Fic: California (Django Unchained, Django/Broomhilda/Schultz)
Title: California
Pairing: Django/Broomhilda/Schultz (One True Threesome)
Rating: T for Teen
Warnings: For a Django Unchained fic, this is pretty safe. References to rape, slavery, and war.
Summary: And this is how it ends: The princess is saved. The hero walks through hellfire for her. The sidekick lives to the end.
And the fucking plantation burns to the ground.
They lit out for California, stopping before they crossed the Arkansas state line just long enough to patch themselves back together and purchase some supplies. And bullets. Lots of bullets.
It takes some days of hard riding before they realize no one's coming for them. It seems Django's methods worked well -- the only ones who could've identified them are dead, buried and burnt, or already on their way north, following that star. And those in the latter category wouldn't talk even if caught.
Schultz's injuries were the most severe, and Broomhilda fretted over the threat of blood poisoning. She knew there had to be some shards from that bullet in his system. "Do not concern yourself," Schultz told her in a jaunty tone all at odds with his too-pale skin and suffering eyes. Broomhilda thought he would be telling her not to worry even as the death rattle sounded in his throat.
Django said, "You told me you didn't want to die in Chickasaw County."
Schultz smiled at him. "I'm not dead yet, my good friend."
"Well, don't you be gettin' no ideas."
"By no means," Schulz assured him.
They hid out in Akansas for several weeks with some old friends of Schultz's, whom Broomhilda suspected were not so much friends as people who owed him a big goddamn favor, as he caught a fever and sweated and bled over Mr. and Mrs. Tiney's only bed and they didn't say one word about it. Incredibly, Schultz recovered, and as soon as he was able, they headed west, putting as much ground between them and Candieland as possible.
"What's beyond Texas?" Broomhilda asked Django.
"Indian Territory."
"And what's beyond that?"
"California."
"And beyond California?"
"The Pacific ocean," Django said, taking her hand in his and dropping a kiss on her wrist. This was her husband. The thought still took Broomhilda's breath away. Django was her husband, and he had risked everything to find her again. Had any woman ever been so fortunate as her? Would any woman ever be so fortunate again?
As they rode, Broomhilda and Schultz sang German folksongs to pass the time, and once Django learned the words he joined in. In the evenings, after making camp, the two men would teach her to read, and she and Schultz together taught Django the rudiments of German. She got blisters; they popped, and hurt, and healed. Schultz got stronger, until you'd never know there were bits of bullet floating in his chest. And Django got prouder and stronger every day, and every time Broomhilda looked at him she felt that feathery, fluttery feeling in her belly that she'd felt the first time she'd ever laid eyes on him.
***
They reached California in the early spring of the next year, and got themselves a little parcel of land. A cabin went up. Ground was broken for a field. Broomhilda planted her own little garden, and she chose what would grow there, and she chose her own fabrics for clothing and what she would cook, and how. She even took to taking her shotgun into the woods and hunting rabbits and birds for the pot. She went to town whenever she pleased, asking no permission from anyone.
Schultz was such good company that there were times, sitting around the dinner table or joking with him as they planted and hoed and picked, that Broomhilda simply forgot that he was a white man. He was just Schultz. It felt as natural to come home and find him there as it did to come home to her husband. He wasn't the same as other white men, Broomhilda reasoned to herself. He was German, and he didn't think the same way white men did in America.
Their home was beautiful: this was the home Django had built in his mind for her long before he was able to build it for real. Three rooms, a stove, an armoire for her dresses. Broomhilda made quilts and Schultz made black coffee.
She was trying to wash clothes in the stream when Schultz and Django came running by, whooping and hollering, and leaped into the stream, one right after the other. A moment later they surfaced, howling at the cold water.
"That's snow-melt from upstream," Broomhilda chided them. She sat her washing aside and looked down at them, hand on her hip.
"Whatever it is, its colder than a welldigger's ass," Django said. He waded from the water, Schultz following after him. Both of them chattered their teeth. She couldn't help looking appreciatively at her husband's wet torso, the way his pants were molded to his body, the straps of his overalls hanging below his waist.
"C'mon, big troublemaker," Broomhilda said, taking him by the hand. Over her shoulder to Schultz, she added, "And you too, Unruhestifter."
