The candle's flame flickered as he sighed, he stared into the dancing amber glow, the only light in the darkening room and stroked the spine of his quill. The parchment before him was not covered with his words, as he hoped it would be. He would not be remembered for this work, he flicked the quill back and forth between his ink stained fingers as he read what he had written and sighed again.

It wasn't enough, it was never good enough, all the large ink blots concealing words like black holes, drawing in all of the words around, as if pulling them from his mind straight into the abyss. The blots together with the lines roughly crossing out sentences, asking, pleading the reader to disregard what was written underneath.

All the words were in his head, of this he was certain, he could see them, see images of what he wanted to write about, so clearly they were emblazoned in his mind's eye. He pictured scenes, moors rolling out in front of him, the endless miles of open and untouched land, he saw every detail, felt the breeze on his face and smelled the heather. He was there, in the moment, he could have reached out and touched the rocks, feel the grass underfoot, eyes pulled skywards to the birds wheeling overheard. But still the words would not come.

Maybe, he thought as he lifted his gaze from his work to the falling twilight outside his window, I need to experience real love before I can write about it. I must know first hand of it's sweetness before I can truly compare it to the fruits of spring and the pain of longing, before my words can have real meaning and depth. He considered this as he observed the darkness closing in around the trees in the distance, slowly bowing out of the scene as the play of daylight finishes and the curtain falls bringing another restless night.

The next night was no different, his shirt buttoned fully, cravat pulled tight to his neck,waistcoat and jacket drawn closed to keep out the chill. This night matched his darkening mood despite the extra candles burning around the room, throwing dancing shadows onto the walls and across his still bare parchment. He scratched the dry quill idly in circles,his attention drawn to the rain lashing against the window, it was a relentless army with battalion after battalion advancing at speed and throwing themselves mercilessly against the glass. A never ending assault that would have been admired for it's persistent spirit, if only he didn't feel this deep sadness within. It was a longing for something just out of reach, a hollow emptiness filling his chest and spreading throughout his body. So consuming he felt it could turn him to stone, from the inside out, he would remain sitting in this chair, perfectly preserved until one of the servants found him on the morrow.

They would enter his chamber without a care, to perform their usual duties of fetching his breakfast and stoking the fire. Maybe it would be timid George the young apprentice who still wouldn't meet his gaze and crept around the house as a shadow, scared to make his presence felt, it would scar the poor boy to find his master in such a state, he wouldn't recover. His body turned statue could be discovered by good old John, a cheery fatherly figure who'd been in employ of the house since he himself was a boy. Always whistling, quick to laugh, never complaining of his position or resentful of his chores. He imagined the smile sliding from John's face as the snow pile falls from the stable roof when struck with a broom and crashes to the ground. John would rush to his master's side, murmuring in shock then crying out to raise the alarm. Of all the house's inhabitants, it would be John who keeps his head in that situation. He imagined his stone body carried out into the walled garden, stood upon a plinth while his grieving family watched on, confused and wailing. The plaque in front would read.

"Here stands Thomas Thorne. Beloved son, brother, nephew.

Accomplished poet,play write and author.

May his memory endure the test of time as his words surely will."

This image brought a rueful smile to his otherwise haunted face, his mind tended to wonder to strange places, especially when he was trying to write. He was faced with these clear images playing out scenes in his head, a distraction from his work they were more of a hindrance than a help for his writing. Again lost for inspiration, he looked back down at the parchment in front of him and tightened his grip on the quill stem. 'Come on Thomas,' he silently urged himself.

His attention pulled back to the window a few moments later as he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves thundering up the drive, the noise drowning out the rain still hammering against the window. He squinted through the splashes obscuring his view to identify the figure dressed all in black, bundled up under a large riding cloak that was flailing out behind them, wide brimmed hat pulled low to keep off the rain,covering their face as they urged the horse towards the front door of the house.

The rider slowly sat back off the withers, upright in the saddle they relaxed into a rolling canter, to a controlled trot and finally pulled up. They swiftly threw a leg over the back of the saddle and dropped to the floor, with the look of experiencing many hours in the saddle, it was an instinctive movement. Although he admired the rider's grace and control he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that was growing in the  pit of his stomach. Who would ride out in this weather? At this time of the evening? What message could be so important it couldn't wait until a clear sky and the clarity of morning? He tried to push this to the back of his mind while he attempted to concentrate on his work once again, until this was no longer an option as his peace was shattered.

