Fic: Once Upon a Time, Part 4/11
Title: Once Upon a Time
Author: scout_lover
Betas: ella_bee, trappercreekd, valawenel
Artist: ultra_fic
Characters/Pairings: Eliot/Parker (though nothing explicit), Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Sterling, Quinn, Archie, Cora, Bonanno, Father Paul … and a cast of thousands. Or at least tens.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage
Genre: AU
Warnings/spoilers: strong language, some violence (dude, swords!). Also, anachronisms abound.
Word Count: 36,000
Summary: Once upon a time, in the fair land of Lévèrage, things really weren’t all that fair at all
AN 1: This is set roughly in the Middle Ages. I say roughly because I have, *ahem*, cheated on language, history, social systems, geography … hell, everything. Think of this as Disneyfied Middle Ages.
AN 2: Many, many thanks to ultra_fic for creating a piece of art that took over my brain and forced (FORCED, I say) me to create this world. This became so much bigger than I ever anticipated, but I sort of fell in love with the world she inspired. So the fic that ate the internet is ALL. HER. FAULT. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. ;P
AN 3: Many, many thanks also to my betas - ella_bee, trappercreekd and valawenel - who waded into this sucker and have labored with endless patience to make it better. All mistakes, naturally, remain mine
Link to art: Here
Chapter 2:
She glided stealthily through the crowds, dipping nimble fingers into purses and unfastening clasps at necks and wrists, easily “liberating” whatever trinket caught her eye before slipping away again. Today was May Day, the town and greens surrounding it fairly bursting with people, vendors hawking their wares, musicians and players, and she took full advantage of the festive air. Jewels worn to show off wealth and prestige flashed in the sun, attracting her notice, and purses loosened to make fishing out coins for purchases easier welcomed her hands. The many hidden pockets of her gown bulged with the fruits, cakes, candies and meat pies she’d filched along with her other shiny treasures, and now and then she found herself humming as she danced away from yet another victim.
Today was a good day.
She thought briefly of going to Archie and showing him her bounty, but knew he’d be busy. Today he’d have his shop thrown open and all his goods on display, not just the simpler, more practical items he sold every day, but the expensive, exotic treasures he’d … acquired … on his travels. He’d be in his element with these crowds, telling stories of the places he’d been and the wonders he’d seen, showing off his own sleight of hand skills … and likely picking a purse or two while he held his audience mesmerized. So she’d leave him alone for now, and later, over the feast she’d stolen for them, they could share their takes in private.
Besides, showing them off now would risk attracting attention she didn’t want.
She slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and, from the safety of the shadows, peered out to study the town. And here and there throughout the people, children, jugglers, minstrels, magicians and vendors, she saw them. Soldiers. They made no attempt to disguise their presence or to blend in, but went about in twos and threes, wearing their distinctive red surcoats and armed to the teeth, brazenly flaunting their presence.
Sterling’s men.
Her mouth tightened into a scowl and anger replaced her happiness. Lord James had no right sending his men here. This portion of Lévèrage was still under Lord Nathan’s rule, whether he chose to exert that rule or not, and the people had no desire to serve anyone else. Especially not Lord James Sterling. The man was a heartless, greedy, self-serving bastard - or so Archie, Cora and countless others said - and could never care for them the way Lord Nathan did. Sterling didn’t like people, only power.
And maybe his daughter Olivia.
Her scowl deepened. It didn’t seem fair that Lord James should have a child to love and spoil when Lord Nathan had lost his. And now Lord James was trying to take Lord Nathan’s lands and people as well. It was wrong. Maybe Lord Nathan had withdrawn from his people and allowed his responsibilities to lapse since his son’s death, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a good man. Or that he deserved to lose his lands and power to Lord James.
Some things were just wrong. Even a thief like her could see that.
Of course, it would be nice if Lord Nathan could see it, too, and do something about it. But he hadn’t done much of anything since his son’s death, except grieve. And drink. He was rarely seen these days, hadn’t toured his lands or held court since he’d buried his son, had simply retreated away from the world and kept himself hidden away. He’d even abandoned the beautiful castle he’d been building for his son-
And now Lord James - Sterling, as everyone here still called him; the man wasn’t even a real lord, but had bought the title - had the castle, and was finishing it for his daughter.
While Lord Nathan hid away and let him.
A commotion down the street past Peggy’s bread and pastry shop caught her attention, and she leaned a bit further forward to look. Amid the crowd that had gathered there, she saw an all-too-familiar soldier - Quinn - holding a young man by the shoulder and shaking him roughly, while other soldiers stood around laughing. She swallowed hard, recognizing the boy as another thief, and knew his capture would now make it that much more difficult for her. Thieves were a particular hatred of Sterling’s - perhaps because they reminded him too closely of himself - and now that Quinn and his men had caught one, they would be actively searching for more.
Might be actively searching for her.
Everyone in the village knew she was a thief, but, because she tried not to steal too much from those who couldn’t spare it, they tended to protect her. She might be a thief, but she was their thief, as Cora said, and the village would never give up one of its own to Sterling. But there were strangers in town for the fair, and they wouldn’t hesitate to turn in someone caught with a hand in their purses.
Not that she ever got caught. Archie had taught her much too well for that, sharply honing what he called her “natural gifts.” But Sterling knew about her anyway - Sterling seemed to know everything - and had no doubt told his men to look for her specifically.