"I understood that!" Django said, proud of himself.
"Then see if you understand this: Mach schnell!" she said, ordering both men into the cabin. They began stripping in front of the stove, while Broomhilda fetched dry clothes for the both of them. When she threw a blanket over Django's shoulders, he caught her by the upper arms, pulling her close to him, and wrapping the blanket around them both.
"I love you," Django murmured into her ear. "Nowhere else am I home, other than with you."
She kissed his bare shoulder. "I love you more."
When they pulled apart, they found that Schultz had gone into the other room.
***
"I got a surprise for you," Broomhilda said, sidling up to Django as he helped her hang up the washing.
"What kinda surprise?"
"A good one."
"What's it called?"
"It ain't got a name yet."
"Is it big or little?"
"Little, right now. It'll get big."
"Can I see it?"
"Not yet."
"When?"
"A few months from now."
Django dropped the shirt he was holding into the dirt. His eyes went wide and disbelieving. "Hildy, you mean..."
She took his hand and pressed it to her belly. His mouth worked helplessly as he tried to form words but all escaped him. She blinked through the tears in her eyes as she said, "I can't wait for you to be a daddy."
Django swept her up into his arms and spun her around. They both began crying, gulping for air, clinging to each other for dear life. The front door banged; Schultz ran toward them, shotgun in hand, having mistaken their cries of joy for cries for help.
Django ran towards Schultz, still holding Broomhilda in his arms. "I'm gonna be a daddy!"
Schultz stopped in his tracks, calmly unloaded the shotgun, and then laid it on the ground. Then he ran forward all willy-nilly and threw his arms around them both.
***
"I think I shall presently go to join the war effort," Schultz said one evening as they all sat around the fire.
Broomhilda's knitting needles stilled in her hands. She looked up at Django, and found his face as stormy as she'd expected. "Why you gonna do that?" he asked Schultz.
Schultz made a vague sort of hand motion. "They are surely in need of dentists, don't you think?"
"That's not a reason," Broomhilda said, sitting up in her chair, her knitting falling into her ever-shrinking lap. "We need you here."
"My dear, you don't need me for anything," Schultz said, and his lips quirked up but it wasn't what Broomhilda would call a smile. He looked lost, and sad.
"Then we want you here," Django said, leaning forward, and his entire body was tense, protective. He clasped Schultz's hand in his own, as though to anchor him to earth.
"It's for the best," Schultz told him gently.
He could not be persuaded otherwise. He packed his things and got himself and Fritz ready to leave. Broomhilda could hardly sleep, and when she did she'd awake to find Django already up, pacing the floor. Life went on like this for the next week, until Schultz felt ready to go. He shook Django's hand and whispered something to him that Broomhilda couldn't hear. Then he headed out the door.
Django threw himself on the bed and buried his face in the quilt. Broomhilda ran outside after Schultz, calling his name, needing to try one last time to make him stay. "Don't you dare leave!" she said, panting. "Don't you dare leave us!"
Schultz had one foot in the stirrup. He slowly pulled that foot out. "My dear," he said, turning to face her, "don't you see? You have a life here. The two of you have built this life together. Soon there will be a child. I am in the way. You --"
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in for a kiss. Looking back at that moment, Broomhilda wasn't sure if she'd meant for it to be a goodbye kiss, a kiss that might pass between a brother and sister, or a last desperate plea not to be left behind. But he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her back, needy and hot, and when they broke apart they looked on each other with equally stricken expressions.
Wordlessly, Schultz mounted Fritz and galloped away.
Broomhilda turned back to the house she shared with her husband.
***
Django lifted his head from the quilt as the door slammed. His wife stood in the doorway, her hair wind-blown, and her face...
"He's gone," Broomhilda said. She came and sat beside him on the bed. He moved to take her into his arms.
She let out a sob. "I kissed him. I'm sorry husband, I didn't mean to hurt you. But before he left I kissed him. It was the only time."
Broomhilda sounded so miserable and guilty that Django pulled her close, pressed his lips to hers, and imagined he could taste Schultz there, as well. "I don't hate you, Hildy, please don't ever be thinking that," Django told her. "I got something I should've told you before. I kissed him, too. Before we found you. It was when we were bounty hunters. That's all we did, kissing. So how could I blame you when I did just the same?"
