had been back at Misselthwaite for about a month when the bandages finally came off the last of my smaller wounds and my back was finally deemed healed enough to sit up in a wheelchair for more than an hour at a time. I was taken to the nearest hospital for an x-ray, which showed that the bones of my spine have fully healed, and had returned to their proper places, relieving some of the pressure on my nerves, which would hopefully allow some sensation to return. The trip was far easier than the trip to London, though the car was far worse than the train on my back, as each bump reverberated through my whole body. For the first time, I really felt as though my life as a cripple was starting. I felt as though I had been thrown into a dreary gothic novel. I wanted nothing more than to go back to normal, and as I improved it felt less as though my health was holding me back, and more the chair itself, and it's annoying inability to manage stairs, curbs, grass, cobblestoned streets, or any other uneven surface. That is what is keeping me housebound, I've got the energy to go out, there's just nowhere I can physically go. Still, housebound is worlds better than bedbound. After having pneumonia, typhoid, and rheumatic fever in quick succession, I had spent many of my young years up until the age of ten bedbound and moving around only in a wheelchair. There hadn't been much logic behind my invalidity at first, mainly my own panic and fear, but after the rheumatic fever caused my joints to swell, there was real reason behind it, at least for a short time. It was two years after the rheumatic fever that I finally left my bed for good.

In our childish joy, we thought all of my infirmities had gone, and most of them had, certainly enough so that I managed to join the army, but the number of childhood illnesses I'd had did take their toll. I still have aches and pains, my injuries are, after all, still healing, but it continues to become easier to get through the day. I still tire easily, but I have always tired easily, and I suspect I always will. But even that is getting better, much better. At least I am to the point where I am no longer sleeping away a good portion of the day. That had become quite tedious, as it made me feel even more useless, and meant my nightmares were more readily on display. Mary had taken to sitting by my bedside to make sure I had someone with me if I woke up screaming. It still happens, but now at least it's usually only my nurse who has to deal with the aftermath unless the nightmare ends in particularly loud screaming.

As I improved, I realized how monotonous my life would be. I no longer needed to be spending all my time getting well. As I've improved I've wanted to do more, I've wanted to go back to normal life, but it feels impossible. I want to move on, though to what I didn't yet know. When I was in hospital, ill and in pain, all I could think of was making it through the next hour, the next day. Now the years stretched ahead and I found it difficult to hold on to much hope of change or further improvement to my quality of life. I had been used to sitting up for an hour or so a few times a day in hospital so more time up and fewer transfers felt like an enormous improvement. I still had a good deal of pain, and it was made worse by movement. So being able to stay in one position was good. Sitting in the chair was uncomfortable, but I could stand it so long as I wasn't constantly being moved. Rather than having less pain, I have simply had to learn to live with the pain left in my back. The ache was duller now, but still there, a constant reminder of the numbness below it.

As I gained strength I began to watch Dickon's recovery too. He was on the mend, but it was slow. His arm was no longer bandaged although his shoulder was still stiff and lacked much range of motion. He was building strength and often promised that soon he would be back to working in the gardens. It was hard to watch him getting back to normal, when I was still so confined. I watched Mary too, there wasn't much I could do, yet, then watch everyone around me get on with their lives. Or perhaps not, get on with their lives, but trying to start a new one.

Despite my own confinement, or perhaps because of how much closer we had become in the trenches, it was hard to watch Dickon struggle, knowing what his injury could mean for his and his family's future if his recovery wasn't complete.

It turned out that Dickon's injury was great enough that he would likely not be required to return to the front. Besides the residual pain, the persistent stiffness of the last two fingers on his hand remained, making it nearly impossible for him to fire a weapon. They sat curled against his palm, and ached when he attempted to extend them. In truth I was glad, and I knew Dickon was beyond relieved. None of us wanted to return to the front once we had a chance at leaving. He told me that sometimes he experienced a strange tingling in those fingers which went up the back of his arm all the way to his elbow, especially when he moved them a bit funny. Dr. Craven thought that this would pass in time but he found it disconcerting and uncomfortable.

I fear I may have scared him a bit when I told him that it didn't sound entirely different from what I have experienced since my injury. I nearly constantly experienced similar sensations in my legs, and in the areas around my middle where paralysis crossed over to normal sensation. I told him that Dr. Hawthorne had called them 'phantom pains.' They were caused by damaged nerves misfiring, like a drunken soldier back in the trenches who couldn't tell where his feet were. Dickon had laughed at that, telling me they certainly didn't feel like a phantom- quite the opposite. I knew what he meant. For me when the nerve pain came, it was at times so overpowering that I could swear my legs were on fire. Yet I could pinch my leg, or touch exactly where I felt pain, and feel nothing. It didn't seem possible that one could be numb and in pain in the same place. Dr. Craven explained to me that much like how my injury had damaged, though not severed, my spinal cord, the shrapnel that had entered Dickon's shoulder had damaged the brachial plexus, a large bundle of nerves that were meant to innervate the arm. The injury hadn't severed the nerve completely, but it had cut off the nerves to those two fingers, and to some of the muscles in his arm; essentially, Dickon too was dealing with paralysis.

