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maybe-theres-hope · 3 years

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Of Will and Wildflowers, Part 3 (Final)

It’s here! Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me: @oquinn53, @reyeslonestar, @howtosingit, @a-l-ias, @mtnofgrace, @descending-into-the-crazies @pragmaticoptimist34 if I forgot anyone please let me know!

Special thanks to my husband for reading this and making sure all my typos were gone :)

Tarlos | period drama/grudging acquaintances to lovers | Part 3/3 | This part: 10,877w | Total: 33,427w

Part 1 | Part 2

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Mr. Strand,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that your journey home was swift and uneventful. The entire house has been mourning yours and father’s departure since you left us. Mamà is convinced the lights are dimmer without the ambience of your father’s amusing anecdotes.

Elena has been lamenting the fullness of the house as well. She is easily bored without some new distraction every fortnight, but she swears she will convince you to visit again someday. I dare say we all will thank her if she can manage it.

In deference to our conversation, I will not try. I know you would not appreciate my needling.

Raquel cannot be bothered with the mundane occurrence of the comings and goings of visitors while she daydreams of castles and knights, so her opinion has not been asked. She still insists on helping Mrs. Smith in the kitchen, and Mamà still insists on having fits about it.

I must agree with my sister and mother, however. The house is a little less bright these days. Usually we can count upon sunlight and laughter to get us through the day, but those seem fleeting of late.

Flor misses you as well. She’s ornery when I ride her, as if she remembers a more beloved companion and I do not measure up. We lament your departure together when we meander the grounds.

Jimena is not often in the stable, so her opinion has not been ascertained either.

But enough of our melancholy!

How is it to be home? Travel can make us all weary, and you seemed so tired even before you set off. I hope you are feeling better in your own comfortable surroundings. Texas will always welcome you, but I know how good it is to feel your own dirt under your shoes. Please tell me something joyful, so that I can remember your face in gladness.

Your friend,

Christina Reyes

My dear friend,

As I sit beside the fire tonight, I am reminded of our last conversation. I am evermore grateful that you are taking on the no doubt immense burden of being my confidant while keeping our correspondence regarding these matters private from your family. Do not mistake me, if you at any time feel as though your obligation to me is taking precedent over your cherished feelings of love toward your family, please by all means give me but a word and I will cease my incessant pining.

Oh how I pine, dear Christina. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of the sound of rolling grass and smell wildflowers where there are none to be found. The city is bleak these days, and dark. What once was a welcome cacophony of life and commerce is now to me a teeming mass of sensation that I can barely stand for more than a moment. I long to feel the shift of earth under Flor’s hooves again, and for the caress of the soft breeze against my cheeks.

But enough of that for now. You asked in your letter for something joyful. My father has secured a deal with a contractor out West, and his—our line will stretch right to the Pacific, culminating at the coast. A fully developed coast to coast line, my father’s dream. It makes me so happy to see him so elated when he talks of it, and of me taking over it in time. I do not like to talk of him being gone, but it is inevitable he says. Men grow old, and pass on. He says what matters most is that we make a mark on the world we can be proud of, and that we touch people in ways that matter.

I cannot help but think that I have done neither.

I apologize again for my melancholy. When I sit to write to you I never intend to make you sad. Please, rejoice for my father and his accomplishments, for they reflect on me as well. I will take comfort in his happiness, and you can take comfort in my feeling it. That is enough for now.

Your friend,

TK Strand

TK,

I must address the most pressing concern from your letter immediately. You have touched us all, please know that. Please do not think you have not made a mark on the world, for our home would not have been the bright happy place it was while you were here without you to provide that light. Every day is a little darker, as I’ve said before, without you and your father in our midst.

Everyone is a little darker. Especially my brot

But enough of melancholy, as you said. I am delighted to hear of your father’s immense accomplishment. We are all so proud to be a part of it, a part of the future. I shall like to make the journey coast-to-coast someday on it, to me that would be such a wondrous thing!

I was wondering, would you tell me what Manhattan is like? I do admit I’ve only ever thought of it as bleak and loud and harsh, but surely folk as amiable as yourself and your father cannot come from such harshness. So please, tell me an anecdote of your days since you’ve returned. I’d love to hear of anything joyful. It would provide a balm to the monotony of country life.

Thinking of you always,

Christina Reyes

Dearest Christina,

Thank you for saying such kind things. I’ve always felt as if I were on the periphery of life. I’ve skated through it mostly by way of parties and luncheons with people who have little to talk about other than themselves. I’m just now getting to a point in my life where I do want to make a mark on the world. I know I can do that partially when I inherit my father’s legacy, and I intend to do it the utmost justice. But I find myself adrift in that I do have family and friends who love me, however…I do not have a love that speaks my heart’s language. A love that is built of trust and companionship and intimacy.

Please do not chide me for saying such things, we are friends and I feel I can talk about these delicate subjects with dignity. I thank you for your discretion.

But yes, as it stands, I have made no such mark on the world, have no such intimacy with which to grow old. I feel that the things we do in life do have a way of defining us, but they are far overshadowed by the people we choose to love.

In the past, I have chosen poorly, through no one’s fault but my own. I hope one day I can remedy that. But right now I feel, as I said, adrift. There is no one to hold me fast to the world, no one strive to do well for, after my father is gone. And I fear I may never have, as I have ceased looking. I cannot bear it at this moment.

Forgive me, my dearest friend, I have ignored your other request until now. Manhattan is much as it always is, loud and harsh, as you said. But most days it is a good distraction to hear the hustle and bustle outside my window. I do miss the Park and the promenade, but lately I haven’t felt well enough to venture out. I keep to my father’s study in our townhouse in Midtown while he visits the office near Gramercy and keeps me informed.

As I haven’t got a joyful anecdote from the days since our return, I will relate to you one from the past that is near and dear to my heart. When I was a young boy of about ten, my mother—God rest her soul—took me to the waterfront one day when my father was stolen from us with work. We gazed out over the Hudson, and even in my young age I tried to imagine that, just across the water, began the vastness of the North American continent. I used to try and picture what the land was like, what exotic treasures it held. I had never been anywhere, though my father had been to Chicago and Philadelphia numerous times.

I used to picture rolling hills, vast grasslands, and roaming livestock. I had been told most of the rest of the States consisted of farmland. I had never actually seen a bovine in person, but I had seen drawings. I childishly thought of it as one big zoo where all the animals roamed free, and the air always smelled crisp and clean. I imagined it was beautiful.

Funny thing is, I know now that that little boy of ten was at least partially right, at least about one particular place among that vastness.

I hope I have made you joyous,

TK Strand

My dear friend,

Your letter has made me joyous, in some ways. I wish you could have seen our home with childlike eyes, but alas I think it was better suited to you as you are now, and I’m glad you have experienced it and that it was to your liking. It truly means the world that you think of it as beautiful.

However, I have cause for concern where you have mentioned you have not been out, that you are unwell. Pray, please let me know how you get on, we all worry over you so. I happened to mention that excerpt of your letter at dinner, and I fear I may have incited a frenzy. I am humbly asked by my siblings to enquire after your health. Please tell us what ails you, so we can worry properly, and send up our prayers. I know we cannot do a thing for you, as far apart as we are now, but you are always in our hearts.

Mamà tells us that our business with your father is nearly finalized. I look forward to a ride on the line, hopefully with you as my guide. I must make the journey near winter, for I long to see snow. I’ve hitherto only read about it in books, a delicate powder that falls from the sky and blankets the world in white. How marvelous a sight must it be!

Be well,

Christina Reyes

Dear Christina,

As for your family, please tell them I am alright. I did not wish to frighten them or you, and I’m sorry for that. Please trust that our cook keeps me well with sandwiches and fruits when I am able to eat them. Everything is well when father is around to take up my time with business discussion, and as I said I am well distracted most days by the cacophony of the city outside.

I will venture out soon, I think, as my friends and acquaintances grow weary of my absence and I have left them all to their own devices for quite long enough, I suspect. I presume to know what they will want to discuss—an incident that took place just before our trip to Texas—it will be a drain on me to talk about it regardless. But I cannot put them off forever, I love them too much to deny them my company when they wish for it. Perhaps I’ll take a walk with one of them tomorrow, even if the air of the city is not nearly so keen and invigorating as the air of the country I have run from.

Please give my best to your family, I hope I have not caused anyone undue grief. I will only talk of happy things from here on out, when I eventually find them.

With affection,

TK Strand

P.S. I believe you know deep down what truly ails me, so I’ll not speak of it further lest I lose all dignity.

Mr. Michaels, the butler, stopped TK on his way to the dining room, handing him a card on a tray. He read it and smiled. “Miss Marwani called on you earlier, I told her you hadn’t yet come down. She left her card.”

“Thank you, Michaels. Will you send her a message that I’ll be free after luncheon today? I know it’s been so very long since I’ve made time to see her.”

“Yes, my lord. I dare say all your friends and acquaintances have been calling on us nonstop since your return home. But I trust it’ll take you a moment to get back into the swing of things after…your trip.”

TK smiled sadly. He knew what the butler was going to say before amending it. He’d been an absolute wreck after finding Alexander and the footman and had left for Texas only two days later. The entirety of the household and all of his friends must think he’s still in a melancholy state because of the slight.

If only they knew the truth. He might tell some of them, but only a select few he could trust. Michaels was a good man, and hadn’t overstepped. He’d practically raised TK since his father was so busy with the rail when he was younger. He knew the man was only looking out for his happiness.

“Michaels?” he said before turning to go on to the dining room for breakfast.

“Yes, my lord?”

“If you were faced with a time limit on a decision that governed your whole life, would you wait until you’d found the right solution? Or would you take the first viable solution to come along?”

TK knew that Michaels knew exactly what he was talking about, but was too polite to call attention to that fact. “I think if it were me, I’d examine every detail of each choice before deciding on the one most beneficial to my life in the long run. After all, some decisions are for a lifetime.” With this, he gave a small reproachful smile to his once young charge.

“Yes, well. What would you do if you’d found the right solution, but it turned out to be impossible?” TK’s eyes looked up in earnest at the butler, whose expression had turned kind and commiserating.

“I do hope you don’t think you’d found the right solution to this problem just before your departure?” It was obvious Michaels thought Alexander was far below TK even before the scandalous tryst was revealed.

“No, no. Nothing like that,” TK reassured. He was pensive for a moment, caught in his thoughts of rolling pasture and wildflowers, their scent dancing across his senses even from miles away. “I thought I had found the right avenue during my time away. It seemed a nice thing, a wonderful thing actually. I daresay my hopes were quite built up for a time. But in the end it proved, as I said, impossible.”

Michaels gazed at his young master for a moment, unmistakable pity in his eyes, but TK didn’t comment on it. He was too miserable.

“I hold the utmost confidence that the right choice is out there for you. But, my lord, you will never find it unless you leave this house eventually. I am glad you’ve decided to start breakfasting in the dining room again, and I know that if you do go out later today your color might begin to return. I worry for you, my lord. I hope I am not impertinent to say so.”

“No, no Michaels. You��re not impertinent. I know I’ve been ghastly to be around these last few weeks, and I do hope to remedy that. To begin…moving toward the future, no matter how much I wish I knew its contents.” TK gave the butler a sad smile before turning away again, the weight of all he wished for still on his shoulders and bright, luminous brown eyes on his mind, no matter how much he wished they’d fade.

“I know you’re still mourning Alexander and his licentious ways, but I promise you, you can do much better. His family isn’t even that well connected! He’ll be a faint stain on your past and nothing more.”