It was just the kind of thing he would do. And the kind of order Quinn would relish.
And she was fairly certain she wouldn’t enjoy being caught by Quinn. Not that he was good enough or fast enough to catch her.
Still …
She sighed, her joy in the day gone. Sterling had a way of doing that. His shadow darkened everything it touched and turned the warmest day cold. He only allowed celebrations like this because he knew he’d profit in the end, through the fees he charged for “securing” the roads against bandits, the tolls he imposed on bridges and ferries and the taxes he’d collect from the merchants.
Lord Nathan had always lifted tolls and taxes on festival days. But then Lord Nathan had always cared more about people than money.
She turned away and slipped deeper into the shadows, her interest in picking all the purses out there gone. She no longer wanted to see Sterling’s men, no longer wanted to think about having to watch herself around them. They might not be fast enough or good enough on their own to catch her, but someone else might see and turn her in, and she hated not being able to enjoy her stealing.
That was wrong, too.
An idea came to her and she smiled, quickening her step. She’d go up to the meadow, where the flowers were blooming and the butterflies came to dance. She’d dance with them and show them her treasures, certain they’d appreciate brightness and beauty so like their own.
And if, maybe, she dreamed of a brave, blue-eyed soldier singing bold songs and wielding his sword in the battle to make things right again-
Well, only the butterflies had to know.
He stood in the overgrown yard and stared at the house before him, memories from his youth colliding with the evidence of his eyes and giving him a faint sense of vertigo. He half expected his mother to come out at any moment to tend her garden, expected to see his father thatching the roof or hear him berating a wayward son too caught up in dreams of glory to properly yoke the oxen for work in the fields.
But his mother’s garden was long since withered and dead, his father’s voice forever silenced. The roof, or what part of it hadn’t collapsed, badly needed someone to thatch it, and he suspected the yokes that had gotten him into so much trouble as a boy were now all rotted and useless. The whitewash that had once covered the walls was now cracked and dirty or gone altogether, revealing the wattle and daub beneath. In many places, the wattle and daub were gone, leaving the timbers of the house exposed like bare ribs.
Strange that he’d thought the years would leave this place untouched, when they’d altered him beyond repair.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, knowing he should go inside but strangely reluctant to do it. His father had made with his own hands and tools all their furnishings, with his mother telling him exactly what she wanted and needed, and he was desperately afraid they would be gone, or worse. He knew what happened to homes that were left empty, had seen it countless times over the years. Hell, he’d plundered more than one himself during the wars, taking what he could barter for food and breaking up whatever would burn for firewood. The thought that someone might have done so to his father’s house, his mother’s treasures, hurt almost beyond bearing.
He needed some part of his world to remain intact.
Needed some part of him to remain intact.
He winced and shook his head. But that was impossible. He’d been gone twenty years, his father and mother dead for seven, his sister married and gone before that. There’d been no one to look after the house for years, no one to care about the roof or the walls or his mother’s garden or his father’s carpentry. The fields would still be cultivated, crops planted and harvested as always by those who knew no other life, but this house, this tiny little place that had once been his entire world, had long since ceased to matter to anyone.
Except to him.
He lifted his head and shook the hair out of his face, then squared his shoulders resolutely. Fuck it. He hadn’t won battles by refusing to face the enemy. Clamping a hand about the hilt of the long dagger sheathed at his waist - God knew what he’d find in there - he forced himself forward with a purposeful stride, bracing himself for whatever ruin awaited him inside. He pushed open the door and stepped into the house-
And stopped in astonishment at the lack of ruin that met him. Oh, the large hall was all but bare, only the long, heavy table where they’d taken their meals remaining, but the table was perfectly intact … and clean, with no debris from the collapsed ceiling covering it and no damage from weather or intruders, animal or human, marring it. A clay pitcher sat at its center, as if simply waiting for someone to fill it with water or wine.
Elsewhere it was much the same. Most of the chests, chairs, tables and cabinets he remembered were gone, but here and there a few remained, as clean as the table. The windows were all bare, but beneath a few of them lay the heavy wooden shutters that once had covered them, all broken, one or two rotted beyond repair, but all seemingly placed by a careful hand where they lay. The screens that had once partitioned the pantries and smaller rooms from the main hall were gone, as were the tapestries that had hung on the walls to keep down the chill, and most of the pantries themselves were empty, whatever had been stored in them long since carried away. But there was no wreckage beyond what time and weather would inflict. Even the large main hearth was empty, swept clean of ash and cinders, as if just waiting for a new fire to be laid.
The whole house seemed to be a state of waiting, kept that way by some unknown hand.
He shook his head dazedly and moved slowly through the house, peering into pantries, running his hand over chests and walls, trying to remember which screen had stood where. When he reached the stairs in the back corner that led up to his parents’ private rooms, he hesitated, then turned away and crossed the hall to the other stairs, choosing to explore his and his sister’s rooms first.
He’d face his parents’ ghosts later …
He set a foot cautiously on the first step, trying its strength before trusting his whole weight to it, and found it surprisingly stable. Trying each step in turn, he ascended, smiling faintly as he remembered how often he’d run up and down these stairs without a care as a boy.
And how his mother had always lamented such unmannered wildness.