She clung to him. "I don't hate you either. I love both of y'all. I-I-"
They made love on that bed, found one another all over again, and wondered at the way minds and hearts and bodies could touch, and connect, and give.
***
Broomhilda gave birth to a healthy baby boy whom they named King. The first member of either of their families on this continent born free. Not for King would there be fear of slavery. King Freeman would be his own man. He would go to school, and own his own property, and make his own way in this world.
They followed the progress of the war best as they could, so far out from the battlefields of the South. King was six months old when a postcard arrived from Schultz. It was short, and to the point, and said only that he was serving in the army and that he was alive.
They wrote him back, telling him of the baby, and their hopes, and how much they missed him.
King was crawling when another postcard arrived. This was was made of a torn off piece of cardboard. He congratulated them on the baby, assured them he was fighting the good fight, and said:
I most sincerely apologize for any distress I may ever have caused to either of you, as I consider you both the best friends and most cherished people in my life, and any affront to your marriage was not done of any maliciousness, but simply from my own weakness. I trust you both know of what I speak.
Django dipped King's foot in boot-black, pressed it to the letter, and wrote beneath it:
There are no secrets between us. Come home.
***
Another year passed, and Broomhilda gave birth to another little boy, named John after Django's father. A photographer came to town, and Django had made enough in selling furs to pay him to take daguerreotypes of himself and Broomhilda, and of the boys. Their little family, immortalized for all time.
They sent one of the precious photographs of King and John to Schultz.
But no letters came. King talked and John crawled, and no letters came. The war raged on and on. Broomhilda had nightmares about Schultz dying in the mud, being stepped on by Rebs. Django held her in the middle of the night, and cursed Schultz for hurting her like this, and cursed himself for loving the man who put them both through so much hell just by his own absence.
***
In the summer of 1865, a letter arrived. It was not from Schultz.
To Mr. and Mrs. Freeman,
If I may introduce myself, I am Sgt. McCann of Company H, 2nd Massachusetts Heavy Artillery. I am writing you these few lines because your address was found on Dr. Schultz's person, and he has assured me that you are the only family he has.
I and Dr. Schultz have been prisoners here at Camp Sumpter for the past year. In May we were liberated, but Dr. Schultz was in no condition to write to you himself. The rebs had confiscated our writing instruments and also a photograph of two little Negro boys Dr. Schultz always had with him. I am much aggrieved to tell you, sir and madam, that he was treated abominably during our tenure as "guests" of the rebels. He spoke often of you and your kind letters to him were found hidden in his clothing. I have taken the liberty of writing you so that you may know that he lives and that he will return home to you as soon as he is able. It is hoped that this letter finds you well.
Django's hands shook as he put the letter down. Broomhilda sat across from him, both boys in her lap, her lips pressed to the top of King's head.
"He's alive," Django murmured. He had almost given up hope. He wondered at Schultz surviving a year in a rebel prison camp; had they starved him? Beaten him? If Schultz did return to them, would he even be the man they recognized?
***
"Daddy, come look!" his son King said, running up to Django.
Django put down his axe, wiped off his brow, and asked, "What's wrong, boy?"
"There's a strange man here, and he's got a horse named Fritz that nods his head! Come look, daddy!"
Django snatched up King and took off in a dead run toward the front of the cabin, heart pounding in his chest for reasons that were not entirely due to the exertion. After all these years...
When he got there, Schultz already had Broomhilda in a hug, John almost crushed between them. When he caught sight of Django, Schultz pulled back from her, reaching out a hand almost hesitantly towards him.
Schultz's hair had gone almost white during the time he was gone. He looked a little lighter, less solid. But it was him. Django sat King down, then reached out for Schultz's hand. But instead of shaking it, he used it to pull the other man closer to him, to wrap his arms around Schultz and hold him tight.
"You're home," Django said into Schultz's ear, in a tone that allowed no argument.
"I'm home," Schultz agreed.
***
Schultz didn't talk about the war or the prison camp, and neither Django nor Broomhilda asked. There would be time later, much later, if he wanted to talk. Right now, there was a home to settle into, and children to meet.
