Sound came first. 

Too many sounds. Sharp, overlapping, crashing into each other without rhythm. A horn blaring too close. Shouting. Someone swearing. Glass breaking like it kept shattering long after it should have stopped. 

Then pain. 

This pain was everywhere and nowhere at once, a heavy pressure pressing inward, squeezing thought out of him before he could name it. 

Damon tried to breathe. 

His chest refused. 

Something was wrong. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness didn't lift. It pressed back instead, swallowing him whole. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Like he was reaching for it through water. 

Voices floated in and out. 

"-call it in-" 

"-blood pressure's dropping-" 

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" 

Hear. 

Yes. He could hear. He wanted to say that. He wanted to say I'm here but his mouth didn't move. Everything spun and slammed sideways. Pain flared hot and bright, then dulled again, retreating into a deep, echoing throb. 

This is how it ends, a distant part of him thought. Darkness surged up again and swallowed everything. 

When awareness returned this time, the sounds were different. He heard rhythms. A steady beeping somewhere close, too regular to belong to the outside world. Air moved across his face, it felt artificial, cool and dry. 

He was lying down. 

That realization came slowly, as if his mind had to negotiate for it. His body felt heavy and pinned in place. He couldn't move his arms. Couldn't move his legs. He tried anyway, sending the command, waiting for his body to obey. 

Panic stirred suddenly. 

Move. 

Nothing. 

Move. 

Still nothing. 

His heart rate spiked, and the beeping nearby responded, quickening as if mocking him. Voices again. Clearer this time, though still distant. 

"He's stable." 

"Any response?" 

"None yet." 

Yet. 

That word lingered. 

Damon tried to focus on it, on what it meant. Stable meant alive. Alive meant not finished. Not yet. 

Something touched his arm. He felt the pressure.  

"We're here," a voice said, closer now. It sounded professional. "You're not alone." 

He wanted to laugh at that. Or scream. Or do anything to prove he was still himself in here, wherever here was. 

But his body remained silent. He drifted in and out. Sometimes there were voices. Sometimes there was nothing at all. Sometimes pain surfaced, sharp enough to remind him he existed before fading again into a numb, floating haze. 

He learned the rhythm of the beeping and the cadence of footsteps. He learned the difference between day and night by the quality of sound in the room, not by sight. 

He heard names. Doctors. Nurses. Once, just once, he heard Victor. "...he'd hate this," Victor's voice said. "Just lying here." 

Damon tried to respond. He tried to reach for that familiar presence. The effort drained him, pulling him back under before he could even begin. 

The darkness welcomed him again. 

There were moments when he thought he was dreaming. Fragments slipped in vividly. Colors where there should have been none. Then warmth. The faintest scent of something sweet, a floral scent. 

He dismissed it at first. 

Brains did strange things when injured. He knew that. He clung to logic the way a drowning man clung to wreckage. But the fragments kept returning. 

Yellow. Pink. White. Purple. Soft and pale, like sunlight caught in petals. A breeze brushing his cheek, gentle enough to feel intentional. It wasn't the sterile air of machines, but something alive. He felt grass under his fingers.  

That was new. 

He tried to focus on it, but it slipped away, replaced by the steady beeping again. The hum of electricity and the faint murmur of voices. 

"You think he can hear us?" 

"It's possible." 

"Talk to him anyway." 

A pause. 

"Damon," someone said. "If you can hear me, you're safe." 

Safe. 

The word felt hollow. 

Because somewhere deep inside him, something was shifting. Sliding as if the ground beneath his awareness was no longer solid. The name from the dream surfaced again. 

Jeffrey. 

It didn't feel foreign anymore. It felt close. Closer than it should have. 

Damon tried to push it away. He was Damon Hale. He knew who he was. He knew where he belonged. New York. His gallery. The painting...the painting... 

Her face appeared behind his closed eyes with startling clarity. It wasn't flat like paint. She was alive and breathing. Her green eyes fixed on him with an expression that made his chest ache. 

"Don't you remember me?" 

"I don't," he tried to say. 

The words didn't leave his mouth. They didn't need to. The world tilted again, gently this time. The beeping stretched, slowed, distorted, until it no longer sounded mechanical at all. The voices faded into a distant hum, then into nothing. 

The scent returned. Stronger now. 

Flowers. 

He felt sunlight on his face. Real sunlight. He felt the solid press of ground beneath him.  