TK looked over at his friend, the navy ribbon on her silk evening bonnet getting caught by the light breeze weaving through the Park. Her dark eyes held an intense shine as they often did when she went on a tirade. He let himself smile at her ability to be both vicious and diplomatic.

“Marjan,” he chided gently, “his family owns three quarters of the orange trees in the country! I wouldn’t say he’s not well connected. Half of Florida bears his family name in some capacity.”

“Oh, to hell with that,” she spit delicately. TK was also impressed by her proficiency in cursing with a velvet tongue. “Then he should be sent off to oversee them. Rid this city of his stupidity. Even further! Florida is too close, send him to the West Coast! Let him disappear. Society will be all the better for it, mark my words."

TK was brought up short by the mere mention of the opposite coast, since thoughts of that region gave in to thoughts of a certain eligible bachelor which gave in to thoughts of his intended that TK desperately wished was his own intended and—

It must have shown on his face.

“TK, my friend, trust me. He is nothing of consequence.” Her voice had turned gentle again, not the outrage on his behalf she’d been spouting for the past few minutes. TK could not help connecting her statement with his thoughts, even if she was off the mark at the moment.

“I know that. It’s not him that unsettles me; he is firmly in my past and I shall not revisit my temporary lapse of judgement in giving him even a small parcel of my affection.” He patted her hand that rested in the crook of his arm as they walked leisurely around a small fountain, the sound of bubbling water serving to soothe his psyche for the time being.

She was silent for a moment before she tugged them to a pause on a semi-crowded knoll. “Then, pray tell, what has you so blue? Ever since you returned from the South you’ve been distant. I thought at first it was just lethargy left over from the long journey, but it has been over two months! I fear I shall never see you smile again as before. Please tell me what troubles you? Is it your father?”

Marjan was a close friend, and as such, she was privy to some news about his father’s health. The man wasn’t in immediate danger, but TK had confided in Marjan that his father had taken to being more…forceful in his demands that TK take a more active role in the business. He had a persistent cough but no fever as of yet. The doctors did what they could to alleviate the annoying ailment—as his father called it—but they all knew Owen Strand was beginning the downslope of his life. At nearly fifty years of age, he was nearing the last stretch of life expectancy and sometimes TK could see it plain on his father’s face. It made him apprehensive for the future, not to mention the fact that still stood: he had to marry before he could take over the business.

And that thought brought him back around to his other melancholy. For if the desired recipient of his affection would return said affection, he’d be happily married yesterday. But alas, it was not to be.

He dreaded a letter from Christina detailing an engagement. He knew it was coming soon, and he’d tried to resign himself to it. Perhaps she wouldn’t even tell him. After all, he’d asked as much of her. Nothing of Carlos, none at all; that had been his request.

“It is, partially, my father’s health that concerns me,” he said as he came out of his thoughts and back into the conversation at hand. “However I…”

“What is it?” Marjan asked when he refused to speak further after trailing off into silence. “What makes your heart ache so? I can see it in your eyes that it is your heart that is broken. If it was not Alexander, then who?”

Trust Marjan to read him like a book.

“I met someone. In Texas. Oh, Marjan—“ he paused a moment and could not help a smile crawling across his features at the thought of his week spent in bliss, before it all came crumbling down. “He is the most wonderful, kind, and beautiful creature I have ever met. At first I thought him a cad, as our first meeting was less than cordial. But upon learning why he felt as he did, I was persuaded to understand and to admire his candor. He spoke of his home with love and deference, and it was such a treasure to be shown the land with such a companion.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the apple orchard. Marjan caught his flush and smiled.

“And so? When shall we expect an announcement?”

TK’s smile quickly dimmed to a grimace, now tasked with completing the story.

“An announcement will not come, I’m afraid. He is betrothed to another. I found out on our second to last night in Austin, and I must confess I did not handle it well. I made a complete fool of myself and I’d like to never repeat it by seeing him again.”

“Wait, he did not tell you he was spoken for? And he courted you just the same and let you think you had a chance?” Her voice was angry and TK sought to soothe it with the truth.

“Truthfully, he never actually courted me. We were thrust together by circumstance, and he was a perfect gentleman throughout. It was I who read too much into each interaction, each conversation, each dance held in his arms. It was I who was a complete fool to let my feelings show on my face to all his family when they all knew nothing would ever come of it. I feel so stupid, Marjan. I practically begged father to cut the trip short. But…” he paused again, thinking of the dust kicking up behind Jimena’s hooves as Carlos rode out to meet their carriage after they’d already set off. The small bud of Indian Paintbrush was still blooming in a jar of water next to his bed.

“But?” She prompted.

“There were some moments where…where I could swear that he…but it was obviously a trick of my imagination. His betrothed is a marvelous gentleman, beloved by all, and he would be a fool not to accept an eventual proposal. As I said, it is well and truly over and out of the question that my pursuit would yield any happiness.”

Marjan was silent while they resumed their walk, her hand steady in the crook of his arm. Eventually, she spoke softly. “Well, I must admit I am glad this melancholy is not on Alexander’s account, but I also must admit I am saddened by this turn of events. I know you to be a perfect gentleman, and I have always wished you could find someone as wonderful as you to share your life with. I know you’ll do great things and I know you want someone to share those triumphs with. If this man is who you feel is perfect for you, why not fight for him? It is not in your nature to give up so easily.”

“That’s just it, Marjan. He is perfect, and honorable. Which is why I could not jeopardize his honor by asking him to abandon a promise he made before he met me. I would never forgive myself if his good name was tarnished.”

They walked in silence until the end of the lane, where they turned to leave the Park and hail a carriage back to Marjan’s home up the avenue.

When TK returned home later in the evening, Michaels stopped him in the entryway and held out a tray. “This came for you while you were out, my lord.”

TK took the proffered package and stared at it in confusion. The return address from from Christina, but usually all she sent were letters. This parcel was still small, the shape of a single letter, but thicker. It weighed little, giving no clue as to its contents.

“Thank you, Michaels. Is dinner set already? Do I have time to change?”

“You should, my lord. I shall call for you in about half an hour. Your father is in the parlor already, if you wish to check in with him, now you’re home.”

“Was he missing me? Did he need something?” TK wondered, a little worried.

Michaels smiled. “No, my lord. He was actually quite content all day, and was happy that you’d gone to call on Miss Marwani. I only say to check in because he probably hopes to hear how happy a time you had.”

TK smiled sadly. He knew he was worrying his father with his refusal to leave his own rooms for the past weeks. It saddened him further that he could have possibly made his father’s condition worse by stressing him. He vowed to himself to make a better effort to get back into real life sooner rather than later. After all, as he’d told Marjan earlier, there was nothing to be done about…Mr. Reyes. That was well and truly over, in fact it had never begun. There was no reason to pine after a man who did not do the same for him. TK was worth more than that.

Yes, he must convince himself of that, and quickly.

“Alright, Michaels. I’ll change quickly and meet him. Thank you,” he said with a small nod. Turning to ascend the stairs, he started to unwrap the small, delicate parcel Christina had sent. As he entered his rooms, his efforts revealed that there was, in fact, a letter inside. However it was nestled atop a small folded square of cloth, delicate and airy and fine.

Setting the letter aside for the moment, he unfolded the fabric to reveal that it was a handkerchief, finely made and embroidered in bright colored thread. The edges were a gleaming yellow, reminding him of sunlight. On one corner, no bigger than his thumb, was the most intricate rendition of a yellow wildflower—he recognized it almost instantly.

He moved to sit on the nearest surface, which happened to be the edge of his bed. The pads of his fingers caressed the tiny design reverently, as if touching it would somehow unravel all the thread that comprised it. As if by acknowledging that it was there, it was already in danger of disappearing. There was no doubt of the reference used—he had seen so many of those little yellow blossoms on his journey around the Reyes ranch. The breath left his body as his mind’s eye conjured a bright smile and the smell of clean sweetness on the air.

After he’d regained some of his composure, he picked up the letter. It was shorter than most of her other letters, which stood to reason as he’d just received her last one a few days ago and he’d yet to answer it. She must have sent this just behind her previous one.

Beloved TK,

I hope you are well. I know I have just posted a letter to you two days ago, but I saw this in a shop window and immediately thought of you. I know how you enjoyed the wildflowers around our home, and I wished for you to have a reminder of them—especially one less prone to wilting than the genuine article.

You are always in my our thoughts, and I wished to keep us in yours. Please, think of Austin when you hold this token, and know that you are so dearly missed.

Yours in heart,

Christina Reyes

TK stared. It seemed as though the letter had been written in some sort of haste, as it was unusual for Christina’s hand. The letters were slightly more slanted, and the spaces between paragraphs larger than her delicate way. Even her signature was off, as if it had been written by a proxy. And the contents…she’d never called him a beloved friend before. Well, no, it wasn’t even friend. It was just “beloved”.

He wondered if she was growing melancholy herself for some unknown reason. The letter seemed sincere, but heavier than her usual correspondence, as if she was feeling his absence more acutely in this instance.

Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he’d told her about what the wildflowers meant to him. He’d thought that was something he and Mr. Reyes had shared between themselves for the short time they’d been acquainted. But perhaps her brother had recited a few of their outings to her, and remarked on TK’s fascination with the surrounding flora of the country.

Perhaps.

He concluded that the whole parcel was a product of a hastily made decision when she’d seen the handkerchief in the window, and the oddities contained within the letter were the result of her haste to get it posted while she was still in town that same day.

He gently tucked the gift into a box next to his bed, giving it one last longing stare before closing the lid and beginning to dress for dinner.

“We’ve had a letter from the Doña,” his father said over luncheon a few days later as he perused said letter which Michaels had handed to him upon their arrival in the dining room. “It seems her agent agrees to our terms, and they are sending a liaison with the documents to finalize.” He set the page down on the table and picked up his glass of port. “I do believe we are almost settled with the entirety of the preparations, and we can begin construction early next year!”

“That’s wonderful news, father,” TK said quietly, his tone not matching his words. He was looking down at his plate with no intention of picking up his fork, so he missed his father’s knowing and saddened expression.

“It is. Another piece of news that I’ve gathered from earlier today, is that the Vanderbilts are throwing a ball tomorrow night. Well, I suppose Mrs. Vanderbilt is, at any rate, and Mr. Strickland asks if you can accompany him.”

“I don’t know, father. I’m not sure I’m feeling well enough to socialize on such a scale. I’ll be a bore to everyone there and then you will have to answer for my behavior.”

“I don’t think you’d be a bore to Mr. Strickland, surely. He’s been asking after you these last few weeks. I daresay he plans to eventually kidnap you from your rooms if you do not answer his calls. Surely he’ll want to hear how you’re getting on?” His father’s transparency was apparent, but TK did not call him out on it.

“I don’t know, father. I’m not quite well at the moment so I probably shouldn’t be gallivanting about at parties.”

“You are unwell because you refuse to eat or see sunlight,�� Owen said, not unkindly. His next words were suffused with affection and it only made TK’s heart ache more. “My son, I worry for you. The whole household does. Mrs. Talbot says you only ate half the small sandwich she brought you last night. And you haven’t touched your soup yet since we’ve sat down. I worry you’ll be skin and bones before long.” His words weren’t scolding, only concerned.