He reached the upper level and simply stood there, staring. As below, the screens that had divided his sister’s “room” from his were gone, allowing him to see the entire space. Their beds were but bare wooden frames, their mattresses of straw and feathers gone, as were the tapestries that had once hung on the walls. Oddly enough, though, a small silver brush and comb sat on the ledge by what had been his sister’s bed, and on the ledge by his, where once he’d kept his favorite belongings, lay a knife.
He moved toward it, then stopped abruptly with a sharp gasp, his eyes widening. That had been one of his knives, bought for him by his father at one of the town fairs and lost … he couldn’t remember when or how. One of a hundred possessions lost while fishing at the river or playing soldier in the meadow.
He moved to the knife and picked it up, sitting down on one of the timbers that formed the frame of his bed and staring down in wonder. It was just a simple hunting knife with a polished horn handle, but he remembered how proud he’d been when his father had given it to him. One of the fleeting moments of truce in their eternal war. He pulled it slowly out of its sheath - its original sheath, no less - and blinked in surprise. The blade was clean, free of dirt or rust, and still wickedly sharp.
One more part of his past left here for him to reclaim it.
But by whom?
He shook his head again and looked around. Someone had been here, had left this knife, the brush and comb and the pitcher downstairs, had swept the fireplace and cleared away the fallen roof. Someone had taken it upon themselves to watch over this house, to protect it from the invasions of time and man, to keep it safe and waiting-
For him?
He snorted in ridicule at his foolishness. Who would possibly care whether he returned? Hell, who here would even remember him, or imagine he was still alive if they did?
And yet …
He swallowed hard and shook his head, still staring down at the knife and blinking away the sudden sting of tears. It wasn’t much, he knew. He’d fought in lands where blade-making was an art, had lost or left in his victims knives worth a hundred times more than this one. But he could still see the pride in his father’s eyes when he’d given this to him, the recognition that he was no longer a child, could almost feel the warmth of his father’s callused fingers as he’d pressed it into his hand-
Christ, he’d been such a fool! He should never have left. He’d been wrong to think that war was anything more than slaughter, to believe that he could ever find anything more than what he’d had here by chasing dreams of blood and glory. His father had known, had tried to tell him, but he’d refused to listen, had scorned him as a simple, stupid man who knew nothing about the world and was afraid of it. He’d told himself he was so much smarter, so much stronger, so much better-
And he’d been wrong. So wrong. His father had known more than he’d realized, had done more simply by staying here and making a real life for himself and his family. He’d been a good and decent man who’d come by what he had honestly and fairly and who’d only wanted the same for his son.
He’d deserved more than that son’s anger and contempt.
And it was time he got it.
Eliot sniffed and wiped impatiently at his tears, then rose sharply to his feet, clutching the knife tightly in his hand. He’d been away too long, had strayed too far, had lost himself along the way. But he was back now, and while he couldn’t change the past, he could at least make some atonement for it.
He had a lot of work to do.
He needed to get his belongings off the wagon and bring them into the house that had been kept waiting. He needed to refill his mother’s pantries, fix his father’s roof and walls. He should probably write his sister, let her know he was back … and apologize for twenty years of being an ass.
Above all, he needed to visit his parents’ graves, kneel down and try to remember how to pray, and tell them their son had finally come home.
Parker skipped through the meadow, singing songs stolen from a boy who used to sing here so many years ago. She’d shown the butterflies her treasures, and they’d been duly impressed. She knew because, when she’d been standing very still, one had landed on her outstretched hand and sat there for long moments, marveling at her cleverness.
Butterflies appreciated such things.
And because today was May Day, she’d picked fresh flowers to put in the pitcher on the table in the house. They would be a kind of apology. She’d not been to the house in a fortnight at least, had been too busy helping Archie prepare for the fair. She felt guilty for her neglect, but hoped the flowers would make it all right.
The house got terribly lonely.
No one else saw that but her, so she’d taken it upon herself to ease that loneliness. After rains, she’d come and clear away whatever part of the roof had fallen in, and clean up whatever water and mud had gotten in. She also tried to keep the wild animals out, though once she’d let a family of foxes stay until the kits were old enough to leave.
The foxes had been nice, but the house missed its people.
So she’d started leaving small gifts to remind the house of its people. A silver brush and comb (it was all right, she had three more of each) for the girl who’d once lived there, a pretty broach for the woman (the old hag she’d stolen it from hadn’t deserved something so nice), a fine pewter cup for the man, and a knife for the boy.
But not just any knife. His knife. One she’d stolen from him herself one day long ago when he’d fallen asleep while fishing at the river. She remembered that day, remembered how she’d crept up on him, sat and watched him for the longest time … and stolen his knife so she would always remember the day. She’d been fascinated by him. It had been one of the very few times she’d seen him still - he always seemed to be moving, even if it was only his hands - and she’d thought him the finest boy in the world.
Not at all like the stupid rough boys in the village who only wanted to pull her hair or touch her in strange places.
So she’d stolen his knife. But she’d felt bad about it, so she’d left him a small blue pebble in exchange. Blue, like his eyes. She’d run away as soon as he’d started to stir, but she’d hidden and watched him from a distance.
And as he’d left, he’d sung another song for her to steal. She’d kept it as she had all his others.
