Chapter 750: You Were Never the Cause

Darcy continued forward along the dimly lit corridor in silence, his footsteps measured and steady, though his mind was anything but calm. His thoughts drifted restlessly, circling back to the moment he had entered the hospital room earlier. There had been something he had forgotten to say, something meant for Clyde, yet in the midst of everything that had unfolded, it had slipped from his mind entirely.

He could still recall the exact instant with unsettling clarity.

His hand had already reached for the doorknob, fingers curling around the cold metal as he prepared to step out, when a voice had halted him mid-motion. Leo’s voice.

That single moment had drawn his attention sharply back, holding him in place as he listened. And then, almost immediately after, came the memory of how Micah had reacted.

The disdain had been unmistakable.

The way Micah had looked at them, cold, disgusted, utterly devoid of any lingering tolerance, had not been something that could be easily ignored or misunderstood. There had been no hesitation, no attempt to mask his feelings. It had been raw, unfiltered rejection.

Strangely enough, recalling that expression now brought a faint sense of satisfaction to Darcy. Micah had not forgiven them. That thought, though subtle, had settled within him with quiet reassurance. It meant something. More than he would readily admit.

And perhaps that had been why, when he had noticed Micah becoming visibly emotional earlier, clearly affected on his behalf, he had chosen to interrupt before things could escalate further. There had been no need for Micah to expose himself in that way, not in front of others, not in front of people who had no right to witness such vulnerability.

However, as they stayed in Ilyas’s room side by side, Darcy became increasingly aware of something else. Micah had been looking at him.

Not just once, not merely in passing, but repeatedly, with a concern that was difficult to overlook. It lingered in the way his gaze followed, in the subtle shifts of his expression, in the tension that had yet to leave his posture.

It did not escape Darcy’s notice. And so, deciding that it would be better to address it directly rather than allow it to fester unspoken, he had asked his question earlier, about Leo, about why they had been there.

Now that he had his answer, incomplete though it might be, Darcy found that his guard had lowered slightly. He no longer felt the immediate need to remain on high alert.

Even so, he chose to maintain a certain distance when it came to deeper truths. He would continue to act as though he did not know. As though he wasn’t the one, like Micah, who carried memories spanning multiple lifetimes.

It was simpler that way. Safer.

There was a fragile balance between them, something delicate and easily disturbed. Pretending ignorance allowed that balance to remain intact, allowed both of them to exist within a space where not everything had to be laid bare.

It was better this way. Or at least, that was what Darcy told himself. Still, something felt off. Micah had fallen unusually quiet.

At first, Darcy had not paid much attention to it. Silence was not uncommon between them, especially after everything that had occurred. However, as the seconds stretched on, the silence began to feel… wrong.

Curious, and perhaps intending to lighten the atmosphere slightly, Darcy turned around, a teasing remark already forming at the edge of his lips. But the moment he saw Micah’s face, the words died instantly.

Micah’s eyes were wet. Not merely glassy, not just faintly misted, but brimming, overwhelmed, unable to contain what had already begun to spill over. Tears slipped down his cheeks one after another, catching the dim light as they fell like fragile, glistening pearls.

For a brief second, Darcy could only stare. His pupils contracted sharply, his breath catching as a sudden, uncharacteristic panic surged within him.

“You!” he began, his voice faltering, the word barely escaping before it broke apart.

And then Micah collapsed. There was no gradual unravelling, no quiet attempt to regain control.

One moment he was standing, and the next he had sunk down onto his knees, as though whatever strength had been holding him upright had finally given way entirely. His shoulders shook violently, his breath uneven and fractured as sobs tore free without restraint.

“I’m sorry…” he choked out, the words spilling out between broken gasps. “Sorry… I am such a useless person… instead of helping you, I ruin everything…”

Each sentence came apart as soon as it formed, interrupted by hiccupping breaths and uncontrollable crying that made it difficult to understand him fully.

Darcy felt a chill run down his spine. No. This was not how it was supposed to be. Why was Micah reacting like this?

They were… fine, were they not?

Had they not reached an understanding, however fragile it might have been?

Why was he tearing through it now, ripping apart that thin, carefully maintained layer of normalcy as though it had never existed?

The sound of Micah’s crying did not go unnoticed. It echoed faintly through the corridor, drawing the attention of nearby nurses, their footsteps slowing as they glanced in their direction with concern.

Darcy’s expression tightened immediately. He couldn’t let Micah become a spectacle.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, grabbing Micah by the arm and pulling him up with more urgency than gentleness. Supporting his unsteady weight, he guided, no, dragged, him toward the nearest empty room, pushing the door open before quickly ushering him inside.