“I’m sorry to worry you, father, and the servants. I just find it…difficult to keep anything down. It all tastes like ash, and I know that description would never do Mrs. Talbot’s cooking justice.” At this, he made a gamely attempt to sip a spoonful of soup, and found his assessments confirmed. He swallowed anyway, and kept the grimace off his face with great effort.

“Tyler,” his father said in that affectionate tone once more, “You must try to move past your heartbreak. I know that’s what it is,” he said as TK made to interrupt him, “I know it when I look at your face and see only sadness. I know it when I hear from Michaels that you have not descended the stairs all day while I’ve been at the office. I know it because that single flower is still thriving at your bedside.” At this, he had the decency to look only slightly chagrined. TK said nothing.

“I looked in on you a few nights ago. You didn’t come down to dinner and I was worried you’d gone hungry again. Your sleep looked restless. I also noticed a letter from Miss Christina.”

“You went through my things?” TK said without any real malice. He knew his father meant well but he had put a lot of private thoughts into those letters and Christina had answered them in kind.

“I only ascertained that she wishes to see snow. You should take her up on her request to ride the line once it is finished. I know she would love to see you again. And maybe by then, it will be less painful for you.” Owen’s face was drawn.

“Maybe, in a year or two. For now I am content with her letters.”

“What does she write of her brother?” his father asked.

“Nothing, because I asked her not to,” TK replied. He again missed his father’s pained expression of concern as he took another forced sip of his soup from his spoon. His hand trembled slightly at the most direct mention of Carlos since his talk with Marjan earlier in the week.

Owen seemed to take this answer as a plea to end the subject of conversation. He simply watched his son silently, wishing he could help ease his pain and knowing he was unable.

“Mr. Cartwright has not stopped staring in this direction since we sat down,” Paul remarked over the swell of the music, another quadrille beginning causing cheers and the shuffle of feet to the dance floor.

“Perhaps he’s trying to figure out a way to ask you to dance,” TK answered as he sipped his brandy. Paul was a dear friend, and he was happy to be in his company, he just wished it didn’t have to be surrounded by laughing couples and a revelry he felt entirely apart from.

His friend gave him an incredulous look. “Are you serious? He’s been shamelessly staring at you,” Paul countered. “He’s practically mapped out every thread in your coat, the cad.”

“I doubt that. No amiable gentleman would give me a second glance as I look now. Maybe a few months ago, but not now. I’m well aware the color in my cheeks and the bulk of my frame have left me. The servants, my father, you, and Marjan remind me every day of that. How could I be any object of desire?”

It had been a full week since his first venture out of the house with Marjan—and nearly three months since his return from Texas—and TK was trying for his friends’ sake to get back out into the world. Hence accepting the invitation to a ball at the home of some debutante or another of their set, with Paul as his moral support should he feel the need to flee the social setting at his earliest convenience. TK was still trying to get used to other people around him being so happy and carefree when he himself wished to crawl into his bed and remain there until the second coming.

He knew full well that his behavior wasn’t healthy. He’d made the decision himself to try and get past his heartbreak, lest it cripple him forever which definitely could not happen if he wanted to give his father any peace of mind.

“My friend,” Paul chided kindly, “you’ve always been a vision, sought after by many a connected suitor. You haven’t lost your appeal I can promise you. We harp on your well-being because we care about how you’re feeling on the inside, and the outside is a good testament to that. I dare say it’s made you more desirable, at least to those who’ve mourned your absence since your trip, that you’ve stayed away. It inflates the intrigue.” He gave a small chuckle that TK tried to match.

“Well I’m afraid Mr. Cartwright will have to find another object of desire. I do not believe I could content anyone as a courting partner as of now. I need a bit more time to settle back in, I think.” That was as diplomatic as TK could be about it. The reality was that he’d still been unable to remove thoughts of Mr. Reyes from his mind, and it grew more difficult every day. He absentmindedly reached into his jacket pocket and rubbed the delicate fabric of the handkerchief between his fingers, feeling the bumps and valleys of the embroidery, and almost smelling the sweet scent of the country in the air.

He hadn’t noticed he’d closed his eyes until he felt a brush of air next to his face as a reveler approached their table.

“Hello, Mr. Strand,” Mr. Cartwright beamed. It seemed he’d worked up the courage to approach after all.

“Good evening. Are you enjoying the festivities?” He answered, attempting cordiality.

“Of course. And yourself, Mr. Strand? Wouldn’t you better enjoy things in their midst than here on the periphery? Fancy a dance on the next waltz?” The man sounded so eager that TK almost obliged. But his honor would not let him lead the man on.

“I’m afraid I’ve quite exhausted myself already,” he said, even though all he’d done was make one round and plop himself into his current seat since arriving. “I do apologize for being unavailable, but I’m sure there is someone else dying to catch your hand for a waltz. Please let me do them the favor of leaving you available.”

It was almost comical the way the man’s face fell, but TK was not in danger of showing any glee at it on his face. He understood far to well the melancholy of unrequited affection. But alas, he could not feign interest at the moment, so he let the man trudge away with only a bit of guilt.

“He’ll get over it,” he said when he caught Paul’s glance.

“But will you?” It was clear he wasn’t talking about Mr. Cartwright.

TK didn’t answer. He could not.

The day of the arrival of the Doña’s liaison dawned and once again TK could barely face the sunlight. He wished with all his heart that he could place the blame on too much of the good-natured debauchery that plagued his set when they got into their drinks, but he knew he could not. He’d barely partaken in a full glass of brandy with his father after dinner the night before.

He felt some guilt at not hurrying down to meet the man at his father’s side, as would be expected of an only son in position to run his father’s business someday, but could barely bring himself to nibble at the scones Mrs. Talbot had sent up the night before.

Sooner or later, however, he knew he must face the day. He finally got himself dressed near luncheon time, deeming his appearance presentable enough for a middle manager he’d never meet again.

He straightened his collar and pulled his lapels taut just before Michaels announced him upon entering the parlor. As he surveyed the scene before him, his stride halted, all breath left his lungs, and the color drained from his face.

Seated on the settee across from his father and wearing the most disarmingly beautiful smile, eyes dancing in the sunlight filtering in through the damask curtains, was Carlos Reyes.

The man had clearly just been given some wonderful news, though TK couldn’t imagine what his own father could have told him to elicit such a response, but it was plain on his face that he’d just been told something truly delightful. However, when his eyes strayed to the entrance to the room upon Michaels announcing TK’s presence, the smile on his face faded slowly to a deep concern. TK didn’t miss the subtle perusal of his person, Carlos looking over his face with a slight furrow of his brow that grew deeper the longer TK stood there dumbfounded.

Mr. Reyes, of course, was the first to remember his manners, though his employment of them seemed over the top to TK. He’d jumped up and nearly ran over to TK, taking his elbow in hand ever so gently as if the touch was nothing. As if it didn’t send TK’s whole world tilting.

“Mr. Strand! I…please, sit. Should I fetch some water? You look like you’ll be ill any moment…” He sounded almost…afraid. Not disgusted and annoyed as TK thought he might have been upon their next meeting. After all, TK was the one who’d made a fool of himself by pining like an imbecile in front of the Reyes’ family and friends. He could only imagine how much Mr. Reyes regretted their time together, now that he’d had a few months to ponder it.

“I’m alright, Mr. Reyes, thank you,” TK managed to croak out as the man ushered him to a chair across the room, seemingly careful as not to touch him.

He must be master of himself! This was almost more embarrassing than what had initially transpired between them in Texas. “I…hadn’t known that you’d be coming as your mother’s agent. I was only…surprised to see you. Here.” He forced his lips to stop moving.

Mr. Reyes’ face had yet to lose it’s pinched brow and shining eyes. What TK had initially catalogued as fear now looked like…concern. But that was impossible. Only, maybe not, since Mr. Reyes was a quite honorable and sensible man, and TK knew he looked gaunt and lifeless on his best days lately.

Turning to look at his father, TK only noticed that he too was focused on Mr. Reyes, and TK couldn’t quite place his expression. He’d been smiling as well when TK entered, and now he seemed a bit subdued but no less mirthful. It was an odd juxtaposition. Just then, he turned to his son and gave him a gentle smile.

“Well, I must be off. Quite a bit to get finalized with the documents you’ve brought me.” He stood and offered a hand to Mr. Reyes. “How long did you say you’d be in the city?”

“A few days, sir. I had hoped…well, my mother wishes me to return with everything in order,” he answered cryptically as they shook. His face was hopeful though TK couldn’t think why. They had pretty well come to a mutually beneficial agreement through correspondence. The rest was simply formality at this point. He couldn’t think what else would need to be settled.

“I’m sure she does,” Owen said with a smile and another odd look at TK. He could not figure what to make of the exchange, but truth be told he was still reeling from Carlos—Mr. Reyes, he reminded himself—being in his home so unexpectedly.

His father was turning to him next. “Tyler, would you be a gentleman and show Mr. Reyes about for a bit? I’m sure he’d like to stretch his legs after his long journey. You could take a taxi to the Park?”

TK fought the urge to gape at his father. He expected them to be…alone? What would they even discuss? TK wished the Turkish rug’s threads would open up and sew him into the floor.

He was however, as his father said, a gentleman, and he could not let his manners slip no matter how much he wished to be anywhere but alone in the confines of a taxi and then in the beautiful intimacy of the Park at dusk with Carlos Reyes.

“Of course, father. It would be my pleasure.” Somehow the words left his lips without a tremble. Or so he hoped. He did not think his father could be so cruel, knowing TK’s heart.

Mr. Reyes looked half ecstatic and half terrified. TK could relate whole-heartedly.

As Owen bid them good night and made to ascend the stairs to his study, TK slowly turned to look at his circumstantial companion. Here they were once again, thrust into each other. TK thought back to that first morning they’d toured the ranch together; Mr. Reyes had been cordial, despite their initial meeting and his own hesitation about the Strand’s business with his family. He’d been courteous and knowledgable about the land, wishing to give TK a good impression which TK in turn appreciated.

He vowed to himself he would attempt to do the same when showing Mr. Reyes his own home.

With somewhat renewed countenance, TK took a breath. “Well, shall we, Mr. Reyes?” His voice barely shook. The man in question gave him a fond smile that melted TK’s very soul.

“Lead the way, Mr. Strand.”

The taxi ride proved to undo all of TK’s borrowed confidence. Sitting so close their knees brushed reminded him of riding through the apple orchard, which in turn reminded him of Carlos’ hand in his, which set his heart fluttering and mind whirling, which led to an awkward silence the likes of which TK never wanted to experience again. Mr. Reyes was waiting for him to speak, it seemed—as TK was ostensibly his guide in this place unfamiliar to him—and he was thoroughly incapable. All that accompanied them was the clap of the horses’ hooves on the stones and both their nervous breathing.

When they arrived at the southwest corner of the Central Park, TK paid the driver and slipped out before Mr. Reyes could offer him a hand. He knew not what he would do if he felt that warmth upon his skin again in his current state. The other man looked a bit let down, but TK dismissed it as a trick of his longing imagination.

They entered and set about the promenade which, even at this time of the evening, was still thronged with late perusers. As they walked among the fresh grass and beautiful tree lined paths, TK did his best to drum up the wherewithal to speak, to offer some manner of conversation lest he seem rude in his silence.

“I suppose it looks rather…artificial to you,” he said quietly.

Mr. Reyes startled a bit, apparently accustomed to TK’s lack of voice thus far, but he recovered quickly with an eager smile turned to his companion.

“Not at all! It’s all very…whimsical I think. This beautiful bounty of nature preserved in the middle of all that stone and brick. It’s…peaceful.”