"You are the image of your father," Schultz told King, sitting the boy on his lap and brushing his hand against his cheek.
"You got a funny beard," King said, tugging on the end of it.
Schultz laughed. "So I do."
"What's your name?"
"My name is King."
"That's my name!"
"I know. You were named after me. You're my namesake. But you can call me Schultz, like your mother and father do."
"All right. Are you gonna stay with us?" King peered curiously up at Schultz.
"Ja."
"Forever?"
"Ja."
***
After putting the boys to bed, Broomhilda came back into the kitchen, cleared her throat, and said, "There isn't a spare bedroom for you no more."
Schultz pondered this a moment. "Could you spare the kitchen floor for me?"
"You're not sleeping on the floor," Django told him.
"We have a bed," Broomhilda said, her voice suddenly soft and shy.
Schultz looked from her, to Django, and then back to her again. He blinked several times. "Oh -- Oh." For once his powers of speech failed him.
Django stood up, stretched, and nodded towards the master bedroom. "Time for bed." Broomhilda followed behind him, shooting a knowing look at Schultz as she went. A moment later, Schultz scrambled to his feet and ran after them.
***
In 1867, Broomhilda gave birth to a baby girl. Schultz picked out her name: Helen. For another great mythological beauty.
Django held Helen in his hands, marveling at her tiny fingers and toes. He had once thought that, if this day ever came, he wouldn't be able to take it, it would remind him of his slave days, the men forced to watch their wives ravished by white men, giving birth to light-skinned babies. But holding Helen now, all he could think of was the way she so resembled the two people he loved most in the world. She would have Broomhilda's mouth, that he was sure, but her eyes were almost blue, and seemed likely to stay that way. He kissed the soles of her tiny feet.
The two boys were playing with tin soldiers on the floor, making cannon noises with their mouths while Schultz watched over them. In the bedroom, Broomhilda was asleep, taking a nap between feedings and diaper changes. He could picture in his mind's eye how she slept, as she always did: her hands thrown over her head, carelessly, her dark lashes touching her cheeks.
Django gently laid Helen back into her cradle. It was a fine day, and there was a fifth soul in this world for him to love.
Pairing: Django/Broomhilda/Schultz (One True Threesome)
Rating: T for Teen
Warnings: For a Django Unchained fic, this is pretty safe. References to rape, slavery, and war.
Summary: And this is how it ends: The princess is saved. The hero walks through hellfire for her. The sidekick lives to the end.
And the fucking plantation burns to the ground.
They lit out for California, stopping before they crossed the Arkansas state line just long enough to patch themselves back together and purchase some supplies. And bullets. Lots of bullets.
It takes some days of hard riding before they realize no one's coming for them. It seems Django's methods worked well -- the only ones who could've identified them are dead, buried and burnt, or already on their way north, following that star. And those in the latter category wouldn't talk even if caught.
Schultz's injuries were the most severe, and Broomhilda fretted over the threat of blood poisoning. She knew there had to be some shards from that bullet in his system. "Do not concern yourself," Schultz told her in a jaunty tone all at odds with his too-pale skin and suffering eyes. Broomhilda thought he would be telling her not to worry even as the death rattle sounded in his throat.
Django said, "You told me you didn't want to die in Chickasaw County."
Schultz smiled at him. "I'm not dead yet, my good friend."
"Well, don't you be gettin' no ideas."
"By no means," Schulz assured him.
They hid out in Akansas for several weeks with some old friends of Schultz's, whom Broomhilda suspected were not so much friends as people who owed him a big goddamn favor, as he caught a fever and sweated and bled over Mr. and Mrs. Tiney's only bed and they didn't say one word about it. Incredibly, Schultz recovered, and as soon as he was able, they headed west, putting as much ground between them and Candieland as possible.
"What's beyond Texas?" Broomhilda asked Django.
"Indian Territory."
"And what's beyond that?"
"California."
"And beyond California?"
"The Pacific ocean," Django said, taking her hand in his and dropping a kiss on her wrist. This was her husband. The thought still took Broomhilda's breath away. Django was her husband, and he had risked everything to find her again. Had any woman ever been so fortunate as her? Would any woman ever be so fortunate again?