Earth. 

His fingers twitched. This time, they moved. The realization hit him with a jolt of something close to terror. He could feel his body again. 

He drew in a breath and it came easily, filling his lungs without resistance. Clean and fresh air. His heart pounded without pain this time but with shock. 

This isn't possible. 

He opened his eyes. 

Color exploded into existence. Green stretched endlessly around him vibrantly. The sky above was clear and blue. Flowers dotted the landscape in every direction, swaying gently in the breeze. 

Primroses. 

He pushed himself upright, staring down at his hands. They were his and also not his. Younger, somehow. Unmarked. Strong in a way he didn't remember being. 

His clothes were wrong too, it wasn't modern. It was just a simple fabric with no impeccable tailoring. 

His pulse thundered in his ears. 

"This isn't real," he said aloud. 

His voice sounded different. It was altered. As if it belonged to a version of him he had never met. 

A shadow fell across the grass. 

He looked up. 

Someone stood a few steps away, a young man slightly older than him riding on a horse. Relief flooded his expression as he sighted him. 

"There you are, Jeffrey." The young man said. 

He stood slowly, his instinct and memory colliding. 

"I've been looking all over for you". The young man said again gently. 

A name settled into him like a key turning in a lock and it clicked. 

Patrick. 

"Aye! Patrick, the weather is quite friendly today, I thought I might bask in its warm embrace." Jeffrey said. 

"Do not tarry too long now cousin, for there's much to be done." Patrick replied. 

"I shan't." Jeffrey said. 

And somewhere, far behind him, the world he had known fell completely silent. 

–

(Ireland, Early 1800s) 

The morning sun had barely begun its climb when Jeffrey O'Connell stepped down from the carriage, the crisp air of the Irish countryside filling his lungs. His cousin Patrick Doyle, eager as ever, adjusted his coat and peered toward the small village ahead. Both young men had been traveling the roads near their family estates, but this particular morning promised something different, a brief respite from the weight of aristocratic expectations, or so Jeffrey hoped. 

"Surely," Patrick said, glancing at him with a smirk, "today shall present some amusement. One cannot endure the ceaseless dullness of the manor without a touch of distraction." 

Jeffrey raised an eyebrow. "Amusement, you say? Pray tell, Patrick, what form might that take on a morning such as this?" 

Patrick chuckled, puffing out his chest. "One never knows until fortune reveals herself." 

Jeffrey only shook his head and let the reins fall into his hands, allowing the carriage to roll slowly along the uneven cobblestone path. He found no amusement in forced curiosity, he preferred observing rather than seeking spectacle. 

The village came into view. Quaint cottages, a small market square, and the aroma of freshly baked bread drifting on the wind. Patrick noticed a young woman at work in a garden just outside a low, whitewashed cottage. Her red hair glimmered in the sunlight, her pale skin almost glowing against the green of the plants, freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. She bent gracefully, tending to the strawberries with care, humming softly to herself. 

Patrick's eyes immediately brightened. "There! Do you see her?" he whispered, leaning forward. 

"A vision, Jeffrey. Surely, the most enchanting creature this countryside holds!" 

Jeffrey frowned, more out of habit than judgment. "Patrick, must you always speak so loudly of what little you understand?" 

Patrick ignored the reprimand, tipping his head in admiration. "She has the colour of autumn leaves upon her hair, and a grace I have not encountered elsewhere. Observe, my dear cousin, observe how the very sunlight seems to favour her." 

Jeffrey merely tilted his head, studying the girl without judgment. There was a serenity about her that caught his attention. It was a natural, unpretentious presence that made him pause. She was not laughing nor performing for anyone. 

As they neared, the woman glanced up, catching sight of the approaching carriage. Jeffrey noticed the subtle lift of her eyebrows, the fleeting wariness that accompanied polite curiosity.  

Patrick, undeterred, called out in a cheerful tone, "Good morrow, fair lady! Might we trouble you for the name of this enchanting village?" 

The woman straightened, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Good morrow," she said, her voice soft but clear. "You are near Ballymore, sir, though few travelers find themselves so far before the day is fully begun." 

"I am Jeffrey O'Connell," Jeffrey said, inclining his head. "And this is my cousin, Patrick Doyle. We are visitors to your humble village." 