Sometimes she sang his songs to the house, knowing it would remember, too. But one day, when the house had seemed especially lonely, she’d given it the knife. It would certainly remember that. She’d gone up the stairs to his room (the one with the window that looked out into the tree; sometimes she still used the tree instead of the stairs so it wouldn’t be lonely) and laid the knife on the ledge where he used to keep his things.
She’d felt the house sigh its thanks.
Now she was bringing it flowers. Flowers were important, Sophie said, expressing thoughts and feelings. She hoped these flowers said she was sorry for being away for so long. It was hard to tell with flowers; they didn’t always speak her language. Not like butterflies-
She stopped abruptly and sucked in a sharp breath as she topped the hill overlooking the house. Her stomach clenched hard and she dropped the flowers as a cold chill swept through her.
No!
A wagon stood in the middle of the yard, laden with chests. Two horses rested in the dilapidated stable - one a dray horse, the other a much finer bay stallion - and the main door of the house had been taken off its hinges and now rested against an outer wall.
Someone was invading the house.
She immediately dropped to the ground, not wanting to be seen. Horrified by the intrusion, she crept forward through the tall grass, her heart hammering wildly in her breast, her mind torn by guilt.
She’d failed. She was supposed to protect the house, to keep it safe and ease its loneliness, to remind it of the people it missed while keeping out invaders. But she’d failed. She’d stayed away too long, gotten so busy helping Archie that she’d forgotten her duty here-
And now someone was violating the house.
Anger rose within her and she crept closer still, wanting, needing, to see who would dare this. She moved slowly, slowly, knowing her colorful patchwork dress would disguise her among all the flowers, stopping only when she reached the edge of the high grass, and the end of her concealment. But she could see the wagon much more clearly-
And her heart clenched again.
Soldiers.
She could see the heavy swordbelt hanging from the seat of the wagon, the surcoat draped over one side … but not the scarlet of Sterling’s men. She frowned. Not the bright blue of Lord Nathan’s men, either. This one was black, with a golden lion emblazoned upon it-
Not the arms of any lord she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen many. Only Lord Nathan and Sterling, in fact. Her frown deepened. Had Lévèrage been invaded without her knowing it? Archie would have mentioned something like that, wouldn’t he? Cora would have; she heard all the gossip in her tavern. And Sophie certainly would have. Sophie knew everything.
Except how to make Lord Nathan stop drinking and love her …
She shook her head. Sophie would have to wait. Right now, the house needed her. It was being invaded, and she had to figure out a way to save it. She had no weapons on her except a small knife for cutting fruit that she’d … found … at Cora’s, and she doubted that would be enough. But her gaze darted again to the sword hanging by its belt from the wagon, and she nodded slowly. It was long, and probably heavy, and she had no idea at all how to actually use one-
But the house needed her. She was all it had, and that sword was all she had.
She made her decision, scowled tightly and clenched her hands into fists. She could do this. She had to do this. She gathered her courage and pushed herself slowly to her feet, then drew a deep breath and darted down the hill and toward the wagon-
And froze in place at the edge of the yard as he came out, her heart leaping into her throat. Terror flooded her, but, like a rabbit spotted by the hawk, she was powerless to move.
She had failed the house again.
He seemed not to notice her at first. And he didn’t seem all that dangerous. He wore no armor, only a loose linen shirt and dark leather breeches and boots, and a simple dagger at his waist. His hair was longer than was the custom here, and was a rich earthen brown with tints of red shining in the sun. He seemed to be speaking quietly to himself … no, singing-
She gasped sharply at that, unable to help it, and gave herself away. He heard her, reached for his dagger and looked up to her-
And her world shifted about her as she was pierced through the heart by eyes as blue as the sky.
He sang to himself as he stepped out of the house, pleased with his progress so far. At this rate, he’d have all his belongings moved inside well before sunset-
A sharp, strange sound, almost a cry, came to him on the breeze and he tensed, hand going to his dagger, his every instinct on alert and his song ending on a curse. He’d gotten so caught up in thoughts of home that he’d let his vigilance lapse. Even if there was no war here, still there would be brigands and thieves, rough men who’d not flinch at taking whatever they wanted by force.
And his sword was on the wagon.
He cursed himself again, but tightened his hold on his dagger and started to draw it. Letting his mind still and listening intently for any and every warning sound, he looked up-
And froze at the sight of the slim figure standing still as a startled deer between the hill and the yard, her gray eyes wide and unblinking, her golden hair shining in the sun, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. He gasped, blinked, and let his hand fall away from his dagger, his mind in a whirl.
She was real, was here. Suddenly he knew who had kept the house waiting for him, who had left his knife on the ledge by his bed. All this time, he’d been wondering if she’d only been a dream, a vision conjured by his mind, and she’d been here, watching, waiting, the most real thing he’d had in his life in twenty years.
He stared at her, transfixed, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw a butterfly alight on her shining hair. He started forward, opened his mouth to call to her-
And then the girl in the tattered rainbow dress whirled on her heel and raced away.
She ran only as far as the other side of the hill, then crept back up it and lay hidden in the tall grass and flowers, watching him as he went back to work. Joy filled her in a bright, warm wave, and it was all she could do to keep from singing one of the songs she’d stolen from him so long ago. She somehow managed to stay quiet, but could not stop smiling.
He was back. Her boy had come home after all these years.
And suddenly she knew with unshakable certainty that nothing would ever be the same.