I could see that the bones and muscles of those fingers where he complained of nerve pain, seemed to have frozen in place, and he had trouble moving them. They curved in on themselves in much the same way my legs did when I had spasms, and were stiffened from being so long in bandages. I explained to him, as Dr. Craven had explained to me, that the shrapnel had done some damage to the nerves and muscles in his shoulder, along with shattering his clavicle and scapula. Eventually, he told me that Dr. Craven thought it was unlikely that he would ever have full use of that arm again, though he might come close.

Initially, I think Dickon hadn't fully grasped that his injury would also be somewhat life altering. I think initially he was so shocked and saddened by my injury that he hadn't had a chance to grapple with the challenges brought by his own. He had been far too focused on me, on trying to help me recover that he had hardly thought of himself. I'd always loved that about him, he was always altruistic almost to a fault, ever since he was a child of twelve years old. When he was in a sling and bandage he hadn't had to think about what he would do if his arm was never quite the same. I'd seen him in physiotherapy, struggling to write, to hold a fork, throw a ball. But I had barely paid attention, too caught up in my own sorrows and pain. What kind of a friend does that make me, I wonder?

Dickon worked with his hands, and had done all his life, just as his father and grandfathers had done before him for generations. His work was heavy and required significant strength and dexterity. It wasn't until the bandages came off that I think Dickon really realized that his arm wasn't going to be the same. I felt for him, I knew that however ill or crippled I was, at least I knew I would always be well cared for, whether I could work or not. And at least right now my prospects seem to be pointing distinctly towards 'not'. Dickon did not have such luxuries. On the one hand no one could argue that he was more disabled than I, but one could certainly argue his disability would be more dangerous to him and his family. I vowed he would never have to concern himself with such things as long as I or my father were master of Misselthwaite, though I did not know a way to tell him that in a way he would agree to. He's always been proud. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel weak and impotent. I'd learned as a young boy that Dickon was not one to take kindly to me offering too many things based on our friendship. My station had never mattered when we were small, but within a few years the differences became much more pronounced. Our time in the army had cut that somewhat. In rank he was my superior, so despite my title we were treated on somewhat more equal footing, though the knowledge of our class differences was never far from our minds. I'm not entirely sure where we stand now, but I hope he will not spurn my attempts to help him out of some sort of masculine pride.

But the truth is simple enough, Dickon and his family would struggle if he didn't recover enough to take the position of head gardener. Not that he won't, I'm sure he will find a way, but the stress of not knowing has to get to him. He can't support a family on a wounded soldier's pension, and he doesn't have the education to enter a trade, or do anything other than the gardening or the farm labor he had always assumed he would do. Dickon had never gone to secondary school, and even in primary school his attendance was poor. He had always preferred to run about the moors looking for foxes, ravens, and squirrels, rather than studyings his three R's. It wasn't that he was slow, he certainly wasn't, quite the contrary in fact. When Mary or I read aloud he was captivated. And he could do his sums well enough, as well as he needed anyway. And he was a genius with plants and the biology of local wildlife. Well, he would never have called it biology, but whenever I was home studying he was actually quite a help. I would show him pictures in my biology books of fossils and illustrations of birds and the small mammals native to England. He knew them all by their common names, but soon could wrap his Yorkshire tongue even around the Latin names. He understood their biology and ecology, and even their anatomy and role in the life of the Moor. Were he born into a different family, or in another time perhaps, he could have been a top notch naturalist, perhaps the assistant to Charles Darwin. I had indeed read him both On the Origin of Species and The Voyage of the Beagle. Though he was skeptical of the seeming dismissal of the absolute requirement of God's hand in creation, once I explained that I did not feel Darwin had really discredited Genesis, he had become quite fascinated. Indeed he had not infrequently commented,

"Well that's rather obvious innit now? Just look out th' window!" while I read.

Thinking of him having to do anything but working among his plants and animals is almost unimaginable.

He'd begun working again about a month after we returned home, but he had admitted he'd had trouble keeping up with the work, and that his arm ached terribly by the end of the day. He would come up to my room in the evenings. We would talk about the war news, and I'd read him the newspaper. He could read, but not well enough for the newspaper. I couldn't help but notice that he'd rub his shoulder softly as I read, trying to rub the ache out. I knew I did it as well, rubbing my back, or the spot on my hip where I could feel. Sometimes Mary would catch me rubbing the same spot on my thigh over and over because the tingling was so bad. Because I couldn't feel pressure, I wouldn't notice I was doing it, and she worried I'd rub my skin raw without even realizing it. She was convinced I'd give myself a pressure sore, though I thought such an extreme outcome was unlikely.