“Yes,” TK thought aloud. “It’s quite serene. The further in you go, the less the city outside of it seems real. The sounds and smog melt away and you just feel…” he trailed off, words failing.

“Like we’re in our own little Eden.” Carlos’ eyes were like pools of shining dark chocolate in the gaslamp light. Sweet and alluring.

TK could only nod dumbly, and try to look away. He accomplished it with much difficulty.

They walked in a much softer silence for a time, passing a couple of people TK recognized from parties and balls around the city, but they never stopped to converse with anyone. Mr. Reyes seemed to want to keep his company for himself, which TK could not think what to do about, so he remained passively quiet.

About half an hour into their journey, his companion spoke.

“I’ve actually got something I’d like to…well, first there’s something I…I need to tell you.” Carlos’ face was unreadable, but his tone was quiet and reserved. TK’s heart clenched painfully. Carlos had been in an odd countenance since his arrival, and TK could only attribute it to the awkwardness surrounding his ridiculous assumptions about Carlos’ feelings and the utter embarrassment of his departure from Texas.

“Oh?” was all he said, suddenly breathless with an ache he could barely stand.

“I’m not sure if you were informed when you last visited, but—” he paused for so long, TK turned to look at him at his side, wondering what halted his speech. His face was still unreadable, but his voice now had a very slight tremble to it. TK tried to keep his own face open, so that Mr. Reyes felt safe to continue.

“For several years now I have had an...understanding. With a gentleman from California, with whom my family is quite acquainted.”

The vice around TK’s heart clenched cruelly at the reminder. “Yes, Mr. de Castillo. Your mother and sisters—and some of those from the county—told me about him. Quite admired, he is, by all.”

“Yes…” His voice trailed off into silence again, and this time when TK sneaked a look he seemed troubled. TK wished he could put the man’s fears at ease, that if he feared a faux pas in tearing down TK’s feelings that he needn’t worry about it.

But that would have been a lie.

“Yes,” he said again, going on. “We’ve actually been courting these last months, not long after yours and your father’s departure.”

TK took the blow as best he could, with a calm countenance, when really he wished this torturous conversation would end so that he could limp back to his bed and curl up in misery until the second coming. Why on earth did Carlos feel the need to do this? Weren’t they settled in being apart from each other? No more than business acquaintances?

The thought alone dealt his heart another painful blow.

“About a month ago he—he called on me to...state his intentions.” His voice sounded flatter than TK would assume from a happily engaged man. Still, he tried to inject some light into his own tone when he answered.

“I am so happy for you, Car—Mr. Reyes,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster which, admittedly, was not very much at all.

However, his tone must have belied his utter devastation because Mr. Reyes abruptly stopped and gently tugged him to the side of the path, so that they would not impede other couples on the promenade. TK almost swooned at the touch.

“I’m sorry?” the other man said, a look of confusion and slight hurt across his beautiful eyes. TK was now confused as well.

“I...I only wish to convey my happiness on your engagement. You must be thrilled to have your future finally settled. Not only must it be a relief, but with such a fine gentleman as I have heard.” Carlos’ hand was still lightly holding onto his upper arm, and though it pained TK in the worst way to do it, he ever so deftly maneuvered his body so that the contact was dropped.

“I think that...well I...that is…” Carlos was staring at him, that hurt look growing in his brown eyes and TK wanted nothing more than to take it away but he didn’t know how.

“Mr. Strand—TK,” he said so softly that TK could hear his own heart beat in the silence. “I think that you have...misunderstood me.” TK had been staring at a spot over Carlos’ shoulder until then, unable to meet his eyes any longer for fear he’d burst into tears in the middle of Central Park, but at the plea he shifted his watery gaze back to sink into the pools of liquid chocolate in front of him.

“Mr. de Castillo—Fernando, that is—has proposed marriage to me, it’s true—” In the minuscule pause between these words and the next set, TK felt his heart slow to a stop with the inexorable weight set upon it by this conversation, “—but I have turned him down.”

And at this, that traitorous heart gave one slow, painful beat of hope that TK was powerless to tamp down.

When he could find his voice, it was to incredulously say, “Whatever for?”

Carlos reached down to take TK’s hand in his, and TK was sure he was trembling like a sheaf of paper caught in the wind. He brought it between both his hands, brushing the knuckles ever so lightly—so much so that TK was sure he’d imagined it.

“Because I could not marry a man that I do not love, and I do not love Fernando. No matter how much of a wonderful and kind gentleman he is, and no matter how ashamed and saddened it made me to tell him so. But I cannot betray my own heart.”

TK’s legs were going to give out any moment. He had no other thought in his head but staying upright, using that tentative hold on his hand, still gentle as ever, as his anchor. He dare not let his thoughts follow themselves to any conclusions.

“The truth is, TK, my heart belongs to another. It has for some time, and I was too stubborn with misplaced loyalty to give it a say. That is, until now. Which is why I imparted the information to you.”

TK kept staring into the man’s eyes, wondering if this was all some dream he’d tumbled into in slumber. He was sure this must be his own mind conjuring the conversation, guilty as it was of yearning for it.

“I wish to apologize for taking so very long to come to my senses. I always strive to be honorable, and for a time I thought that meant that I must remain true to Fernando. But I’ve been made to realize that my thinking was wrong.” TK could only take the words in stride, adrift as he was on the roaring sea of his emotions.

The man continued, while TK himself was made to listen to the most illogical combination of words his brain could have come up with in his current state. He was still convinced he was dreaming. Carlos reaching down and taking both his hands did nothing to bring him out of said state. Furthermore, it made him feel as if he was about to float away into the stars, unmoored as he was except for those twin points of contact.

“You are the most optimistic, brilliant, engaging creature I have ever known. Your smile could light up a room if every candle failed. I find myself riveted any time you’ve got an anecdote to tell, and in these months of not hearing your voice I have conjured it in my dreams more times than I care to admit.

“I wish to spend the rest of my days making you smile and laugh, waking with the morning sunshine just to see how it dapples your face, and admiring you from across the dinner table every single evening for the rest of my life. TK, if I have been mistaken, and you do not return my affections, please stop me from making a further fool of myself.” This he said with a little nervous chuckle that cut straight through TK’s very soul. He looked up through his lashes at TK, nervous.

TK, in turn, was struck dumb by the confession. Carlos apparently took this as a queue to continue to the most preposterously happy thing that had yet to be uttered in this very winding conversation that had had TK’s heart in knots since it began.

“Mr. Strand. If I have not been remiss in my assumptions of your affection, I urge you, no I beg you to consider my humble plea. Would you consent to be my husband? It would make me the happiest man in the entire world.”

TK felt himself take in a slow, careful breath. It took several moments for him to find his voice, and then it was only to utter on a half-expelled gasp, “Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” was the nearly equally breathless answer.

Again, it was a struggle to find volume behind the utter euphoria that had overtaken him, but soon enough, he pushed the words out in a little more than a whisper, lest he accidentally shout and call undue attention. “Then, yes. Yes!” Tears were already warming his cheeks and chin, but TK didn’t care a wit. He went easily as Carlos embraced him tightly, feeling warmth suffusing his entire body at every place they touched.

Before long, they had to part, lest they invite accusations of impropriety.

“I…I had thought…well it doesn’t matter now I suppose,” he stammered, thoughts swirling with emotion and unable to tamp them down. Not wanting to.

“I apologize again for taking so long. Your smile, your face is all I’ve thought about for months. The moment you were gone my heart sank to the deepest depths.”

“Mine as well,” TK admitted. “I have…neglected myself these last few months, I’m afraid. I thought I could learn to forget you in time, but alas…”

“When you entered the parlor, I was distraught to see you looking unwell. Please, I beg of you, please take care of yourself. I don’t know what I would do if…”

“I know. I apologize for my appearance. I did not mean to give you cause for concern.”

Carlos briefly reached up to touch TK’s slightly sunken cheek. “I hope you can forgive me, for it is my silence that has caused you such distress, but I also find myself elated that you feel the same as I do. I can still scarcely believe it.” His voice was rising with happiness, and TK felt drunk on it like the sweetest wine. “I must admit, though, I cannot claim full responsibility for coming to my senses. Christina was quite adamant that I was being an imbecile.”

TK looked down at the ground for a moment. “I…asked her—no, begged her really—not to speak of you in our correspondence.”

“She told me. It’s why I—“ Carlos stopped abruptly, looking chagrined.

“What is it?” TK asked.

“Well I…I knew you did not want to speak to me, but I just had to…that is I…I sent you…something. I wrote a letter and signed her name to it. She laughed about it later, but she called me an utter fool for not being more courageous about it.

TK halted in the middle of the path. Immediately, he knew. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a delicate fold of linen edged in bright yellow. He held it gently in his fingers, caressing the soft folds that had cemented themselves after so long kept in his pocket.

Even in the lamplight, he could see Carlos’ face flush slightly.

“I wanted to court you properly, but circumstances were…well. In the end I was cowardly about it I suppose.” He ducked his head bashfully.

“I think, deep down, I knew. I didn’t want to let myself believe, but…I’d never spoken to Christina about the wildflowers.” TK’s own voice was reverent.

“She told me that. When I told her what I’d done, she told me you would see right through it.”

“You called me beloved…”

Carlos looked deep into his eyes. “Yes.”

TK nearly swooned again, new tears dripping down his cheeks which were positively sore with how much he was smiling. He tucked the treasure back into his jacket.

“We’ll have to tell my father, I suppose,” he said after a time, absolutely giddy as they began to walk along the path again, back to the streets toward the Strands’ home.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve already gotten his blessing,” Carlos answered with a smug grin to answer TK’s astonished expression. “That’s what we were talking about earlier today, before you interrupted us.”

“Well, you’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

“I think I’d like very badly to kiss you, but I’ll hold off. Wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize your good opinion of me, would we?’ His smile was absolutely radiant. TK thought to himself that if this were to be his life, staring at this gorgeous face full of love for all his days, he’d never be unhappy again.

The fire was dying down and Carlos finally moved to take his leave.

“Must you go?” TK couldn’t quite keep the pout from his voice, but at least now, he did not care too much if Carlos heard it.

“I’ve stayed too long as it is, people will talk,” he answered with an indulgent smile as TK walked him out of the parlor and into the hallway. The servants had long gone to bed, so it was up to TK himself to help Carlos on with his coat.

“You’re my fiance now,” he said, glowing all the while and unable to help it. “People will have to get used to the fact that I want to be around you every waking moment of the day without pause.”

“Yes, but no one knows that yet and I wouldn’t want to besmirch your good name.”

“When will I see you again, then?” He slid the overcoat onto broad shoulders, nearly letting his fingers linger a bit too long for propriety.

“I’ll call tomorrow to meet with your father again. We do have actual business to finalize after all. You’ll be there, won’t you?” Now it was Carlos’ turn to pout a bit, and TK was powerless against it.

“Of course. Well, I’ll say good night.” He looked up into the face of the most beautiful man, the man he was going to spend the rest of his unbelievably happy days with.

“Good night, my heart,” said Carlos, reaching up a hand to caress TK’s face so gently it caused an aching pang in his heart. Slowly, carefully, he moved his calloused thumb across TK’s lips, back and forth a few times as if trying to memorize the shape of them. TK gave a small shudder.

“My, Mr. Reyes, you’re being very forward.” He couldn’t help smiling. As the man had not removed his hand yet, TK pursed his lips ever so slightly, bestowing a chaste kiss against his thumb.

