I've tried to leave it all behind me

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𝕋ℍ𝔼 first time Mr. Peregrine laid eyes on Eliora Vale, he was just a boy-reckless, sharp-tongued, and insufferably clever. She, cold as winter's breath, regarded him with a disdain he returned tenfold. They had been raised beneath the same roof of peculiar misfits, an orphanage where time bent, and the forgotten children of the world found refuge. And yet, they had despised one another, like opposing forces of the same storm.

He thought her aloof, her silence insufferable. She thought him brash, his words as sharp as the daggers he so effortlessly wielded. They were like shadow and moonlight-never meant to embrace, always meant to chase. But fate is cruel and wondrous, and the years wove them together in ways they never expected.

Now, standing before him in the hush of midnight, Eliora Vale was no longer the sharp-eyed girl who scowled at his teasing. She was something ethereal, something hauntingly exquisite. Her hair, white as fallen snow, cascaded like silk down her back, moving as though kissed by an unseen wind. Her skin, pale as a ghost's whisper, held a fragile glow beneath the moonlight, and her clouded eyes, like fog over a sleeping forest, trapped him in their spell. She was frozen in time, untouched by the world's decay, a beauty so unearthly it ached to look upon her.

Seeing her again after all these years felt like the world had stopped spinning, as though time itself bowed before her. His lungs forgot how to breathe, his heart forgot how to beat. He had thought her cruel once, untouchable in her loneliness. But now, she was something else entirely deathless, divine, and his.

And yet, Mr. Peregrine had never known true devastation until their wedding day. It was small, a secret woven between twilight and candlelight, but it was perfect. She stood before him, veiled in shadows and devotion, the soft smirk of the girl he once knew flickering like a ghost upon her lips. He thought he had seen her at her most beautiful before-but now, draped in black silk and eternity, Eliora was breathtaking.

"Do you regret it?" she murmured, her voice soft as wind through an open grave.

He took her gloved hand, pressing it to his lips, his dark eyes brimming with something unspoken. "Only that I did not love you sooner."

𓅪

The mansion looms over the island like a forgotten relic of time, its gothic spires clawing at the mist-choked sky. The facade, once grand and proud, now crumbles under the weight of its tragic past-stonework fractured, ivy creeping like ghostly fingers across the weathered walls.

The windows, dark and hollow, seem to watch in silence, their glass long shattered or clouded with age. Balconies teeter on the edge of collapse, their iron railings rusted and warped by years of neglect. The grand entrance, flanked by towering pillars, is draped in shadows, its wooden doors slightly ajar as if waiting-perhaps for someone who will never return.

Inside, the mansion is a mausoleum of forgotten stories. Dust thickens the air, motes swirling in the pale light that filters through torn velvet drapes. The hallways stretch endlessly, lined with peeling wallpaper and portraits whose subjects seem to follow intruders with their sombre gazes. The air carries a whisper of something lost-a memory, an echo, a sorrow woven into the very bones of the house.

As the four children ascended the grand staircase, their footsteps barely echoed in the vast, timeworn hall. The double doors before them loomed, heavy and ancient, the brass handles dulled with age. Just as Emma reached for them, they creaked open on their own, revealing the imposing yet strangely elegant figure of Mr. Peregrine.

He stood tall, framed by the golden slant of afternoon sunlight filtering through the high-arched windows behind him. A thin curl of smoke trailed from the pipe between his lips, and his Victorian suit-dark as a raven's wing-was immaculately pressed, as though not a thread dared to be out of place. Midnight-blue hair, sharp and windswept, caught the light in an almost ethereal glow. He glanced down at his pocket watch, silver glinting between his gloved fingers, before a slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

"Right on time," he mused, removing the pipe from his mouth with a satisfied air. Then, his gaze landed on the boy standing hesitantly among the three peculiar children. His sharp, calculating eyes softened slightly, and he extended a hand with practiced elegance.

"Mr. Peregrine. Delighted to meet you."

Jake, though unsure, reached out and shook the man's hand. The warmth in Mr. Peregrine's smile was quickly replaced with something more severe as he turned his attention to Emma, Olive, and Millard.

"I do hope I'm not going to have the pub landlord knocking on my door with the police again," he said dryly, exhaling a slow wisp of smoke. "I've had to kill them twice this month. It's been terribly inconvenient."

Emma, her weightless frame anchored only by the thick soles of her special shoes, shifted uncomfortably. Dressed in a sky-blue gown, her golden hair caught the dim light like liquid sunlight. She hesitated before offering a sheepish explanation.

"Millard broke a few things. That's all. And Olive... may have started a tiny fire."