As they rode, Broomhilda and Schultz sang German folksongs to pass the time, and once Django learned the words he joined in. In the evenings, after making camp, the two men would teach her to read, and she and Schultz together taught Django the rudiments of German. She got blisters; they popped, and hurt, and healed. Schultz got stronger, until you'd never know there were bits of bullet floating in his chest. And Django got prouder and stronger every day, and every time Broomhilda looked at him she felt that feathery, fluttery feeling in her belly that she'd felt the first time she'd ever laid eyes on him.
***
They reached California in the early spring of the next year, and got themselves a little parcel of land. A cabin went up. Ground was broken for a field. Broomhilda planted her own little garden, and she chose what would grow there, and she chose her own fabrics for clothing and what she would cook, and how. She even took to taking her shotgun into the woods and hunting rabbits and birds for the pot. She went to town whenever she pleased, asking no permission from anyone.
Schultz was such good company that there were times, sitting around the dinner table or joking with him as they planted and hoed and picked, that Broomhilda simply forgot that he was a white man. He was just Schultz. It felt as natural to come home and find him there as it did to come home to her husband. He wasn't the same as other white men, Broomhilda reasoned to herself. He was German, and he didn't think the same way white men did in America.
Their home was beautiful: this was the home Django had built in his mind for her long before he was able to build it for real. Three rooms, a stove, an armoire for her dresses. Broomhilda made quilts and Schultz made black coffee.
She was trying to wash clothes in the stream when Schultz and Django came running by, whooping and hollering, and leaped into the stream, one right after the other. A moment later they surfaced, howling at the cold water.
"That's snow-melt from upstream," Broomhilda chided them. She sat her washing aside and looked down at them, hand on her hip.
"Whatever it is, its colder than a welldigger's ass," Django said. He waded from the water, Schultz following after him. Both of them chattered their teeth. She couldn't help looking appreciatively at her husband's wet torso, the way his pants were molded to his body, the straps of his overalls hanging below his waist.
"C'mon, big troublemaker," Broomhilda said, taking him by the hand. Over her shoulder to Schultz, she added, "And you too, Unruhestifter."
"I understood that!" Django said, proud of himself.
"Then see if you understand this: Mach schnell!" she said, ordering both men into the cabin. They began stripping in front of the stove, while Broomhilda fetched dry clothes for the both of them. When she threw a blanket over Django's shoulders, he caught her by the upper arms, pulling her close to him, and wrapping the blanket around them both.
"I love you," Django murmured into her ear. "Nowhere else am I home, other than with you."
She kissed his bare shoulder. "I love you more."
When they pulled apart, they found that Schultz had gone into the other room.
***
"I got a surprise for you," Broomhilda said, sidling up to Django as he helped her hang up the washing.
"What kinda surprise?"
"A good one."
"What's it called?"
"It ain't got a name yet."
"Is it big or little?"
"Little, right now. It'll get big."
"Can I see it?"
"Not yet."
"When?"
"A few months from now."
Django dropped the shirt he was holding into the dirt. His eyes went wide and disbelieving. "Hildy, you mean..."
She took his hand and pressed it to her belly. His mouth worked helplessly as he tried to form words but all escaped him. She blinked through the tears in her eyes as she said, "I can't wait for you to be a daddy."
Django swept her up into his arms and spun her around. They both began crying, gulping for air, clinging to each other for dear life. The front door banged; Schultz ran toward them, shotgun in hand, having mistaken their cries of joy for cries for help.
Django ran towards Schultz, still holding Broomhilda in his arms. "I'm gonna be a daddy!"
Schultz stopped in his tracks, calmly unloaded the shotgun, and then laid it on the ground. Then he ran forward all willy-nilly and threw his arms around them both.
***
"I think I shall presently go to join the war effort," Schultz said one evening as they all sat around the fire.
Broomhilda's knitting needles stilled in her hands. She looked up at Django, and found his face as stormy as she'd expected. "Why you gonna do that?" he asked Schultz.
Schultz made a vague sort of hand motion. "They are surely in need of dentists, don't you think?"
"That's not a reason," Broomhilda said, sitting up in her chair, her knitting falling into her ever-shrinking lap. "We need you here."