Carlos chuckled softly, covering an intake of breath. “Now who’s forward?” He was smiling so wide it looked as if it hurt.

“You’re my fiance,” TK answered against the warm skin, the word still feeling like glistening honey in his mouth, “I can be as forward as I like.”

“God in heaven, I want to kiss you.” Carlos looked like he might do it, but restrained himself as a gentleman should. They’d pushed the bounds of propriety enough for one day, TK supposed. Though he would have welcomed it gladly, as clandestine and salacious as it would have been. After a few more strokes, Carlos finally dropped his hand from TK’s face. “This will have to do for now, I suppose.” He took TK’s own hand in his and laid a gentle kiss against his knuckles.

“But not for long?”

“No, my heart. Not for long. I won’t be able to do with a long engagement. I will perish before I make it to the church if you make me wait for more than a couple of months.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But my father will want to invite the whole of New York, so you know.” He couldn’t help a roll of his eyes, however fond the gesture was. His father loved a good party, and the marriage of his only son—finally, he would probably say—was sure to prove one for the ages.

“Ah, yes, and we mustn’t forget the entirety of the county back home, if my mother and Christina have anything to say about it,” Carlos said with another fond chuckle. “You have her to thank, by the way. For getting me out of my head and back on solid ground. My sister is your champion in sickness and in health. That is, until I get to call you my husband.”

TK shuddered again at the mere word.

“I really should go,” Carlos said again. He made no move toward the door.

“You really should,” TK prompted. He moved to open the door, and finally they broke their gaze from each other.

As Carlos stepped out, he turned to smile one last time and it turned TK’s stomach into a whole flock of butterflies. “Good night, dearest. I’ll call on you and your father tomorrow.”

“I will be dying a slow death until that moment breathes me back to life,” TK lamented.

“As will I.”

TK watched him walk away into the night before finally closing the door against the chill of the Manhattan midnight. For several long moments, he simply leaned against the door and caught his breath, giving thanks to all the forces that managed to bring the two of them together so favorably. He’d have to write to Christina the moment he woke in the morning.

#tarlos period drama #tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star #of will and wildflowers #brooke writes #IT'S DONE GUYS #enjoy :)#I'm going to sleep now

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raccoonmooon · 4 years

Text

the poison, drunk

Post pledge ending, the hunter does not tell anyone when they leave Lunaris.

The hunter's sister (who is a hunter herself) acquires a lingering injury, and decides to take the time off to visit her sibling.

Instead she finds a mystery, and a town full of people who's help she will need to solve it.

categories: angst, hurt / comfort, eventual happy ending, maybe the hunter can have a little redemption arc, as a treat, two hunters, divergence from canon epilogue | pairings: August / F!Hunter, Finnzra, Finnzra / nb!Hunter | fic rating: explicit | content warnings (this chapter): none, but check the rating | word count: 7,735 | read on AO3

Chapter 3/? | just me and the lavender moon

chapter summary- Rowan arrives in Lunaris, Ezra thinks about moving

Rowan arrived in Lunaris just after midnight. Originally, she had planned to camp overnight and ride the last few hours of the trip in the morning, but by evening had found herself deep in the forest surrounding the little town, and thought better of it. Her instincts told her that there was more to the ancient, gnarled trees than met the eye. To say nothing of the relentless sense that she was being watched.

So she had pushed through, and now found herself alone, the steady clop of her horse’s shoes on cobblestone echoing in the narrow streets. With the moon swathed in clouds Lunaris was nearly as shadowed as the surrounding woods. And while it didn’t have the same malevolent air, it seemed still, like the quiet following the upheaval of a storm.

Eventually she found her way to the stables, situated on the edge of town between the forest and an imposing building she assumed was the local enforcer’s headquarters. The stable boy wasn’t pleased to be woken so late, but seemed used to it. She thanked him and left her horse in the safety of the barn. Shouldering her bag and stepping back out into the chill, Rowan found herself almost wishing she could stay in the warm structure, and fall asleep to the familiar scents of leather and sweet hay.

She set off in the direction she’d spotted the inn on the way into town. The echo of hooves was replaced by the increasingly familiar tap of her quarterstaff. It was a simple design, but reinforced and heavier than it looked. If she was going to have to carry around a big stick for a while, she very much preferred one that could be counted on to not break if she tried to hit something unpleasant with it. Not that she expected to be fighting monsters in the middle of a family reunion. Well. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so surprised.

After all, their shared occupation was the very thing that had kept them apart so long. While Rowan very well understood the necessity of sending hunters where they were needed at a moments notice, it was often hard to ignore the sense of isolation that such a lifestyle could result in. Being the perpetual outsider, trying to find your place in groups that had known each other for years, or trying to build relationships when you knew it could all be ripped away at the arrival of a letter, over and over again, was hard. She had seen hunters retreat into themselves, shutter their eyes to protect themselves. Turn cold and dark inside as the things they killed. Fighting darkness with darkness rarely brought light.

Rowan turned another corner in the lamplight and nearly ran into someone headed hastily away from the headquarters. She managed to narrowly avoid losing her balance by catching herself on the staff, but the stranger stumbled back a few steps on long legs before looking up at her ready to snarl something. Instead their expression turned to one of confusion, elegant brows pulled together.

“My apologies” she said, and taking in their purple sash and flickering electric aura, “Enforcer.”

They were dressed in fine, flowing materials all in shades of blue and silver. Long, silky hair a deep near-black purple at the roots, washing out like ink to a silvering heather at the tips, draped over their shoulder in a ponytail, with shorter strands curling about their face. They had striking features with high cheekbones under the piercing, pale blue eyes that flicked over her.

“I don’t recognize you hunter, identify yourself.” they commanded in a cultured, pleasantly rich voice.

She instinctively straightened at the order, matching their intense gaze. “Hunter General Rowan Velle.” and to explain her presence in their town “On temporary leave due to injury.”

A flash of disquiet broke their steely gaze “Maro’s sister then.”

They sighed, suddenly seeming very weary, and in a slightly gentler voice said “I am Lieutenant General Willenheim, did you receive the letter I sent?”

Rowan’s stomach dropped like a sack of bricks, and her expression, she was sure, with it. She knew from Maro’s letters that Willenheim was their enforcer, and there were only so many reasons a hunter’s enforcer might send a letter to their next of kin, none were good.

“No.” she managed to grate out “I did not. Are they…. Is Maro...”

It shouldn’t have been so hard to say, to imagine, they were hunters after all, and death dogged their steps like the tamed wolves so many were fond of keeping.

Willenheim frowned “No, they are..” they paused “They are alive.”

“Turned then.” Rowan took the next logical step in assuming.

“It is somewhat more complicated than that.” they said carefully, glancing around “But this is not a conversation to be had in the street.”

What trouble had Maro gotten themself into? Hells. Their last letter had seemed so... hopeful. She tried to ignore the lump in her throat.

“You said you are injured?” they asked “Does that need to be addressed first? I could show you to our healer and we’d be able to continue this in the morning.”

“It’s been three weeks since my injury, Enforcer, I’ll be fine until morning. I’d rather not wait to hear what’s happened.”

They leaned back on their heels, and gave her an assessing look.

“Fine.” they said, resigned, and apparently satisfied that she at least did not appear to be bleeding out.

They pursed their lips and glanced back towards the headquarters, then seemed to make a decision, and set off in the direction they had originally been walking.

“This way then.” they said over their shoulder.

Rowan followed, feeling ill.

They led her to what she could only assume was their home, a little ways down the street, and unlocked the door, gesturing for her to enter.

The acclaimed General Augustus Willenheim, now Lieutenant General. That must have been a recent appointment, Rowan thought, if word of a change in command had not yet reached her own headquarters by the time she’d left. Maro had called them August in their more recent letters, had spoken warmly and highly of them.

Rowan hoped their opinion of the witch was deserved, as it appeared they were now head of the order she had devoted her life to.

“Please” they said “sit.”

She lowered herself onto a plush couch opposite Willenheim. Their home was certainly lovely. Sparse and elegant, shades of blue, with silver and marble accents. Every item and bit of decor seemed to have been carefully chosen to suit the room. The overall effect might have seemed cold or austere, instead it struck her as a place meant to be a sanctuary, the eye of a storm.

There was a serious and grim look on its occupants' lovely face.

“Firstly, if you did not receive my letter, why are you in Lunaris?” they questioned.

“I’ve been stationed out in Enk, and three weeks ago was stung by a manticore on a hunt.” Their eyebrows scrunch up again at that, but they let her continue. “Enk’s rather a remote little dot on the map, and our only witch is better at combat than healing. Maro had written to me that one of their partners here is a talented healer, and as I’m on leave until healed anyway” She shrugs “I’d hoped I might kill two birds with one stone and surprise my sibling with a visit.”

Willenheim once again subjected her to an assessing gaze, “Manticore venom is not something to play about with, whatever else we discuss, you will have that seen to first thing tomorrow. Understood, General?” their tone brooked no argument.

“Of course, Lieutenant General.” she allowed.

“Good, I will give you directions to Ezra’s before you leave tonight.” They paused, looking distracted, perhaps trying to decide how best to give her whatever bad news about Maro that was so serious as to require a personal conversation with the Lieutenant General Enforcer of Eskria in their home at nearly one in the morning.

She waited. Feeling a bit numb.

Finally, they spoke, “One week ago, Maro resigned their post as a hunter. Five weeks before that they chose to consume an… experimental potion, intended to transform and ultimately strengthen a hunter. They knew at that point, that this had already directly and indirectly resulted in the deaths of several hunters. Maro was urged and advised not to do so by everyone in this town who had come to care about them, and they did so anyway.”

Willenheim took a deep breath.

Rowan opened her mouth, to voice one of the many questions she now had, but they continued before she could.

“Much, in fact most, of what I have just told you, and what I am about to tell you is confidential. But, I believe you deserve the truth about what has happened,” they paused “is happening, to your sibling. Especially if you decide to seek them out, which, I would urge you not to do at this point. Though if you are anything like them, I expect you will ignore my advice on that front.”

Rowan suspected that was so. Whatever Maro had done, they were after all, her sibling, her dearest and oldest friend, and the only person left whom she considered family. She wasn’t going to write them off without a fight.

They told her the rest of the story, starting just before Maro had arrived in Lunaris in the wake of Hunter Lane’s death. And fleshed out the hopeful skeleton tale Maro’s letters had allowed her. A darker mystery than they had implied, with implications both farther reaching and closer to home than she might have imagined.

Maro had indeed finally built themself a home, surrounded themself with people who cared about them, even fallen in love. And Rowan could see, with a sort of horror, as the story unfolded, where exactly it would fall apart for them. What exactly, about the situation the witch described, would have snagged on the well hidden defense mechanisms of their past, and led them to make such a disastrous decision.

“Fucks sake Maro” Rowan groaned, head in her hands when they were done.

She looked up at the enforcer. “I’m going to talk to them.”

It’s was their turn to massage their temples, “For what-”

They huffed out a bitter laugh “You aren’t going to be able to talk them out of an action they’ve already taken.” their tone took on a vehemence that surprised Rowan “They chose this! They decided to side with the man who betrayed us, over people who loved them! They decided that a bit of extra power was worth permanently harming themself!”

“Then why have they resigned?” Rowan wondered. “If they did this for power?”

Willenheim’s eyes narrowed “I would assume they misjudged how quickly the process would affect them.”