Her eyes were green and unyielding in their curiosity, lingered on Jeffrey. "You travel well and speak politely, Master O'Connell. I am Maeve," she said, offering a small nod, "Maeve O'Rourke". She added, turning to Patrick with an air of polite caution. 

"Patrick Doyle, at your service," he said, bowing slightly. "I am a humble admirer, should fortune grant me your acquaintance." 

Maeve's lips curved in a restrained smile. "It is courteous to admire without overstepping, sir. That much I value." 

Patrick's face fell slightly at her lack of immediate awe. Jeffrey, observing the scene, could not help but stifle a small laugh at his cousin's predictably grand gestures. 

"Master O'Connell," Maeve addressed Jeffrey directly, "and may I ask, do visitors often linger near gardens so early, admiring work not yet finished?" 

Jeffrey tilted his head thoughtfully. "I find that beauty, when one encounters it honestly, merits attention regardless of hour. It seems to me that your care for this garden is remarkable." 

Maeve paused, studying him with faint curiosity. "Remarkable, you say? Perhaps it is only necessary labour, sir, and yet you make it sound extraordinary." 

There was a pause, brief but weighty, during which Patrick shifted impatiently, sensing he had been overshadowed. Jeffrey, however, simply smiled lightly in recognition of her character. She had substance, wit, and independence. The qualities Patrick had yet to discern in any of his other acquaintances. 

"I would not speak lightly of such matters," Jeffrey replied. "You tend these plants as one would tend to... well, the very threads of life itself. A dedication most rare." 

Maeve's cheeks warmed faintly. "You are kind, Master O'Connell. Most men your age would offer idle flattery, yet you speak with honesty." 

Patrick bristled. "Truth, Maeve, is ever more appealing than flattery, is it not?" he interjected, attempting to regain the spotlight. "I assure you, my admiration is of the deepest sincerity." Maeve's gaze softened ever so slightly, yet Jeffrey noticed the glimmer of amusement in her green eyes as she considered Patrick's words. She remained cordial, but it was clear to Jeffrey that her attention was not entirely captured by his cousin. 

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "the measure of sincerity lies not in grand claims, but in actions taken quietly. Do you not agree, Master O'Connell?" 

Jeffrey inclined his head. "Entirely. And your agreement is noted with appreciation." 

Patrick's jaw tightened. "Surely, your words are as elusive as the wind, Miss O'Rourke." 

Maeve shook her head lightly, returning to her work in the garden. "I find truth in simplicity, sir. Not all words require weight to carry meaning."

Jeffrey watched her hands, deft and careful among the flowers. For a moment, he forgot to speak, content merely to observe. Patrick, beside him, shifted restlessly, unable to remain so still when his obsession had been denied attention. 

The carriage bell rang, signaling the need to depart. Jeffrey and Patrick stepped back, bowing slightly to Maeve. 

"It is a pleasure, Miss O'Rourke," Jeffrey said earnestly. "I hope our paths may cross again." Maeve nodded politely. "I should think it is possible, Master O'Connell. Fate has a way of guiding the willing." 

Patrick's face flushed, a mixture of irritation and disbelief. He had been denied the focus he expected, and now the subtle charm of Jeffrey had begun to take hold. 

As they drove away, Patrick muttered, "She barely looked at me. How does one compete with such composure?" 

Jeffrey smiled faintly, focusing on the passing landscape rather than his cousin's grievance. 

"Perhaps one does not compete. Perhaps one observes and learns." 

Patrick scowled. "Observe? That is scarcely action. One must act to win her favour, cousin." 

Jeffrey's eyes lingered on the village in the distance, the memory of the girl in the garden etched firmly in his mind.

"Time," he said quietly, "will reveal the actions that truly matter." 

Patrick did not respond, already plotting some grand gesture, while Jeffrey remained thoughtful, feeling a peculiar tug he could not yet name. There was a lightness in her presence, a warmth in her gaze, and an honesty that made his usual cynicism falter for the first time in many years. 

By the time they returned to the carriage's comfort, Jeffrey found himself stealing another glance toward the village, towards Maeve's cottage. Patrick was jabbering on about plans for the next opportunity, about gifts and displays, but Jeffrey barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere, following a girl he had only met once, whose green eyes seemed to linger in his memory far longer than common courtesy or chance should allow. 

And in that moment, Jeffrey realized that though he did not yet admit it even to himself, that Maeve O'Rourke would be no ordinary acquaintance. She had entered his life quietly, without fanfare, and yet, her presence already stirred something profound within him. 