Part 5
Author: scout_lover
Betas: ella_bee, trappercreekd, valawenel
Artist: ultra_fic
Characters/Pairings: Eliot/Parker (though nothing explicit), Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Sterling, Quinn, Archie, Cora, Bonanno, Father Paul … and a cast of thousands. Or at least tens.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage
Genre: AU
Warnings/spoilers: strong language, some violence (dude, swords!). Also, anachronisms abound.
Word Count: 36,000
Summary: Once upon a time, in the fair land of Lévèrage, things really weren’t all that fair at all
AN 1: This is set roughly in the Middle Ages. I say roughly because I have, *ahem*, cheated on language, history, social systems, geography … hell, everything. Think of this as Disneyfied Middle Ages.
AN 2: Many, many thanks to ultra_fic for creating a piece of art that took over my brain and forced (FORCED, I say) me to create this world. This became so much bigger than I ever anticipated, but I sort of fell in love with the world she inspired. So the fic that ate the internet is ALL. HER. FAULT. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. ;P
AN 3: Many, many thanks also to my betas - ella_bee, trappercreekd and valawenel - who waded into this sucker and have labored with endless patience to make it better. All mistakes, naturally, remain mine
Link to art: Here
Chapter 2:
She glided stealthily through the crowds, dipping nimble fingers into purses and unfastening clasps at necks and wrists, easily “liberating” whatever trinket caught her eye before slipping away again. Today was May Day, the town and greens surrounding it fairly bursting with people, vendors hawking their wares, musicians and players, and she took full advantage of the festive air. Jewels worn to show off wealth and prestige flashed in the sun, attracting her notice, and purses loosened to make fishing out coins for purchases easier welcomed her hands. The many hidden pockets of her gown bulged with the fruits, cakes, candies and meat pies she’d filched along with her other shiny treasures, and now and then she found herself humming as she danced away from yet another victim.
Today was a good day.
She thought briefly of going to Archie and showing him her bounty, but knew he’d be busy. Today he’d have his shop thrown open and all his goods on display, not just the simpler, more practical items he sold every day, but the expensive, exotic treasures he’d … acquired … on his travels. He’d be in his element with these crowds, telling stories of the places he’d been and the wonders he’d seen, showing off his own sleight of hand skills … and likely picking a purse or two while he held his audience mesmerized. So she’d leave him alone for now, and later, over the feast she’d stolen for them, they could share their takes in private.
Besides, showing them off now would risk attracting attention she didn’t want.
She slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and, from the safety of the shadows, peered out to study the town. And here and there throughout the people, children, jugglers, minstrels, magicians and vendors, she saw them. Soldiers. They made no attempt to disguise their presence or to blend in, but went about in twos and threes, wearing their distinctive red surcoats and armed to the teeth, brazenly flaunting their presence.
Sterling’s men.
Her mouth tightened into a scowl and anger replaced her happiness. Lord James had no right sending his men here. This portion of Lévèrage was still under Lord Nathan’s rule, whether he chose to exert that rule or not, and the people had no desire to serve anyone else. Especially not Lord James Sterling. The man was a heartless, greedy, self-serving bastard - or so Archie, Cora and countless others said - and could never care for them the way Lord Nathan did. Sterling didn’t like people, only power.
And maybe his daughter Olivia.
Her scowl deepened. It didn’t seem fair that Lord James should have a child to love and spoil when Lord Nathan had lost his. And now Lord James was trying to take Lord Nathan’s lands and people as well. It was wrong. Maybe Lord Nathan had withdrawn from his people and allowed his responsibilities to lapse since his son’s death, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a good man. Or that he deserved to lose his lands and power to Lord James.
Some things were just wrong. Even a thief like her could see that.
Of course, it would be nice if Lord Nathan could see it, too, and do something about it. But he hadn’t done much of anything since his son’s death, except grieve. And drink. He was rarely seen these days, hadn’t toured his lands or held court since he’d buried his son, had simply retreated away from the world and kept himself hidden away. He’d even abandoned the beautiful castle he’d been building for his son-
And now Lord James - Sterling, as everyone here still called him; the man wasn’t even a real lord, but had bought the title - had the castle, and was finishing it for his daughter.
While Lord Nathan hid away and let him.
A commotion down the street past Peggy’s bread and pastry shop caught her attention, and she leaned a bit further forward to look. Amid the crowd that had gathered there, she saw an all-too-familiar soldier - Quinn - holding a young man by the shoulder and shaking him roughly, while other soldiers stood around laughing. She swallowed hard, recognizing the boy as another thief, and knew his capture would now make it that much more difficult for her. Thieves were a particular hatred of Sterling’s - perhaps because they reminded him too closely of himself - and now that Quinn and his men had caught one, they would be actively searching for more.
Might be actively searching for her.
Everyone in the village knew she was a thief, but, because she tried not to steal too much from those who couldn’t spare it, they tended to protect her. She might be a thief, but she was their thief, as Cora said, and the village would never give up one of its own to Sterling. But there were strangers in town for the fair, and they wouldn’t hesitate to turn in someone caught with a hand in their purses.
Not that she ever got caught. Archie had taught her much too well for that, sharply honing what he called her “natural gifts.” But Sterling knew about her anyway - Sterling seemed to know everything - and had no doubt told his men to look for her specifically.