In any case, I was growing extraordinarily tired of spending my days indoors, often confined to my bed, with little to do to occupy my time. I yearned to be outside again, I yearned for warm sun, not that outdoors in Yorkshire contained much of that in November.

Dr. Craven strictly advised against venturing out in the frosty autumn weather, citing the danger to my still 'fragile constitution,' not to mention that for some reason I had a good deal of trouble keeping warm as the weather grew cold and damp. Misselthwaite Manor has always had a tendency to hold on to the cold and damp, no matter how many fires are lit, I suppose that can only be expected in a building so old. It doesn't help that I'm not moving much, and haven't gained back the weight I lost while in hospital so I'm constantly cold, especially my legs. Which, though I can't really feel the cold in them, Mary had not so kindly referred to recently as 'two blocks of ice'. Dr. Craven said it was asking for a cold, one I might be ill equipped to fight as I was bed bound and still healing. Because my muscles are still weak from the healing of my broken ribs, and from being in bed so long without moving, I've still got trouble getting a strong cough, which Dr. Craven said could lead to infection.

But as soon as the last of the bandages came off I insisted upon going out into the garden. Still unable to refuse his nephew-after all I could still put on the face of the young Rajah- Dr. Craven eventually relented and agreed that a short visit to the garden would do no harm. He'd made me promise to stay out only a short time, and to wrap up well, but I was allowed out, despite the growing frost.

I chose a sunny and cold morning, what had once been my favorite kind. I loved how the frost seemed to cover everything with tiny diamonds to get it ready for the snow. Getting outside was difficult. All of it reminded me far too poignantly of my childhood.

I was dressed in my warmest clothes, legs wrapped in blankets and both coat and wrapper over my shoulders. A new chair has been bought, one more comfortable for my back, and which at least indoors I could push myself, and a sedan chair to carry me downstairs. As a child I'd just been carried, but now I was a grown man, and even though I don't weigh much it was deemed necessary. Mary had suggested that father equip the house with an elevator, and though he seemed agreeable, such an endeavour would take months to complete.

Nobody talked much as I was settled in my chair, not even Dr. Craven who I had expected to be chastising and warning me of the dangers to my health posed by venturing outside within an inch of my life.

I too was silent, just wanting to remember, and wishing I didn't have to. Neither Dickon nor my cousin spoke either. We didn't need to, or perhaps we just couldn't.

The wheels of my chair clacked across the frosted stones, and the cold started to penetrate my clothes and my back began to ache. I let my head fall back and rest against the cushions. The sky was a dull gray, high and cold. The kind of gray that threatened snow more than rain.

"Are you alright?" Mary asked, her hand on my shoulder,

"I'm alright, I just didn't think I'd tire so quickly,"

"Do you want to go back? It's alright we can turn around." I shook my head, though part of me did badly want my bed. The cold made my back ache enough that I began to feel quite weak, but I was determined.

"No, I knew it would be difficult," I answered and we continued down the path turning down one passage then the next until we came to the door to the garden. In our absence the ivy had begun to grow over it once again. We had always insisted on being the ones to care for it, so it hadn't seen much care since Dickon and I had been injured.

Mary unlocked the door and pushed it open, it creaked slightly, though not as much as I remember it doing in our earlier visits to the garden. I smiled slightly, remembering that perfect spring day a decade ago when Mary had unlocked this same door and called 'Dickon! Push him in! Push him in quickly!' This time we went slowly, Dickon was no longer able to push me very quickly due to his injury, and I worried that even pushing me slowly would cause him even more pain. I'd told him we could ask another of the servants to do it, but he had refused.

The garden was a subdued gray, the grass crunched slightly under the wheels of my chair, and the rose bushes were covered in a frosty sheen.

In silence, Dickon pushed my chair past the roses, past the empty and covered flower beds, past the pond, and under our favorite plum tree. The first time Mary and Dickon had brought me to the garden, the day I had stood for the first time since I was small, we had picniced under that tree, it had been spring then, and the tree had been covered in delicate white blossoms. When my chair came to a rest under its now bare branches, I couldn't help but look across the brown grass at what remained of the tree which had led to my mother's death, and my own premature birth. There had been a branch that bent like a seat, and despite her advanced state of pregnancy my mother had continued climbing the tree and sitting on the branch to read. The tree had been old, already beginning to die, and one day the branch broke. She was badly injured, and her injuries brought on labor. She died just moments after my birth, and I had been so small myself that it was thought I wouldn't survive. A painful hole felt as though it were opening in the pit of my stomach and I had to swallow down the urge to start crying. Mary saw where I was looking and rubbed my shoulder comfortingly and I gave her a soft smile.