"My dear, you don't need me for anything," Schultz said, and his lips quirked up but it wasn't what Broomhilda would call a smile. He looked lost, and sad.
"Then we want you here," Django said, leaning forward, and his entire body was tense, protective. He clasped Schultz's hand in his own, as though to anchor him to earth.
"It's for the best," Schultz told him gently.
He could not be persuaded otherwise. He packed his things and got himself and Fritz ready to leave. Broomhilda could hardly sleep, and when she did she'd awake to find Django already up, pacing the floor. Life went on like this for the next week, until Schultz felt ready to go. He shook Django's hand and whispered something to him that Broomhilda couldn't hear. Then he headed out the door.
Django threw himself on the bed and buried his face in the quilt. Broomhilda ran outside after Schultz, calling his name, needing to try one last time to make him stay. "Don't you dare leave!" she said, panting. "Don't you dare leave us!"
Schultz had one foot in the stirrup. He slowly pulled that foot out. "My dear," he said, turning to face her, "don't you see? You have a life here. The two of you have built this life together. Soon there will be a child. I am in the way. You --"
She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in for a kiss. Looking back at that moment, Broomhilda wasn't sure if she'd meant for it to be a goodbye kiss, a kiss that might pass between a brother and sister, or a last desperate plea not to be left behind. But he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her back, needy and hot, and when they broke apart they looked on each other with equally stricken expressions.
Wordlessly, Schultz mounted Fritz and galloped away.
Broomhilda turned back to the house she shared with her husband.
***
Django lifted his head from the quilt as the door slammed. His wife stood in the doorway, her hair wind-blown, and her face...
"He's gone," Broomhilda said. She came and sat beside him on the bed. He moved to take her into his arms.
She let out a sob. "I kissed him. I'm sorry husband, I didn't mean to hurt you. But before he left I kissed him. It was the only time."
Broomhilda sounded so miserable and guilty that Django pulled her close, pressed his lips to hers, and imagined he could taste Schultz there, as well. "I don't hate you, Hildy, please don't ever be thinking that," Django told her. "I got something I should've told you before. I kissed him, too. Before we found you. It was when we were bounty hunters. That's all we did, kissing. So how could I blame you when I did just the same?"
She clung to him. "I don't hate you either. I love both of y'all. I-I-"
They made love on that bed, found one another all over again, and wondered at the way minds and hearts and bodies could touch, and connect, and give.
***
Broomhilda gave birth to a healthy baby boy whom they named King. The first member of either of their families on this continent born free. Not for King would there be fear of slavery. King Freeman would be his own man. He would go to school, and own his own property, and make his own way in this world.
They followed the progress of the war best as they could, so far out from the battlefields of the South. King was six months old when a postcard arrived from Schultz. It was short, and to the point, and said only that he was serving in the army and that he was alive.
They wrote him back, telling him of the baby, and their hopes, and how much they missed him.
King was crawling when another postcard arrived. This was was made of a torn off piece of cardboard. He congratulated them on the baby, assured them he was fighting the good fight, and said:
I most sincerely apologize for any distress I may ever have caused to either of you, as I consider you both the best friends and most cherished people in my life, and any affront to your marriage was not done of any maliciousness, but simply from my own weakness. I trust you both know of what I speak.
Django dipped King's foot in boot-black, pressed it to the letter, and wrote beneath it:
There are no secrets between us. Come home.
***
Another year passed, and Broomhilda gave birth to another little boy, named John after Django's father. A photographer came to town, and Django had made enough in selling furs to pay him to take daguerreotypes of himself and Broomhilda, and of the boys. Their little family, immortalized for all time.
They sent one of the precious photographs of King and John to Schultz.
But no letters came. King talked and John crawled, and no letters came. The war raged on and on. Broomhilda had nightmares about Schultz dying in the mud, being stepped on by Rebs. Django held her in the middle of the night, and cursed Schultz for hurting her like this, and cursed himself for loving the man who put them both through so much hell just by his own absence.
***
In the summer of 1865, a letter arrived. It was not from Schultz.
To Mr. and Mrs. Freeman,
If I may introduce myself, I am Sgt. McCann of Company H, 2nd Massachusetts Heavy Artillery. I am writing you these few lines because your address was found on Dr. Schultz's person, and he has assured me that you are the only family he has.