It was just the kind of thing he would do. And the kind of order Quinn would relish.
And she was fairly certain she wouldn’t enjoy being caught by Quinn. Not that he was good enough or fast enough to catch her.
Still …
She sighed, her joy in the day gone. Sterling had a way of doing that. His shadow darkened everything it touched and turned the warmest day cold. He only allowed celebrations like this because he knew he’d profit in the end, through the fees he charged for “securing” the roads against bandits, the tolls he imposed on bridges and ferries and the taxes he’d collect from the merchants.
Lord Nathan had always lifted tolls and taxes on festival days. But then Lord Nathan had always cared more about people than money.
She turned away and slipped deeper into the shadows, her interest in picking all the purses out there gone. She no longer wanted to see Sterling’s men, no longer wanted to think about having to watch herself around them. They might not be fast enough or good enough on their own to catch her, but someone else might see and turn her in, and she hated not being able to enjoy her stealing.
That was wrong, too.
An idea came to her and she smiled, quickening her step. She’d go up to the meadow, where the flowers were blooming and the butterflies came to dance. She’d dance with them and show them her treasures, certain they’d appreciate brightness and beauty so like their own.
And if, maybe, she dreamed of a brave, blue-eyed soldier singing bold songs and wielding his sword in the battle to make things right again-
Well, only the butterflies had to know.
He stood in the overgrown yard and stared at the house before him, memories from his youth colliding with the evidence of his eyes and giving him a faint sense of vertigo. He half expected his mother to come out at any moment to tend her garden, expected to see his father thatching the roof or hear him berating a wayward son too caught up in dreams of glory to properly yoke the oxen for work in the fields.
But his mother’s garden was long since withered and dead, his father’s voice forever silenced. The roof, or what part of it hadn’t collapsed, badly needed someone to thatch it, and he suspected the yokes that had gotten him into so much trouble as a boy were now all rotted and useless. The whitewash that had once covered the walls was now cracked and dirty or gone altogether, revealing the wattle and daub beneath. In many places, the wattle and daub were gone, leaving the timbers of the house exposed like bare ribs.
Strange that he’d thought the years would leave this place untouched, when they’d altered him beyond repair.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, knowing he should go inside but strangely reluctant to do it. His father had made with his own hands and tools all their furnishings, with his mother telling him exactly what she wanted and needed, and he was desperately afraid they would be gone, or worse. He knew what happened to homes that were left empty, had seen it countless times over the years. Hell, he’d plundered more than one himself during the wars, taking what he could barter for food and breaking up whatever would burn for firewood. The thought that someone might have done so to his father’s house, his mother’s treasures, hurt almost beyond bearing.
He needed some part of his world to remain intact.
Needed some part of him to remain intact.
He winced and shook his head. But that was impossible. He’d been gone twenty years, his father and mother dead for seven, his sister married and gone before that. There’d been no one to look after the house for years, no one to care about the roof or the walls or his mother’s garden or his father’s carpentry. The fields would still be cultivated, crops planted and harvested as always by those who knew no other life, but this house, this tiny little place that had once been his entire world, had long since ceased to matter to anyone.
Except to him.
He lifted his head and shook the hair out of his face, then squared his shoulders resolutely. Fuck it. He hadn’t won battles by refusing to face the enemy. Clamping a hand about the hilt of the long dagger sheathed at his waist - God knew what he’d find in there - he forced himself forward with a purposeful stride, bracing himself for whatever ruin awaited him inside. He pushed open the door and stepped into the house-
And stopped in astonishment at the lack of ruin that met him. Oh, the large hall was all but bare, only the long, heavy table where they’d taken their meals remaining, but the table was perfectly intact … and clean, with no debris from the collapsed ceiling covering it and no damage from weather or intruders, animal or human, marring it. A clay pitcher sat at its center, as if simply waiting for someone to fill it with water or wine.
Elsewhere it was much the same. Most of the chests, chairs, tables and cabinets he remembered were gone, but here and there a few remained, as clean as the table. The windows were all bare, but beneath a few of them lay the heavy wooden shutters that once had covered them, all broken, one or two rotted beyond repair, but all seemingly placed by a careful hand where they lay. The screens that had once partitioned the pantries and smaller rooms from the main hall were gone, as were the tapestries that had hung on the walls to keep down the chill, and most of the pantries themselves were empty, whatever had been stored in them long since carried away. But there was no wreckage beyond what time and weather would inflict. Even the large main hearth was empty, swept clean of ash and cinders, as if just waiting for a new fire to be laid.
The whole house seemed to be a state of waiting, kept that way by some unknown hand.
He shook his head dazedly and moved slowly through the house, peering into pantries, running his hand over chests and walls, trying to remember which screen had stood where. When he reached the stairs in the back corner that led up to his parents’ private rooms, he hesitated, then turned away and crossed the hall to the other stairs, choosing to explore his and his sister’s rooms first.
He’d face his parents’ ghosts later …
He set a foot cautiously on the first step, trying its strength before trusting his whole weight to it, and found it surprisingly stable. Trying each step in turn, he ascended, smiling faintly as he remembered how often he’d run up and down these stairs without a care as a boy.
And how his mother had always lamented such unmannered wildness.