Patrick, oblivious to Jeffrey's contemplation, continued plotting and fussing, entirely unaware that his cousin's fascination was more than amusement or fleeting curiosity. Maeve, had begun to occupy the most unexpected corners of Jeffrey's thoughts.

–

The morning air was crisp as Jeffrey and Patrick made their way along the path to the village. Patrick walked a step ahead, straight-backed and composed, with a small bundle of white lilies cradled carefully in his hands. Jeffrey followed behind, hands stuffed in his pockets, grinning at the way Patrick's brow was furrowed with purpose.

"You do realize," Jeffrey said casually, "that she might not even notice your bouquet?"

Patrick shot him a look over his shoulder. "I intend for her to notice."

Jeffrey snorted. "Indeed. Because nothing says subtlety like a dozen white lilies. What could go wrong?"

Patrick ignored him. He stepped lightly over a small puddle and adjusted the stems in his hands.

"She is fond of me, you know. I merely wish to show her that I care. There is nothing more natural than expressing one's sentiments."

Jeffrey laughed. "Ah, yes. Natural, he says, while carrying a bouquet that could knock a grown man over. Very natural."

Patrick's expression softened, almost imperceptibly, and he glanced at Jeffrey. "It is not meant to impress you, if that is what you imply."

"Not at all," Jeffrey said, grinning. "I merely enjoy the theatre of it."

They rounded the last bend, and there she was, Maeve crouched by a patch of wild strawberries, her skirts gathered around her knees, hair catching the sun like threads of copper. She looked up and smiled when she saw them approaching, though her eyes lingered on Jeffrey.

"Good morrow, Miss O'Rourke, "I trust this day finds you well." Patrick said, hiding the bouquet behind while bowing slightly. Jeffrey did the same.

"Good morrow, gentlemen." Maeve answered. "Very well indeed, thank you Master Doyle."

"Patrick will do, if you please." Patrick said, his eyes never leaving hers.

Maeve stared back, noticing his icy blue eyes and sharp features for the first time. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"I shall agree, only if you call me Maeve." She said softly.

"Whatever Maeve wants" Patrick said, smiling sheepishly.

"Very well then-Patrick." Maeve replied, looking away shyly.

An unease settled within Jeffrey and he finally spoke.

"You may as well call me Jeffrey, that all may be made equal." He said, grinning.

Maeve laughed softly, a sound that made Jeffrey's chest ache in amusement.

"Well enough, Jeffrey."

Patrick, then revealed the flowers he had been hiding. "I thought these might bring a little cheer to your day."

"These are lovely. But-" She touched her throat and her smile faltered. "Oh... I am... rather sensitive to lilies. Allergies, you see."

Patrick froze. His eyes widened in horror. "Allergies?"

"I-" Maeve sneezed violently, her eyes watering, and Patrick's face paled as he realized the mistake. "Oh, I am terribly sorry! I had no idea-"

Patrick cast aside the bouquet and knelt quickly beside her, gathering her hands in his. "Maeve, I am so sorry. I did not know. Are you... are you well enough to-"

"I will be fine," she said, laughing weakly through a second sneeze. "Really, it is not so grave. But you must take care next time, or I may faint from fright rather than the pollen."

Patrick's jaw ticked. He felt genuine regret, an ache that made him want to disappear into the grass with her. "I cannot forgive myself for this oversight. I should have been more cautious. I-"

Jeffrey stepped forward, grinning despite himself. "Patrick, you've done it now. You've nearly killed her with kindness."

Patrick gave him a sharp look. "I am not amused."

"You should be," Jeffrey replied, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. "It's quite heroic, really. A man, a bouquet, and the faint possibility of murder-by-flower."

Maeve giggled, holding a hand to her mouth. "You two are impossible."

Patrick's hands shook slightly as he helped Maeve to her feet. "I assure you, this was not my intention. I shall remain vigilant henceforth. Will you forgive me?"

She smiled and her eyes sparkled. "Of course, Patrick. But you must promise me, no more lilies."

"Agreed," he said solemnly. "No more lilies."

Jeffrey nudged him with an elbow. "See? A simple 'sorry' would have sufficed. Though, I daresay, the theatrics suited you well."