I and Dr. Schultz have been prisoners here at Camp Sumpter for the past year. In May we were liberated, but Dr. Schultz was in no condition to write to you himself. The rebs had confiscated our writing instruments and also a photograph of two little Negro boys Dr. Schultz always had with him. I am much aggrieved to tell you, sir and madam, that he was treated abominably during our tenure as "guests" of the rebels. He spoke often of you and your kind letters to him were found hidden in his clothing. I have taken the liberty of writing you so that you may know that he lives and that he will return home to you as soon as he is able. It is hoped that this letter finds you well.
Django's hands shook as he put the letter down. Broomhilda sat across from him, both boys in her lap, her lips pressed to the top of King's head.
"He's alive," Django murmured. He had almost given up hope. He wondered at Schultz surviving a year in a rebel prison camp; had they starved him? Beaten him? If Schultz did return to them, would he even be the man they recognized?
***
"Daddy, come look!" his son King said, running up to Django.
Django put down his axe, wiped off his brow, and asked, "What's wrong, boy?"
"There's a strange man here, and he's got a horse named Fritz that nods his head! Come look, daddy!"
Django snatched up King and took off in a dead run toward the front of the cabin, heart pounding in his chest for reasons that were not entirely due to the exertion. After all these years...
When he got there, Schultz already had Broomhilda in a hug, John almost crushed between them. When he caught sight of Django, Schultz pulled back from her, reaching out a hand almost hesitantly towards him.
Schultz's hair had gone almost white during the time he was gone. He looked a little lighter, less solid. But it was him. Django sat King down, then reached out for Schultz's hand. But instead of shaking it, he used it to pull the other man closer to him, to wrap his arms around Schultz and hold him tight.
"You're home," Django said into Schultz's ear, in a tone that allowed no argument.
"I'm home," Schultz agreed.
***
Schultz didn't talk about the war or the prison camp, and neither Django nor Broomhilda asked. There would be time later, much later, if he wanted to talk. Right now, there was a home to settle into, and children to meet.
"You are the image of your father," Schultz told King, sitting the boy on his lap and brushing his hand against his cheek.
"You got a funny beard," King said, tugging on the end of it.
Schultz laughed. "So I do."
"What's your name?"
"My name is King."
"That's my name!"
"I know. You were named after me. You're my namesake. But you can call me Schultz, like your mother and father do."
"All right. Are you gonna stay with us?" King peered curiously up at Schultz.
"Ja."
"Forever?"
"Ja."
***
After putting the boys to bed, Broomhilda came back into the kitchen, cleared her throat, and said, "There isn't a spare bedroom for you no more."
Schultz pondered this a moment. "Could you spare the kitchen floor for me?"
"You're not sleeping on the floor," Django told him.
"We have a bed," Broomhilda said, her voice suddenly soft and shy.
Schultz looked from her, to Django, and then back to her again. He blinked several times. "Oh -- Oh." For once his powers of speech failed him.
Django stood up, stretched, and nodded towards the master bedroom. "Time for bed." Broomhilda followed behind him, shooting a knowing look at Schultz as she went. A moment later, Schultz scrambled to his feet and ran after them.
***
In 1867, Broomhilda gave birth to a baby girl. Schultz picked out her name: Helen. For another great mythological beauty.
Django held Helen in his hands, marveling at her tiny fingers and toes. He had once thought that, if this day ever came, he wouldn't be able to take it, it would remind him of his slave days, the men forced to watch their wives ravished by white men, giving birth to light-skinned babies. But holding Helen now, all he could think of was the way she so resembled the two people he loved most in the world. She would have Broomhilda's mouth, that he was sure, but her eyes were almost blue, and seemed likely to stay that way. He kissed the soles of her tiny feet.
The two boys were playing with tin soldiers on the floor, making cannon noises with their mouths while Schultz watched over them. In the bedroom, Broomhilda was asleep, taking a nap between feedings and diaper changes. He could picture in his mind's eye how she slept, as she always did: her hands thrown over her head, carelessly, her dark lashes touching her cheeks.
Django gently laid Helen back into her cradle. It was a fine day, and there was a fifth soul in this world for him to love.