"Thomas!" The cry was accompanied by hurried footsteps in the corridor, he dropped his quill at this unexpected unseemly behaviour. His mother threw open his chamber door and burst into the room as he quickly stood and turned to face her. He was immediately drawn to the look of pure horror etched on her comely features, a damp folded parchment clutched tightly in her grasp. His mother seemed faint and lost for words as he moved to cross the room towards her, he almost drew level with her before a dark figure appeared in the doorway. Soaked through, splattered with mud, dripping onto the fine carpet and smelling of the fresh, cold evening air. The rider, who remained behind his mother, reacted just in time to grab her and hold her upright before she slumped to the floor. Thomas took his final strides to reach the unlikely pair, his mother seemed close to collapse and not at all fazed by the state of the rider she was leaning into for support. Her dress was soaked and mud stained now but she made no move to pull away and was reluctant to speak. Thomas hesitated, undecided what to make of this unlikely scene as the rider reached up and dragged the dripping hat from his head, throwing it to the floor. Thomas would usually be appalled at this rude behaviour and the gathering puddle emanating from the offending object, had it not been for the rider's face.

Soaked not only from the rain but also tears, as evident by his blotchy face and bloodshot eyes. He looked at Thomas, unspeaking but a thousand words seemed to pass between him and his cousin, James. In that instant his mother wailed as she reached forward for Thomas, grabbing his lapel with one hand and thrusting towards him the now crumpled parchment with the other. Thomas reached out a tentative hand for the parchment, while also trying to comfort his crying mother, who was clearly beside herself with grief. A second before he unfolded the note he caught James' eye and wished he hadn't. James stood in the doorway, staring at Thomas with a steely gaze that could have been distant or unfriendly if it wasn't for the tears streaming down his face.

Thomas scanned the note and staggered as if about to fall, the weight of his mother in his arm kept him upright. He allowed the note to fall to the floor as he wrapped both arms around his mother and they wept freely together. It was uncertain how long they stood as one, mother and son clinging to one another, grieving in mostly silence apart from the occasional murmur of "why?", "no, surely not, by the gods, please no."

Thomas was aware of a wet arm draped around his shoulders and a lean body leading him and his mother downstairs, through the house into the drawing room. He was aware of his father standing with hands clasped behind his back so tight his fingers were white, staring out of the window at the waterlogged lawn. Always a strong and imposing figure, his father's shoulders were now slumped and Thomas knew he stood with his back to the room, not to admire the view, but to hide his face.

His mother collapsed weeping onto a sofa as Thomas stared at his father's back. The shadows from the few hastily lit candles dancing across his worn house jacket. It was as though he was waiting, for something he could not express, waiting to be woken from this nightmare. Thomas was roused by James forcing a large brandy into his tightly balled fist, which he accepted gratefully and threw back in a single gulp,he placed the tumbler carefully onto a table to avoid throwing it across the room in frustration.

His mind drifted again, until James re-entered the room, dressed in Thomas' clothes, an open necked shirt and loose britches. James was more a son in this house than a nephew, he knew he was welcome to help himself to clean dry clothes and left the family to their individual grieving while he changed. Thomas shook his head,wondering how many moments had slipped away since he'd drunk the brandy, he hadn't noticed James leaving the room, so thick with grief was the fog in his head.

Thomas's father had turned from the window, framed against the backdrop of the night sky,clouds outside forming like a halo behind him, a defeated look and tears etched on his face. "I'm sorry," James eventually choked,shattering the heavy silence hanging in the room. Thomas threw himself from the sofa and wrapped his arms tightly around his beloved cousin, still unable to speak.

"Say she didn't suffer," Thomas finally murmured, his mother renewing her cries of anguish and the steely gaze of his father dropping to the floor. James pulled back from Thomas' grasp and held his face betwixt his hands. "It was quick, she wouldn't have felt a thing." His earnest expression was all the reassurance Thomas needed and he gripped James by the shoulders to steady himself.

"How could this happen?" His mother wailed to the room at large, his father's gaze snapped up from the floor and he spoke with a kindness the look in his eyes did not suggest. "We knew this day would come, Jane. We always knew Katherine would......she was always so..." He trailed off as a sob escaped his throat.

"She was a wonderful rider William, the best I knew, it was no-one's fault. It couldn't have been prevented. She died doing what she loved. I know she wouldn't have wanted it any other way." James offered his reassurances to the family but they felt flat and inadequate. Jane dabbed her ineffective handkerchief against her eyes and implored her nephew, "Come and sit James, you must be weary from your ride. Tell us everything.