Rowan was unsure of what to assume, nothing was safe at this point, she supposed. Her head was still swimming with the revelation of the truth behind the initiation rites, but no time for that now. She needed to focus on Maro.

“I’m going to talk to them.” She repeated.

“I can’t stop you.” Their expression was displeased. “And I expect you will need to see them for yourself to fully accept the truth.”

“Thank you for sharing all this with me, especially at such an hour.” she said. The night was nearly over, and she could see the skin beneath their sharp blue eyes was bruised from what must have been more than one missed night of sleep.

“You are quite welcome. It’s not as though you are responsible for your sibling’s actions. Now, go and get some sleep.”

She stood, leaning heavily on her staff, got directions to Ezra’s shop for the morning, and thanked them, before leaving them to whatever rest they could wring from the remaining night.

By the time she was curled under scratchy sheets in the White Wolf Inn, the sun was already threatening to rise. For once she let sleep take her anyway.

OOO

Ezra woke as the sun rose, none of its light slipping through his boarded windows or spilling over his pillows. But he found its absence a price well worth waking in Finn’s arms.

He was spooned against the vampire’s hairy chest, legs tangled, Finn’s nose in his hair, and arm tucked against his bare chest. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet, trying to delay shaking off the warm muzziness of sleep a bit longer.

“Good morning, angel.” Finn murmured in his ear.

“S’not morning yet.” Ezra stubbornly kept his eyes shut through a yawn and flipped over, flinging an arm over Finn and pulling them snugly chest to chest, re-tangling their legs.

For a moment, he expected Maro to adjust to the movement by curling closer against his back. Then quickly realized they weren’t there, and remembered why not. Despite the short time the three of them had spent together, now they were gone, he kept expecting them to be there. Every time it was like taking a step when you expect an extra stair, a brief moment of unmoored panic. He clung all the tighter to Finnegan for it.

Finn wedged an arm between them to gently tip his chin up, bringing them nose to nose, so he could look into Ezra’s now (unfortunately) open eyes.

“I miss them as well.”

Ezra knew he did. The vampire turned idle and melancholy the moment he thought he wasn't being watched. Raven reported he spent most days in his room. The rest of the time he spent fussing over Ezra.

Ezra tilted his head a fraction and pressed the extra inch forward to kiss him. Finn responded with a gentle ferocity, sliding his hand up from Ezra’s chin to cup his jaw, thumb on his cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

After a few moments he deepened the kiss, cool tongue pressing between Ezra’s lips. He opened for him, pressing back with his own tongue and losing himself in the sensation for a while, letting his free hand roam between Finn’s shoulder blades.

Eventually, Ezra pulled back and re-opened his eyes. Neither were wearing any more than boxers under the covers, and he could feel Finn already hard against his thigh, as he was sure Finn could feel him.

“Finn…”

The vampire turned onto his back to kick the covers off, and canted his hips up to shimmy out of the soft black fabric. Ezra wiggled out of his own before they could be ripped off, he was going to run out soon, again.

He let a mischievous impulse take him, and leaned over to place his index finger on Finn’s already slick lips.

Finn took the bait and sucked the finger in, drawing a small gasp out of Ezra. He curled the finger around one of his fangs, and used it as leverage to pull Finn up.

Finn let out something between a growl and a laugh that somehow managed to convey both amusement and arousal. But he went willingly enough, eyebrow raised. Ezra guided Finn by the wickedly sharp canine, letting a grin take over his face, until he had him where he wanted him, sitting against the headboard, mouth open around his finger. He slid the digit out along the tip of Finn’s fang, with just enough pressure to draw blood.

Finn growled again, chasing the finger to pull back into his mouth. Then pulled Ezra, laughing, into his lap. The feel Finn’s firm abdomen against his cock, and Finn’s own erection between his legs, cut the sound into a gasp.

Ezra’s face fell into Finn’s neck and he let out a helpless little sound. Finn pressed a kiss to his neck and nibbled his way towards his jaw. He slid a big hand around the back of Ezra’s head and tangled his fingers in the sleep mussed curls. Then pulled his head back to ravage his neck in earnest.

Ezra was taut as a bowstring as Finn slipped his other hand, the one he’d lovingly crafted for the vampire, around both of their cocks.

Finn found a steady, twisting, rhythm, up and down, little movements of his hips pressing his tip up against Ezra’s crown as they were pressed together.

He began kissing his way down Ezra’s neck, licking the dip of his clavicle, sucking a bruise into the soft skin just below his collarbone.

Ezra groaned, breathing ragged as Finn continued the stroke of his hand and wandering of his mouth.

“Finn… Please… I need…” Finn had already released his hair and was reaching for the little jar of slick in the bedside table.

He gasped into a pointed ear as a cool finger circled his rim with tauntingly light pressure. Payback for the earlier teasing Ezra supposed, he ought to do that more often.

They kissed fully as Finn pressed the digit in, immediately finding that spot that sent a current of pleasure through him like a lightning strike.

It didn’t take long before Ezra was a shuddering mess. Moaning into Finn’s mouth, begging for more.

Eventually, Finn slipped his finger out and released their cocks with a final upward slide. He readjusted his position and maneuvered Ezra into place with hands cupping either side of his ass.

Ezra steadied himself on Finn’s shoulders and gazed into gold gone soft with a look of adoration that would have taken his breath away were he not already breathless. Finn held him in place and arced up off the bed to leisurely press up into him.

Feeling Finn move in him was always beyond satisfying, visceral and intimate. Ezra leaned back to admire the roll of muscle as Finn established a snapping upwards rhythm, knocking the breath out of him with every thrust.

“Touch yourself angel.” Finn groaned up at him.

Ezra happily obliged, timing the pull of his hand to match the rock of Finn’s hips.

Their movements quickly became desperate and stuttering, until Finn came below him with a deep groan, pressing up in a final, deep thrust. Ezra followed, spending onto Finn’s chest and abdomen.

He dismounted and curled into Finn’s side, letting his skin cool him as his breathing slowly steadied.

The world was quiet again for a moment, and Ezra kept his eyes closed, did not look to see Finn’s other arm resting on his own still chest, rather than around familiar shoulders. He did not think about the empty space.

There was a long, pitiful meow muffled by the door. Ezra flung an arm over his eyes.

“Is it morning yet then?” He could hear Finn’s smirk.

Coco meowed again.

Ezra needed a shower.

OOO

It turned into a sleepy sort of morning in the shop, and Ezra found his attention turning to the little collection of plants in the window. A coleus with vibrant pink and green patterning. An overgrown spider plant hanging from the ceiling. A few rarer herbs that did well indoors. And a little pot of succulents, spilling over the patterned sides, they needed repotting.

It was delicate work. Roots grown together needed to be gently separated. Even when great care was taken there was often damage, torn roots, a broken leaf. But plants could be hardy things, and with the extra space of a new pot (and again, with care) usually ended up better off than before.

Ezra thought about moving.

His thoughts were eventually interrupted by the tinkle of the bell above the door. Alkar practically flew up to the counter, wolf ears pinned, tail bristling. He was looking Ezra over like he was concerned something might have happened to him. Omen slipped in behind him and settled onto a stool, seeming less perturbed.

“What’s going on?” Ezra hurried to lock the door, before turning back to the pair.

“We saw Piper in the market this morning-” Omen started.

“Maro’s sister is here!” Alkar blurted.

Oh, Ezra had almost forgotten they had a sister. Maro had mentioned her once, when Finn had asked about the neat pile of letters on their cramped little desk. Her name was Rowan. She was older than them by a few years, a hunter as well. It had sounded like they missed her.

Should he have written her? He supposed Gus must have.

Ezra frowned “Has someone talked to her yet? Is she alright?”

“Ughhh.” Alkar deflated with a pout and sank to the floor.

Omen leaned over to pat him on the head. “Piper said August spoke to her last night. She’s injured? So they told her to come here today.”

Ezra spared Alkar a concerned look before addressing Omen. “She hasn’t made it in yet. Do you know how injured she is? Has anyone checked on her?”

“It sounded like she might have arrived quite late, perhaps-”

“We should be more worried about whether she’s going to follow in Maro’s footsteps!” the lycan cut in again, scowling.

“Is that why you’re so puffed up about it then?” Ezra wondered.

Omen nodded and Alkar somehow managed to deepen his scowl.

“I’m not puffed up... But yes it fucking is. You haven’t even met her yet and you’re already worrying over her. What if-”

Ezra cut him off. “She’s injured and just received bad news about a family member. She’s not responsible for what Maro’s done, and we don’t judge people by their families’ actions, yes?”

Which received an affirming nod from Omen and after a few moments of begrudging consideration, a huff from Alkar as he flopped the rest of the way to the floor.

“Sometimes I hate when you’re right.”

He was startled back up onto his elbow by a knock at the door.

Ezra looked at the clock, “That’ll be Mrs. Ellison here to pick up her sleeping draught.”

He started towards the door to let her in.

“Hey, do you want us to hang around today?” Alkar offered from the floor.

While it would be nice to have company, Ezra knew keeping track of this particular duo while also trying to run a shop was a task that required more eyes than he possessed. As though he needed any additional proof, while Omen had been innocently nodding along with Ezra through Alkar’s fit of surliness, the demon’s tail had been flirting closer and closer to the candy drawer. And as Ezra turned back to answer, it was curled into the handle.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. Would you two mind popping down to let Finn know what’s going on though?”

“We can do that!” Omen hopped up and towards the back curtain, tail chased from the drawer by a stern look from Ezra. Alkar trailed up after him and they disappeared with sounds of playful bickering cut off by the fall of the trapdoor.

Ezra let Mrs. Ellison in and continued his morning.

He was finding it hard to focus. Preparing ingredients for potions, what sort of injury did she have? Would he have what he needed to help her? Small talk with Mr. Barlow from down the street, would it be painful, or a comfort to meet Maro’s family? Was she very like them? Or nothing at all? Which would be worse?

By early afternoon the shop felt dense with anticipation. He decided to take his lunch out onto the front step to get a bit of air. It was a rare sunny day in Lunaris, and the warmth of the sun on his hair was a welcome change.

Ezra was taking the last sips of his tea when he spotted Coco down the street, primly hopping from a porch railing and trotting towards a crouched figure beckoning her over. A long black coat pooled around them, and they leaned heavily on a thin staff. Coco stopped in front of them for a moment, considering, before flopping over, paws tucked up, big eyes wide, no mercy. The stranger was clever enough to ignore the soft belly fur on display and obligingly give her a (much safer) scritch around the cheeks and chin.

Ezra smiled, setting his teacup on the step to stand and walk over. As he approached he heard them talking to Coco in a playful tone “You know some of your cousins are far less sweet little friend?” Their pets were rewarded with a purr, before Coco hopped back up to rub along Ezra’s leg before loping off in the direction of the shop.

The stranger turned at his approach and tucked a fallen brown curl of their curly, chin length mop behind an ear. As they stood, using the staff to take much of their weight, Ezra immediately realized that this was Maro’s sister.

There was something familiar to her. Her face wasn’t as soft as Maro’s, a curious, friendly smile framed by a narrower, sharper jaw and more prominent nose, eyes less wide, but a familiar misty grey. She was tall and willowy, taller than Maro, perhaps even a tad taller than Ezra. Under her long coat she wore a cream, collared shirt buttoned to her neck, tucked loosely into dark, high waisted trousers with a patterned purple sash spilling from one pocket. A silver axe with intricately forged designs hung at her waist.

“Is she yours?” She asked, smiling and nodding in the direction Coco had gone.