Mr. Peregrine's sharp gaze flickered to Olive, his expression unreadable. The ember at the end of his pipe glowed as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled a ribbon of smoke.

Emma quickly interjected before he could scold them further. "But they were going to hurt Jake."

At that, Mr. Peregrine's sternness wavered. He studied the boy once more, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes. With a slight nod, he stepped aside, allowing Emma and Millard-who, though invisible, was undoubtedly slinking past-into the mansion. Olive followed, her red curls bouncing as she hurried inside.

Before Jake could do the same, Mr. Peregrine moved in front of him, regarding him with the air of someone inspecting an old photograph brought to life.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice laced with something close to nostalgia. "The last time dear Abe sent me a photograph, you were just a tiny tot."

Jake managed a small, uncertain smile, which Mr. Peregrine returned before stepping aside.

"Don't just stand there," he said, ushering him in with a flick of his wrist. "Your tea's getting cold."

Jake stepped past the threshold, and the heavy doors groaned shut behind him with finality. As they walked, he glanced up at the peculiar gentleman beside him.

"How did you know about the pub?"

Mr. Peregrine didn't so much as pause in his stride as he replied, "You weigh approximately 109 pounds, correct? Bronwyn and the twins returned six minutes after you ran away."

Jake frowned. "I think I'm missing something."

Mr. Peregrine ignored the remark entirely, stopping just in front of him and turning with a knowing smirk.

"And quite apart from the fact that the perceived safety of the pub makes it the most likely place to which you would flee, it would take you exactly eighteen minutes to run there. Emma and Millard would have been moments behind, traveling on the horse and trap at 8.2 miles per hour. Factoring in some sort of kerfuffle at the pub, and the return journey with your added weight, you would arrive here at precisely thirteen minutes past four."

With a flick of his wrist, he held up his pocket watch, the hands resting perfectly at the time he predicted. Jake blinked in surprise, unsure whether to be impressed or unnerved.

Mr. Peregrine turned with an air of satisfaction and strolled into the small, dimly lit kitchen. Without missing a beat, he glanced over his shoulder and asked,

"Now, then, do you take sugar?"

The soft whistle of the kettle filled the dimly lit kitchen, curling through the air like a distant melody. Olive stood beside it, her small hands pressed against the metal, glowing faintly as they transferred heat directly into the water. The kettle trembled under her touch, steam curling from its spout.

"That'll do. Thank you, Olive," Mr. Peregrine's voice broke the quiet hum, his tone carrying its usual refined amusement. He took a slow drag from his smoke pipe before exhaling languidly. "Nobody enjoys over-boiled tea."

Olive beamed, her cheeks dusted with warmth and withdrew her hands. A faint red imprint remained where her fingers had been, a ghostly signature of her peculiarity. Lifting the kettle carefully, she turned toward Jake, offering him a shy smile, which he returned without hesitation.

As she began to pour, her eyes flickered toward Enoch, who was shuffling past, arms full of murky glass jars. The dim light cast long shadows against his pale face, his expression set in a permanent scowl.

"Let me help you with those, Enoch," Olive offered kindly.

Enoch halted mid-step, turning his head just enough to shoot her a dry, unimpressed stare. His lips twisted into a smirk, sharp with sarcasm.

"Don't bother. Wouldn't want to interrupt your little tea party."

Without waiting for a reply, he stalked off, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. Olive frowned, placing the kettle down with a soft clink before casting one last glance at Jake and Mr. Peregrine. Mr. Peregrine, ever unbothered, simply took another slow drag from his pipe, watching the exchange with mild amusement.

With a soft sigh, Olive turned on her heel and hurried after Enoch.

A quiet settled between Jake and Mr. Peregrine, the kind that spoke louder than words. The air felt heavier, like the weight of unspoken sorrow pressing down on them both. Mr. Peregrine broke the silence, his voice lower now, touched with a rare sincerity.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Jake."

His gaze dropped momentarily, as though he, too, was mourning someone distant yet dear. Jake nodded, his throat tight.

"You know, then."

Mr. Peregrine lifted his eyes, studying the boy for a moment before offering a faint, knowing smile.

"I know that if Abe were alive, he would have told me you were coming."

He exhaled slowly, placing his smoke pipe down with a soft clatter against the table. The sombre moment lingered, a silent understanding hanging between them. But Mr. Peregrine, ever the host, straightened and gestured toward the door.

"Shall we take our tea outside?"

He reached for two teacups, handing one to Jake with a graceful flick of the wrist.

Jake accepted it with quiet gratitude, murmuring a small "thank you" before following the peculiar gentleman out into the fading afternoon light.

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By: SilverMist707