Patrick ignored him and gave Maeve one last look before they began the walk back toward the village. "I am compelled to depart soon," he said quietly, almost reluctantly. "I must travel with my father to inspect a property near the coast. I wish I could remain longer, but..." He let the sentence trail off, his gaze lingering on Maeve.

"I understand," she said softly. "You must do what is required."

"I shall write," Patrick added quickly. "A letter... that I hope will convey what I cannot speak aloud in haste."

Jeffrey, ever the instigator, clapped him on the shoulder. "See? Practical. And now, my turn to shine."

Patrick's eyes flicked toward him, unamused. "What do you mean?"

"I shall deliver your letter," Jeffrey said, grinning. "As your humble envoy. And while I'm at it, I shall ensure the lady does not collapse from any other floral encounters."

Maeve laughed outright. "I do not believe this, Jeffrey. You are too whimsical."

"Whimsical, yes," Jeffrey said, bowing theatrically. "But indispensable, madam."

Patrick shook his head, muttering under his breath as he began the preparations for departure.

Jeffrey, meanwhile, lingered, clearly enjoying the company of Maeve more than he would ever admit to his cousin.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Later that evening, after Patrick had departed with his father, Jeffrey returned to the village with the letter folded neatly in his pocket. The sky was painted with the fading hues of sunset, and the air smelled faintly of earth and dew. Maeve was at the edge of the orchard, gathering herbs for the evening meal.

"Maeve," Jeffrey called softly, stepping into the golden light.

She looked up, startled at first, then smiled when she recognized him. "Jeffrey! I did not expect-"

"I come bearing words from Patrick," he said, bowing slightly as he handed her the letter. "And apologies for his lilies."

Maeve took the letter with a laugh, shaking her head. "He cannot deliver an apology without you playing messenger?"

Jeffrey grinned. "I am merely honoured to serve."

She unfolded the paper carefully and read it aloud softly to herself. Jeffrey waited, leaning against a nearby tree, observing her face. Her expression softened as she read Patrick's elegant and carefully chosen words. He had written with warmth, charm, and sincerity, apologizing for the lilies, expressing his regard, and wishing her well.

Once the letter was finished, Maeve looked up at Jeffrey. "He seems very kind."

"He is," Jeffrey said quickly. "But you need not fret. You are not in any danger of being overrun by lilies again, at least, not from him."

Maeve laughed again, a pure sound that made Jeffrey's chest lift involuntarily. "Your humour is quite agreeable, Jeffrey. I am thankful you have brought this to me, it has lifted my spirits."

Jeffrey grinned, teasing lightly. "You flatter me. But I would not deny the lady a smile, if it is within my humble power."

Maeve's cheeks colored faintly. "You are too witty for your own good. Tell me, Jeffrey, are you always this clever?"

He raised an eyebrow, mock offense in his tone. "Only in the company of those who can appreciate it."

She laughed again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You have a sharp tongue, but a kind heart, I think."

Jeffrey's smile softened. "I try. And if you will permit me, I would like to know. What is your favourite flower, Maeve?"

She paused, thinking. "A primrose," she said finally, her eyes brightening. "I have always loved primroses. They are small, cheerful...and they always seem to find the light, no matter where they grow."

Jeffrey's eyes lit up. "Primroses," he repeated. "I shall remember that."

Maeve smiled at him, clearly amused. "I expect you will, now."

He laughed softly. "Indeed. And I hope, when the time comes, to ensure you always have some near."

Her laughter tinkled through the orchard, carrying over the fading light, and Jeffrey found himself smiling with a strange, unbidden joy. He had delivered Patrick's letter, fulfilled his cousin's request, and, unexpectedly, made a new friend. One whose laughter he would carry in his memory long after this day.

Maeve glanced at him, curiosity and amusement shining in her eyes. "You seem to enjoy yourself too much, Jeffrey. I wonder if you are as mischievous as you seem."

He grinned. "Mischief has its place, as long as it brings smiles, does it not?"

She nodded. "It does. I suppose this is the beginning of a friendship, then?"

"Perhaps," Jeffrey said, bowing lightly. "And perhaps a very good one."

The primrose lingered in his mind. And as he left her side that evening, he vowed quietly to himself that he would never forget it or the laughter that had first warmed his heart. But knowing that his cousin fancied Maeve made the situation all the more tangled. Yet he was quietly pleased that she at least considered him a friend. To be in her presence was, for now, reward enough.

_