“Yeah, that’s Coco.” He offered a smile back “ Spoiled thing. Are you Rowan?”

Her eyes widened minutely, “Yes,” she paused a moment, considering him “You must be Ezra. Maro’s written lovely things about you and that vampire.”

“I am.” Ezra replied, trying very hard not to imagine Maro scratching out sweet things about them in that messy scrawl. “I was told you might need some help with an injury? My shop is just over there if you’d like to come in?”

She sighed, "I'm glad to meet you then, and yes, thank you, I suppose that needs to be dealt with first."

He led her back to his home, and even limping, she walked with the same strange grace and strength that seemed innate in most Hunters. He supposed he now knew the reason for that. She entered ahead of him and as she disappeared into the dimmer light, he was not at all surprised to feel a sense of deja vu.

#wtnc #wtnc fic #wtnc fanfic #when the night comes #august / hunter #finnzra #finn / ezra / hunter #august willenheim #finnegan kazimir #ezra lyon #lots of coco in this chapter #she's v important

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bloodywingsandbrokenhorns-blog · 7 years

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Letters From A Crusader

August 30, 1191 My sisters told me that I should write to them since I am off to war. And since Henry Louis died in the Siege of Acre Mother wants news from the war front. She worries for me since I am the final heir if something happens to Philip in the homeland. She worries for my safety but I know Father is the one who is concerned for his legacy and heirs. While I write this to Atallana and Arielle I also write to preserve my own legacy. It would please Father as well as this is for my own morality. I write to anyone who cares to read this. Since my brother’s death I have thought for my own life and what will become of it when I am with the Father in Heaven. The priests say I should only have concern for my sin and what God thinks of that sin in this life. But I write now to survive. For after the siege I need material to focus on, rather than blood and war. My name is Geoffrey Descoteaux, or my English name is Geoffrey of Dorchester. I favor my Norman name because of my mother, however that is nearly irrelevant here in this war. I am the third son of Philip II of Dorchester, and Englishman, and Liliola of Aquitaine, a Norman woman who loves her Norman home more than her husband. I am the offspring of a Church officiated arranged marriage that lacks love. The marriage was only to unite the English and Norman families. It is common and cannot be escaped in this age. I have five siblings, now only four. My eldest brother is Philip III and heir to my Father’s fortune and his name. He does not fight this holy war as a Crusader. He remains in Dorchester, safe from harm to the wishes of my Father. His eldest must live. Then Henry Louis is the next in line, was next in line. Henry Louis fought alongside me in this Crusade. We were much alike in both looks and personality. We joined this army to make lives for ourselves and to fight heathens. But we both learned that we are fighting for something we may never gain in this world. But the brother who I loved fell to the hands of a Saracen during the Siege of Acre, a battle where we fought for our lives and my brother lost his. I have three sisters who are either older or much younger than me. I have one sister who is two years older than me. She lives in Oxford with her husband of nearly twelve years. Her name is Mary Margaret and I believe she has many children now. I have not seen her in years. I miss her in these long days,. I remember how close we were as children. But adulthood came and drew us apart. Then there is Atallana and Arielle who are the treasures of my mother. I was sixteen when they were born. Now they are almost to adolescence. They love me more than the other siblings and I would give my life for them. Which is another reason why I joined this war in the desert. I did it for faith and for my family. Being a holy warrior guarantees myself a place in Paradise and a sizable amount of wealth from the almighty Church. That is wealth for me to survive on, much more than I ever need. Some of my immediate family may need it at some point in time. My mother does not have any association with her husband’s wealth but only the treasure of the Norman side of the family. When she is old and weary I want to make sure that she can live out her days in security. But I fear most for Atallana and Arielle. Soon they will be sent off in marriage as the customs permit. I desire that they live with their future husbands with comfort and that no evil may ever harm them. I never want them to get a glimpse of what I have seen. I have somehow found the time to write this as we march under King Richard’s orders. They call him the Lionheart now since he has such military prowess. He deserves the title but as a higher ranked knight I also know some of the undesirable traits of our king. There is no doubt that the scribes that write down this history shade over those facts. Richard does have the heart of a lion, but he has the traits of a lion that one should respect and even fear. We are marching on the coast unlike many times before. The fleet on the seas gives us aid and supplies. That is a relief against the environment here. We marched like that for a time but the shadow of the Saracens came upon us. Their leader, Saladin, is very calculating from what I have seen. His Ayyubid forces began to send raids against our flanks and the infantry there. As being a soldier near the King I was safe from these attacks, but they were concerning. Saladin was trying to make the Crusaders break defensive formation. They have in the past, but this time we did hold. We held against the Saracens and marched on. But the hostile peace did not last long. It was morning when the air is cool and men do not boil in their armor when the rearguard was suddenly attacked. The knights, about a hundred per regiment, had to hold with the infantry on their land flank. In the end the Saracens almost overcame the rearguard but King Richard sent reinforcements. They were almost cut off but with the assistance our holy force caused the barbarians to flee. When I heard this news I felt a surge of unhealthy pride rush through me. We had victory this time, but there was more danger to come. In this small skirmish we lost very few men. But Richard says that Saladin and his Saracens are always waiting to strike. They do have advantages on us such as better mobility with their army and that they are everywhere in the land. Our scouts say that they are already in Caesarea. I believe that the heathens are waiting to strike us when we may not be in formation. We must hold our formation to have a chance here in this desert. I must end my letter here as we approach the forest. Some of the men think that our march in the rare woods will be a time of rest. It will not. The forest may offer shelter to our forces but it also gives a shelter to Saladin. This forest of Arsuf is dangerous. I do not doubt that a battle will occur in the forest, or just outside of it. And I think Richard knows this. As a Crusades and a self-declared military strategist I am confident in this prediction. I hope to write soon, but I might not be able to. I desire to send a letter in another week or so. But send your prayers to me, my family. I need it in this time of strife. I try not to sound terrified for what is to come but in my soul I am. I must have strength. In God’s name, Geoffrey Descoteaux of Dorchester September 8, 1191 The day before this was the longest of my life. I have been a soldier in battles like this before, but this battle at Arsuf had no clear victor for many hours. If anticipation could have killed a man, it would have killed me. September 7 was the day where the true bloodshed began. It was early in the morning when King Richard rose all of his 20,000 men from slumber. We began to march yet again when the sun began to shine. All the experienced warriors could sense today was the fateful day. I prayed as our feet hit the ground and I knew I wasn’t the only one. However it was not my feet, but the hooves of a warhorse. Riding on horseback gave me a sense of confidence, but I still had fear. King Richard ordered the Templars to the front and the Hospitallers to the rearguard which is an understandable decision. The knights both Templar and Hospitaller have some of the most skilled soldiers in their ranks. The Templars are priests that are also knights and the Hospitallers are healers, knights, and priests. They are holy military orders and I admire their prowess. But infantryman and knights from all points of my two homelands were at the army’s center. Richard’s subjects followed the Templars and then the units from England and the units of Normandy. These are units where I am from, since my homeland is both England and Normandy. But I move between units and even corps when I am needed. The next seven corps were Frenchmen and other smaller groups of other crusaders from other nations and finally, as stated, the knights Hospitaller. There is also scouting corp led by Henry II of Champagne that do as their title says. However I was part of a crucial squadron of knights chosen by the King and Hugh of Burgundy. Our mission was to make brutally sure that the ranks had order and kept formation. I have no doubt that my parents’ connection to King Richard gained me this position, as well as my skill as a fighter. But this knightly squadron had some of the most dangerous missions. We are high targets for archers for if we fall our units and ranks would collapse into disarray. That could cause the defeat of this army. The forest offered us shade as the sun rose. It was quiet save for the chanting of the many prayers to Christ and the oddly comforting noise of armor hitting armor. But a hum was within us, it was the sound of coming war. But I also could hear the movement of man and beast in the woods that was not friendly. It was the noise of our eastern foe. It was unnerving to hear, knowing the Saracens lurked in the shadows, waiting to cut our throats. I suppose that is something that Saladin wanted. It was not long after we left our night camp and reached the end of the forest when they did attack. It was simply quiet one moment and then the next there was such a noise that rattled the earth. They swarmed out of the woodlands on horseback and on foot with archers and cavalry. They did not have formation like we did, they had a center and two wings of military to their formation. I thought like a strategist in that moment and it appeared as if we were going to be trampled by pagans of a false lord. The noise ended up getting louder as they charged. The dark haired heathens roared and pounded on metal. Young crusaders who had not seen much combat were shaking and I roared to my men to stay in their formations. Then came the hail of arrows and javelins. I was looking both to my ranks and then to the Saracens moving and fighting as one near movement. I could not let my fear show as I rode back and forth, shouting orders and listening for what to do next. But my sole mission was to keep the men in rank against such an overwhelming force. However we faced losses from these attacks. Men were losing their horses and they were suddenly reduced to marching on their feet. It slowed our march down significantly. But the situation only got worse, the pure force of the Muslims was placed mainly down on the rearguard of Hospitallers and some of my units. We could be attacked from two directions and that caused the men to go to desperate measures to fight on. I do believe I saw Hospitaller knights walking backwards to fight the fierce attacks from the Saracens. I saw airborne weapons flash past my body in slower time. I heard my heart in my ears and my throat burned from yelling. I felt like I was in Hell, and the true bloodshed hadn’t even begun yet. These harrowing attacks did not break us. Our movement as a solid armored column remained and it was a miracle from God. But this was the time when the fiery body in the sky burned the hottest. Men were crimson in the face from the heat and began to stumble. The remaining horses even began to slow as they lost their stamina. At this point in time the rank in and among the Hospitallers was failing as the heathens closed in on them. I was beginning to have concern for when King Richard would launch the Crusader counterattack. I knew it needed to be launched at a perfect time but if we left the Hospitallers behind and marched forward they would be slaughtered like livestock. Something needed to happen, and that something could be devastating. And suddenly it did. Garnier de Nablus, leader of the knight Hospitaller, charged through his men with a cry to the saints and soon he was followed by his Hospitaller knights and the French corps. They ran into the enemy with unbelievable bravery. It was at that historic moment chaos erupted. Men stood and stopped, torn between following the Hospitallers and obeying orders. I was in turmoil of what to do as well. But suddenly our entire army was roaring like a lion and I realized that our Lionheart had ordered our counterattack. I was screaming and raising my sword as my steed charged. The infantry opened forth and our remaining knights on horseback reared forward. I felt such a powerful feeling rush through me as our mightiest Crusaders stampeded forth. I knew God was with me in this moment, and with that I felt limitless. I was lashing out with my weapon at the Saracens that were stuck on the soil, in shock from our sudden attack. Blood splattered my armor and even my bare skin. In that moment I did not care that I was slaughtering men who had wives and children. I was killing heathens that antagonised my men and I for weeks, months, and even years. I was doing this for cold-hearted revenge. But we were halted by the order of Richard. He knew that our forces needed to be preserved. But in this time of drawback not all came to regroup. There was a subset of Crusaders that were trapped and cut down. A man I knew, James d’Avesnes, fell to Saracen hands. But I could not mourn for long because a nephew of Saladin rallied his forces and our second counterattack was launched. This time I did not feel the powerful rush like before. It was dull and hollow. We had one last charge before the Saracens fled into the Forest of Arsuf. We had victory, against the logical odds. The Battle of Arsuf was won by holy men. But Mother, I survived, I survived! However our deaths seem to number to around seven hundred. The Saracens deaths number much more. We hold Jaffa and now move forward. I hope to come home soon once we claim Jerusalem, and with this victory we may have a chance. But I must go now. Lilola, Mother, pray for me and tell Atallana and Arielle their brother is alive and misses them dearly. Goodbye for now. In God’s name, Geoffrey Descoteaux Of Dorchester

#writing #historical fiction #the crusades #the second crusade #war #writing is mine #words

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knightrepentant · 7 years

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His Red-Stained Wings pt.6

No sun greeted me upon my return to consciousness. All I could glimpse far above the towers that loomed large around me was a darkening sky. But it was not the tattered clouds above that intruded upon my thoughts. As feeling trickled back into my limbs, I realised I lay upon a narrow ledge overlooking a flooded courtyard, my arm hanging limply from its edge. The stench assaulting my senses told me that that the dark pool below was not at all a reservoir, but a cistern. What truly held my attention, however, was whatever kept trying to grasp my bruised fingers. I turned my head, tasting stone wet with rainwater and blood, and caught sight of another stomach-turning horror. A long, spindly arm reached up from the muck towards me, the flesh hanging in the barest strips from rot-stained bones. The creature to which it belonged held the look of a sodden corpse long left to stew in this pit. Eyeless sockets and black teeth gaped as I rolled with a grunt of pain onto my side.