He reached the upper level and simply stood there, staring. As below, the screens that had divided his sister’s “room” from his were gone, allowing him to see the entire space. Their beds were but bare wooden frames, their mattresses of straw and feathers gone, as were the tapestries that had once hung on the walls. Oddly enough, though, a small silver brush and comb sat on the ledge by what had been his sister’s bed, and on the ledge by his, where once he’d kept his favorite belongings, lay a knife.
He moved toward it, then stopped abruptly with a sharp gasp, his eyes widening. That had been one of his knives, bought for him by his father at one of the town fairs and lost … he couldn’t remember when or how. One of a hundred possessions lost while fishing at the river or playing soldier in the meadow.
He moved to the knife and picked it up, sitting down on one of the timbers that formed the frame of his bed and staring down in wonder. It was just a simple hunting knife with a polished horn handle, but he remembered how proud he’d been when his father had given it to him. One of the fleeting moments of truce in their eternal war. He pulled it slowly out of its sheath - its original sheath, no less - and blinked in surprise. The blade was clean, free of dirt or rust, and still wickedly sharp.
One more part of his past left here for him to reclaim it.
But by whom?
He shook his head again and looked around. Someone had been here, had left this knife, the brush and comb and the pitcher downstairs, had swept the fireplace and cleared away the fallen roof. Someone had taken it upon themselves to watch over this house, to protect it from the invasions of time and man, to keep it safe and waiting-
For him?
He snorted in ridicule at his foolishness. Who would possibly care whether he returned? Hell, who here would even remember him, or imagine he was still alive if they did?
And yet …
He swallowed hard and shook his head, still staring down at the knife and blinking away the sudden sting of tears. It wasn’t much, he knew. He’d fought in lands where blade-making was an art, had lost or left in his victims knives worth a hundred times more than this one. But he could still see the pride in his father’s eyes when he’d given this to him, the recognition that he was no longer a child, could almost feel the warmth of his father’s callused fingers as he’d pressed it into his hand-
Christ, he’d been such a fool! He should never have left. He’d been wrong to think that war was anything more than slaughter, to believe that he could ever find anything more than what he’d had here by chasing dreams of blood and glory. His father had known, had tried to tell him, but he’d refused to listen, had scorned him as a simple, stupid man who knew nothing about the world and was afraid of it. He’d told himself he was so much smarter, so much stronger, so much better-
And he’d been wrong. So wrong. His father had known more than he’d realized, had done more simply by staying here and making a real life for himself and his family. He’d been a good and decent man who’d come by what he had honestly and fairly and who’d only wanted the same for his son.
He’d deserved more than that son’s anger and contempt.
And it was time he got it.
Eliot sniffed and wiped impatiently at his tears, then rose sharply to his feet, clutching the knife tightly in his hand. He’d been away too long, had strayed too far, had lost himself along the way. But he was back now, and while he couldn’t change the past, he could at least make some atonement for it.
He had a lot of work to do.
He needed to get his belongings off the wagon and bring them into the house that had been kept waiting. He needed to refill his mother’s pantries, fix his father’s roof and walls. He should probably write his sister, let her know he was back … and apologize for twenty years of being an ass.
Above all, he needed to visit his parents’ graves, kneel down and try to remember how to pray, and tell them their son had finally come home.
Parker skipped through the meadow, singing songs stolen from a boy who used to sing here so many years ago. She’d shown the butterflies her treasures, and they’d been duly impressed. She knew because, when she’d been standing very still, one had landed on her outstretched hand and sat there for long moments, marveling at her cleverness.
Butterflies appreciated such things.
And because today was May Day, she’d picked fresh flowers to put in the pitcher on the table in the house. They would be a kind of apology. She’d not been to the house in a fortnight at least, had been too busy helping Archie prepare for the fair. She felt guilty for her neglect, but hoped the flowers would make it all right.
The house got terribly lonely.
No one else saw that but her, so she’d taken it upon herself to ease that loneliness. After rains, she’d come and clear away whatever part of the roof had fallen in, and clean up whatever water and mud had gotten in. She also tried to keep the wild animals out, though once she’d let a family of foxes stay until the kits were old enough to leave.
The foxes had been nice, but the house missed its people.
So she’d started leaving small gifts to remind the house of its people. A silver brush and comb (it was all right, she had three more of each) for the girl who’d once lived there, a pretty broach for the woman (the old hag she’d stolen it from hadn’t deserved something so nice), a fine pewter cup for the man, and a knife for the boy.
But not just any knife. His knife. One she’d stolen from him herself one day long ago when he’d fallen asleep while fishing at the river. She remembered that day, remembered how she’d crept up on him, sat and watched him for the longest time … and stolen his knife so she would always remember the day. She’d been fascinated by him. It had been one of the very few times she’d seen him still - he always seemed to be moving, even if it was only his hands - and she’d thought him the finest boy in the world.
Not at all like the stupid rough boys in the village who only wanted to pull her hair or touch her in strange places.
So she’d stolen his knife. But she’d felt bad about it, so she’d left him a small blue pebble in exchange. Blue, like his eyes. She’d run away as soon as he’d started to stir, but she’d hidden and watched him from a distance.
And as he’d left, he’d sung another song for her to steal. She’d kept it as she had all his others.