"Would you help me lie on the grass, Dickon?" I asked, suddenly needing to be anywhere but sitting in that goddamned chair. Dickon looked concernedly at Mary who shook her head almost imperceptibly. "It's too cold, Colin, the ground is frozen, tha could get sick." I looked up at them pleadingly.

"Please, just for a minute? It's the only way this will feel like before. We can still lay on the grass like we used to." I gave Mary a pleading look which I knew from experience she couldn't refuse, and sure enough she eventually relented.

"Alright" she said exasperatedly. "But only for a minute mind you."

She took the heavy blanket from my legs and laid it out on the icy grass and rough autumn leaves. I was still so weak that I wasn't really able to help much. I wrapped my arms around Dickon's neck and Dickon wrapped his arms around my waist so that after a few precarious moments in the air I was lying as comfortably as possible on the ground. For a moment, with my arms around his neck it was almost as if I had been standing again. I looked disgustedly at my legs, which had fallen from the footrests at odd angles. Looking down at me with his big, kind eyes, Dickon straightened them before sitting down beside me, his hands clasped over his knees, examining his gloved fingers quietly. I leaned my head against him, and he put an arm round my shoulder. As I still couldn't sit without anything behind my back, he lifted me with his good arm so I was leaning against him, as much for warmth as for the much needed support. We'd slept like that at night sometimes in the trenches, just to stay warm. Backs against the stinking mud, heads lolling on each other's shoulders. No matter how hot it had been in the day, it was always cold at night. Even in the heat of June, just before we were injured. Even then, the nights felt cold as death.

Mary looked awkward, as though she felt she was imposing somehow. She must have been able to see that Dickon and I were thinking of the war, that our minds were together in a world she could never know. One neither of us wanted her to know. Mary sat on a bench, her back to us to give us some privacy, and we all sat in silence for many minutes. I looked over at Mary and saw her shivering, as though a cold breeze had made it's way past her coat. She stood and walked over to us, putting her hand softly on Dickon's shoulder and he took it, kissing it gently. When he turned his face towards her, her face fell. She could see that he had been crying. She looked down at me and must have seen that tears stained my face as well. I can only imagine that I had gone awfully pale as well. I felt cold to my core.

"I think we had better get inside." I said weakly, "wouldn't want Dr. Craven to have to come looking." I added, wiping my eyes and chuckling slightly. The truth was that I worried Dr. Craven was right, and the excursion had been a bad idea. I was exhausted and felt shaky, and cold to my bones. Mary helped me up, and with Dickon's help got me back in the chair with minimal pain and grunting on my part.

We traveled back to the manor in silence and when we arrived Dr. Craven insisted I spend the rest of the day in bed. I didn't object, the trip had exhausted me more than I had thought it would, both physically and emotionally. After allowing Nurse Mount to assist me into bed, Mary dismissed her and sat by my bedside. She took my hand and looked down at our two hands entwined,

"You're still cold." she commented, rubbing my fingers between hers.

"Dr. Hawthorne told me in hospital that I wouldn't feel the temperature like I used to. He said I'd catch a chill more easily, because the blood doesn't flow well in my legs. He said I might have trouble controlling my body temperature too, particularly in the cold, but if I get too hot as well he said." She went to the linen cupboard and pulled out an extra quilt and tucked it around my legs.

"You really ought to have been more careful, you know. I never should have let you convince me to bring you out, let alone sit on the ground. It was nearly freezing, you know, it said so in the papers." I nodded, there was no use arguing with her. It had been stupid, but I wasn't sorry I had done it, I was going positively stir crazy indoors.

"You two were quite far away" she stated plainly. I didn't respond, I couldn't. Then, deciding she deserved some explanation, I nodded.

"The war..." I muttered by way of an answer. Mary took my hand again, giving it a small squeeze.

"It isn't like when we were children anymore, is it?" it wasn't really a question.

"No." I shook my head a little, as though clearing it of a fog. "I had hoped... but it was foolish..."

"It wasn't... it wasn't foolish... we all... we all wish it could go back to the way it was," she whispered, stroking my hand softly. "You should try to get some rest," she added, and I could swear she was blinking away tears. I nodded, I was quite tired, and my back was aching terribly.

"I will," I promised, "I am rather tired." Mary patted my hand one last time.

"I'll have your dinner brought up in a few hours. I'm sure Dr. Craven won't mind postponing his visit until the morning if it means you're better rested." I gave her a soft smile of agreement.

"Don't worry, Mary, you mustn't. I'm fine, really. I'll feel better after a night's rest." I turned onto my side- a new found skill that made my nights significantly more comfortable- and pulled the quilt over me. Mary rubbed my back comfortingly. After a few minutes of silence she must have been convinced I was asleep and left my bedchambers.

After about an hour of what was as close to tossing and turning as I could manage, I fell into a fitful sleep.