The door closed behind them with a soft but decisive click, shutting out the outside world.

Darcy moved him toward the bed and eased him down, though his own movements remained tense, controlled only by necessity.

Micah continued to tremble, his cries unabated as he clutched desperately at Darcy’s shirt, his fingers tightening as though letting go would send him falling into something far worse.

Darcy stood there for a moment, unsure. Then, slowly, he sat beside him, one arm instinctively wrapping around his shoulders to steady him. His own eyes had begun to sting. He listened. Listened as Micah’s fragmented apologies poured out in a disjointed stream, each word laced with self-blame, each sentence circling back to the same unbearable conclusion, that everything that had happened was somehow his fault.

Darcy’s chest tightened. He reached up, his hand moving almost automatically as he began to stroke Micah’s back in slow, steady motions, an attempt, however insufficient, to soothe him.

He had expected guilt. Of course, he had.

Given what Micah remembered, given everything that had transpired across those intertwined lives, it would have been unreasonable to expect otherwise.

But not this. Not to this extent. This was not mere guilt. This was something far deeper, far more destructive. If it continued, it would break him.

Darcy drew in a quiet breath. “Micah…” he began, his voice softer now, more deliberate. “Listen to me.”

He paused briefly, ensuring that he had at least a fragment of Micah’s attention. “I have never blamed you. Not once. Do you understand?”

But the words did not reach him. Or perhaps they did, only to be drowned out by the storm raging within him.

Micah shook his head violently, his grip tightening further. “No… no…” he insisted, his voice raw and desperate. “It was my fault. If I hadn’t switched with you… None of this would have happened. You were innocent… You were already a victim in my first life…”

His breathing hitched again, anger bleeding into his grief. “I want to kill them… I want to beat them until they cry like pigs, begging…”

Darcy exhaled slowly, something within him softening despite the intensity of the moment. His hand moved upward, fingers threading gently through Micah’s silver hair, only to pause as they brushed against the faint scar at his temple.

His gaze lingered there. Yes. If things had been different… If Aidan had not been there. If Silas had not intervened. Micah might not have survived that night in the snow.

Darcy closed his eyes briefly, the thought settling heavily within him. “I hate them too,” he murmured quietly. “I want to tear them apart… make them feel everything I felt.”

His voice trailed off. Then, suddenly, he reached out, gripping Micah’s face and lifting his head so that their eyes met directly.

“But listen to me,” he said, his tone firm despite the emotion beneath it. “I care about my mother. About my sister. About you… about the Ramsy family.”

His grip tightened slightly, not harsh, but enough to keep Micah grounded. “I am not going to throw my life away because of them. I know who hurt me. And I know who did not.”

His gaze sharpened. “You were not one of them. Do you understand me?”

Micah looked utterly dishevelled, his face flushed, streaked with tears and uneven breaths. Yet as he met Darcy’s eyes, clear, steady, unwavering, something shifted.

There was no doubt there. No hesitation. Only truth.

Micah’s sobs faltered, breaking into uneven hiccups as he leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Darcy once more. “Thank you…” He whispered hoarsely. “I will show you… this time… I will be a good older brother. I promise.”

Darcy let out a soft breath, a faint smile touching his lips. “You have already done enough,” he replied gently. “I am still recovering from your last… enthusiastic attempt at helping.”

Micah froze briefly. Then he felt it, the subtle vibration of Darcy’s chest as a quiet chuckle escaped him. Realisation dawned.

A weak, breathless snort followed. “I have grown,” Micah muttered defensively. “I know how to take care of people now.”

Darcy patted his back lightly. “Yes, of course,” he said with mild amusement. “Our little boy has matured. He even knows how to cry strategically now. Acting pitifully to soften hearts.”

Micah pinched him in protest. “You are so mean.”

Darcy’s smile widened slightly. “That is what brothers are for,” he replied. “Being mean to each other. Was that not what you wanted?”

Micah hummed softly in response, the sound faint but genuine.

For a while, they remained like that. The storm had quieted, though it had not entirely passed. Micah’s breathing still trembled, occasional hiccups breaking the silence, his body not yet fully recovered from the emotional collapse.

Darcy allowed it. He did not rush him. Instead, after a moment, he reached for his phone. His fingers moved quickly across the screen as he sent a brief message to Clyde.

This was not his role. He had done what he could, perhaps more than he should have. The rest… belonged to someone else.

And beyond that… he had to go back to Ilyas.

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