My perch was safe enough. Every bone in my body seemed ablaze as I struggled to my feet, retrieving my cane and pistol from where they lay. From my new vantage, I saw the pit awash with the foul crawlers, and beyond the lot of them, the only way out.

I need blood…

My limbs still burned from the fall, but beastly blood had cleansed me of my hurts before. Once again, the only way out is through. Wind rushed past my head as I leapt, light flashing upon the cane’s dark steel as it cracked open a rotten skull like porcelain. What little fresh viscera was left within sprayed forth. With a click, the cane uncoiled and the toothed whip lashed in rings about me. Their time rotting in this filth had made the beasts sluggish, and they died easily to the whip’s bite. Blood and slime adorned my coat, and I waded towards a winding passage, ears straining for the growling of beasts. Hunched black forms turned their glassy gaze upon me from the upper level, but the crows let me be. I felt their eyes upon me until I reached the mouth of the tunnel. The meagre light of dusk was just as reluctant to venture in as I, it seemed, for the darkness seemed as a wall standing in my way. No other way was open to me, however, and I kept the pistol raised as the shadows folded around me.

Water beat an uneven tune on the muck that slithered around my feet. Again I was thankful of the neckerchief wrapped around my face, for it held the worst of the stench at bay. The muzzle of the pistol wandered back and forth before me, trembling as I was, until it met something solid. Something that stirred. The tunnel blared with a scream, one that conjured memories of the abattoirs back home. The darkness thundered towards me, bellowing and throwing me to the ground. My limbs burned but I rolled to crouch in the mud. The beast had charged from the tunnel, and my stomach churned at the sight of a monstrous pig. Its skin was grey and riddled with sores, and two tiny white eyes rolled in their sockets. My resolve wavered as it screamed again, and I fled down the tunnel. The thunder of hooves pursued me until the gleam of metal rungs answered my fervent prayers. Trembling fingers scrambled on slick iron as my flight carried me up out of the dark. The terror-swine bellowed its frustration far below.

The top of the ladder gained me a view of another bridge, crowded with more misshapen townsfolk. At the near end, one of the hulking troll-men waited beside a…an enormous ball of straw? The scent of lamp oil was thick in the air, and I guessed easily the trap that had been set for me. A wicked grin sprang to my face, and I pulled from my coat the last bottle of oil. The firebomb sailed gracefully to shatter on the side of the troll-man’s head, which erupted in a sphere of clinging flame. The giant shrieked and thrashed, crashing into the oil-soaked straw. I felt the blast of heat even where I stood, content to watch the roaring pyre in a moment of peace. Behind yet more towers, I saw the shadowed bulk of a cathedral waiting for me above. I kept the pistol ready as the alley closed around me once more.

The snap of steel boot-heels on cobblestone gave way to the rustle of sickly grass, and my eyes looked around at a veritable thicket of headstones. Mist lay thick upon the ground, pooling around twisted trees, only disturbed by the shudder of a flayed corpse at the garden’s heart. Whatever manner of creature it had been was unrecognisable now, suffering as it had the brutal attentions of a scarecrow-like figure wielding a greataxe. The sickening thud of the crescent blade into flesh sent tremors along my spine. Tremors that only deepened when I realised at whom I was looking. The holy man from the bridge, who had held me in such contempt. I held the pistol close as I stepped forward, close enough to be noticed.

Though not enough to seem as a threat…one hopes…

The axe came down again, biting deep in a flower of red. Thin lips revealed more teeth than they should,

“So, the whelp still lives, does it? Perhaps there is a spine in there after all…” I let my gaze dart from his bandaged face, to rest upon a sight most unwholesome over his shoulder. A woman in red, now if not before, lay upon a low roof. Her ruined form, evidence of a most gruesome fate, bore a token that stirred a fresh memory within me.

“S-she wears a red-jewelled brooch, it’s so big and beautiful; you couldn’t miss it!”

And my weary heart sagged as my chest seemed to grow close around it. The holy man watched as I began a wide circle around him, “A sorry night this is, but fitting for such sorry business as ours.” My eyes darted from the dead woman to my unwelcome guest,

“Perhaps,” I managed, the words had to fight their way free so tight was my chest, “but t’is all for the best, is it not?” Those cloth-swaddled eyes never left me, and I grew desperate in the deepening silence, “My name is Finch, who might you be?” My words may have been the wind for all he acknowledged them, and his seemed more for his own hearing than mine,

“Beasts…beasts all over the shop…” The woman was near now, I saw the brooch glinting red upon her breast, within arm’s reach, “You’ll be one of them, sooner or later.” My hand froze halfway extended and in my gut I knew my time was up. As the wader-bird spears a fish, my hand flashed out and snared the brooch. I heard the singing of steel on the air before even turning my head, and palming the cane against the flat of the axe blade, I let it smash against a gravestone in a burst of sparks. The holy man lunged again, and blood-stained metal sliced through my sleeve. Yelling, I ducked behind a tree only to be stung in a hail of splinters, the axe hounding me over and over as I rolled and fled across the garden. Gaining a lead of a few yards let me turn at last to my foe. I felt the breeze of the axe’s flight over my head, and the cane swung hard into the man’s ribs. Gasping, he stepped back, unbalanced. I pressed my advantage in a flurry of vicious slashes, that skin should tear and bone should crack. Then a burst of hot metal shredded the chest of my coat and stung my body. A gnarled hand swept around to bring light exploding across my vision. The sodden muck of the garden struck my back. The light faded to a thin crescent, a glint from an axe blade lifting above me. I scrambled back, only to hear a brief chime ring from my pocket.

“It plays one of Father’s favourite songs, we play it when he forgets us, so he remembers.”

Could this be you?

I turned the handle and that sweet song wove between the headstones. I felt again a pang of sadness take root in my heart. My foe found the melody far less pleasant. Crazed shouting gave way to sobbing and incoherent whimpers, claw-like hands clutching his head in seeming agony. Too great an opportunity to miss. The cane skewered the priest in the gut, twisting for good measure. Claw-like fingers seized my coat and the scene tumbled before my eyes, until a gnarled tree crashed against already bruised limbs. Dazed and with ears ringing, I heard the clunk of metal and saw the holy man rush towards me bearing a much extended axe. My roll was swift enough that the crescent blade split the tree in two, rather than my head. The axe whirled in great arcs towards me, humming shrilly as I dodged as best I was able. Sharp teeth were bared as air was sucked between them, “That smell...the sweet blood, oh, it sings to me…”

A headstone was smashed to dust as I fled up a broad set of steps, “…it’s enough to make a man sick.” The dance of steel led us to the edge, where a ragged gap in the railings led back to the graveyard below. The axe sang in the air and I felt the breeze catch at my hair as I ducked, seeing once again the ruined corpse of the woman beneath the ledge. Anger blossomed in my chest. It was a hot, dark rage that bubbled below my heart. I bared my own teeth and held the music box before me like a shield, and this time its wistful tune lent me no joy. The man howled in despair and my rage crystallised into grim resolve. I kicked him hard in the back, sent him toppling from the ledge like a felled tree. I stood above, like some accusing judge,

“Would you slay me as you slew her?! You, who names me beast?!” I leapt, my coat unfolding like the wings of a bird, the cane descending like the bolt of some wrathful god. Steel met skin, met bone, met earth, and blood sprayed upon the gravestones. The man coughed more crimson upon the soil, his hands clutching at the air, at the cane that skewered his arched frame. I tasted copper on my tongue and spat into the dirt, “your blood will serve to wash hers away.” The cane was withdrawn, and a hand snapped around my throat like a snake. Bone cracked and popped, the man’s features contorting as my feet left the ground.

The sound of tearing cloth was lost in the climbing shriek that split the night. I hung now in the grip of a hideous caricature of the man I had fought. The malformed jaw gaped wide to scream and howl as I was lifted high, to be smashed to a pulp against the rubble. The cane flailed frantically as lights bloomed again before my eyes. I felt my left arm swing around, and heard the crack of the pistol. I was released to an agonised screech, and rolled as my feet hit the earth. A clawed hand struck my back but by some miracle I yet kept my feet. There was a sharp click and the whip uncoiled. I whirled with my arm outstretched, and saw the steel teeth of the whip lash across the beast’s face. I struck again as it flinched, flaying cloth and flesh alike, over and over. Hot blood rained upon me and I tasted again the burn of copper on my lips. My flight around a group of headstones proved futile when they were crushed to powder by the thing’s frenzy, by its relentless pursuit. I felt claws tug at my coat-tails, and sent the whip lashing out once again. But those shining teeth never found their mark, but instead found a trap. Crooked fingers seized the whip, and I, too slow in relinquishing my grip, was flung hard upon the stone steps.

Orange light flickered above me. My right hand snatched at empty air, for the whip was nowhere to be seen. I saw the scarecrow silhouette rise to blot out the ashen sun, one ruined hand clutching the traitorous whip. My pistol remained loyal, but could do little but slow this thing for an instant. Indeed, I had only one weapon left to me. Trembling fingers held out the battered and bloody box, “Please remember! She’s waiting. She’s waiting and I promised that I would…I…” But though the creature wailed in anguish, it still lifted the whip to smite me. The pistol fell useless from my hand, and the teeth fell upon me. Fire bloomed in deep red across my body, and again I was lifted, limp as a doll. But that orange light came with me and I stabbed the torch at the beast’s chest. A scream of pain rang in my head as flames consumed the beast’s twisted form. The whip was cast aside, and I leapt again with fire in my hand.

The stench of burning hair and skin choked me, and the beast tore across the cobbles in panic. But the flames clung tight, biting and tearing, until the thing’s rages slowed, until at last it collapsed in a pathetic smouldering heap. Taking up the cane and gun, I limped over to the smoking ruin, and put three quicksilver bullets into what remained of the head. I saw the way forward, lit warm and inviting by more torches it led onward and upwards. My stride began slow and sure, but that waiting portal seemed to grow no closer. Discordant notes echoed as my foot struck the broken music box, as my knees struck the stone, “No…no I can’t…I don’t want to dream…” The stones were cold and slick against my cheek, “She’s waiting…”

#bloodborne #fanfic #fan fiction #his red-stained wings #project beast

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