Sometimes she sang his songs to the house, knowing it would remember, too. But one day, when the house had seemed especially lonely, she’d given it the knife. It would certainly remember that. She’d gone up the stairs to his room (the one with the window that looked out into the tree; sometimes she still used the tree instead of the stairs so it wouldn’t be lonely) and laid the knife on the ledge where he used to keep his things.
She’d felt the house sigh its thanks.
Now she was bringing it flowers. Flowers were important, Sophie said, expressing thoughts and feelings. She hoped these flowers said she was sorry for being away for so long. It was hard to tell with flowers; they didn’t always speak her language. Not like butterflies-
She stopped abruptly and sucked in a sharp breath as she topped the hill overlooking the house. Her stomach clenched hard and she dropped the flowers as a cold chill swept through her.
No!
A wagon stood in the middle of the yard, laden with chests. Two horses rested in the dilapidated stable - one a dray horse, the other a much finer bay stallion - and the main door of the house had been taken off its hinges and now rested against an outer wall.
Someone was invading the house.
She immediately dropped to the ground, not wanting to be seen. Horrified by the intrusion, she crept forward through the tall grass, her heart hammering wildly in her breast, her mind torn by guilt.
She’d failed. She was supposed to protect the house, to keep it safe and ease its loneliness, to remind it of the people it missed while keeping out invaders. But she’d failed. She’d stayed away too long, gotten so busy helping Archie that she’d forgotten her duty here-
And now someone was violating the house.
Anger rose within her and she crept closer still, wanting, needing, to see who would dare this. She moved slowly, slowly, knowing her colorful patchwork dress would disguise her among all the flowers, stopping only when she reached the edge of the high grass, and the end of her concealment. But she could see the wagon much more clearly-
And her heart clenched again.
Soldiers.
She could see the heavy swordbelt hanging from the seat of the wagon, the surcoat draped over one side … but not the scarlet of Sterling’s men. She frowned. Not the bright blue of Lord Nathan’s men, either. This one was black, with a golden lion emblazoned upon it-
Not the arms of any lord she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen many. Only Lord Nathan and Sterling, in fact. Her frown deepened. Had Lévèrage been invaded without her knowing it? Archie would have mentioned something like that, wouldn’t he? Cora would have; she heard all the gossip in her tavern. And Sophie certainly would have. Sophie knew everything.
Except how to make Lord Nathan stop drinking and love her …
She shook her head. Sophie would have to wait. Right now, the house needed her. It was being invaded, and she had to figure out a way to save it. She had no weapons on her except a small knife for cutting fruit that she’d … found … at Cora’s, and she doubted that would be enough. But her gaze darted again to the sword hanging by its belt from the wagon, and she nodded slowly. It was long, and probably heavy, and she had no idea at all how to actually use one-
But the house needed her. She was all it had, and that sword was all she had.
She made her decision, scowled tightly and clenched her hands into fists. She could do this. She had to do this. She gathered her courage and pushed herself slowly to her feet, then drew a deep breath and darted down the hill and toward the wagon-
And froze in place at the edge of the yard as he came out, her heart leaping into her throat. Terror flooded her, but, like a rabbit spotted by the hawk, she was powerless to move.
She had failed the house again.
He seemed not to notice her at first. And he didn’t seem all that dangerous. He wore no armor, only a loose linen shirt and dark leather breeches and boots, and a simple dagger at his waist. His hair was longer than was the custom here, and was a rich earthen brown with tints of red shining in the sun. He seemed to be speaking quietly to himself … no, singing-
She gasped sharply at that, unable to help it, and gave herself away. He heard her, reached for his dagger and looked up to her-
And her world shifted about her as she was pierced through the heart by eyes as blue as the sky.
He sang to himself as he stepped out of the house, pleased with his progress so far. At this rate, he’d have all his belongings moved inside well before sunset-
A sharp, strange sound, almost a cry, came to him on the breeze and he tensed, hand going to his dagger, his every instinct on alert and his song ending on a curse. He’d gotten so caught up in thoughts of home that he’d let his vigilance lapse. Even if there was no war here, still there would be brigands and thieves, rough men who’d not flinch at taking whatever they wanted by force.
And his sword was on the wagon.
He cursed himself again, but tightened his hold on his dagger and started to draw it. Letting his mind still and listening intently for any and every warning sound, he looked up-
And froze at the sight of the slim figure standing still as a startled deer between the hill and the yard, her gray eyes wide and unblinking, her golden hair shining in the sun, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. He gasped, blinked, and let his hand fall away from his dagger, his mind in a whirl.
She was real, was here. Suddenly he knew who had kept the house waiting for him, who had left his knife on the ledge by his bed. All this time, he’d been wondering if she’d only been a dream, a vision conjured by his mind, and she’d been here, watching, waiting, the most real thing he’d had in his life in twenty years.
He stared at her, transfixed, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw a butterfly alight on her shining hair. He started forward, opened his mouth to call to her-
And then the girl in the tattered rainbow dress whirled on her heel and raced away.
She ran only as far as the other side of the hill, then crept back up it and lay hidden in the tall grass and flowers, watching him as he went back to work. Joy filled her in a bright, warm wave, and it was all she could do to keep from singing one of the songs she’d stolen from him so long ago. She somehow managed to stay quiet, but could not stop smiling.
He was back. Her boy had come home after all these years.
And suddenly she knew with unshakable certainty that nothing would ever be the same.
Part 5