Chapter Text
James
James’ arm is shaking from overexertion, but still his grip on the hilt of the dull practice sword is steady. He slashes the air with a graceful arc of the blade, shifting his weight forward. His right foot follows the movement, adding momentum to the sharp upward thrust of the sixth sequence.
“Lift the tip, Novitiate,” Martin, the Steward overseeing today’s training, says. “And do not put so much weight on your front foot, Boy. Never forget that your opponent will know how to take advantage of even the slightest mistake.”
He demonstrates the meaning of his words by parrying James’ next move with one of his own, which has James lose his balance and topple forward. He has to steady himself with his free hand on the cold granite floor, his cheeks are burning with humiliation.
At seven years old, he has been practising his forms for close to a year, and this is a beginner’s mistake that should not have happened to him.
He nods, grips the hilt of his sword tighter and sets his jaw in determination. He is going to be the youngest Steward in the Hall. He is going to take the test and not falter.
The Dark King is not going to get past him. He will keep everyone safe.
His mother finds him alone in the training hall later that evening, still practising his forms.
“It’s late, Darling,” she says. “Come home, dinner is ready.”
Panting from exhaustion, James says: “Just a little longer. I need to get this right.”
He needs to. For her. For everyone. He is not going to let them down. He will work hard, he will take the whites and defeat the Dark King.
He must.
*
Will
He likes Stanton a lot better than London.
There are sprawling fields and meadows surrounding the thatched cottage erected from yellow-brown Cotswold stone, and the air is so fresh and crisp it almost hurts to breathe. The garden is a riot of colours - bright yellow-leafed primroses, purple knapweed and the tiny pink petals of wild thyme - where the only plant that used to grow on the sad little grass plot in the backyard of their London home was wall barley grass.
The sky is so blue, looking at it for too long makes Will’s eyes water. There’s no grey mist dulling its beauty, leaving smeary residue on each and every surface.
He’s seven years old, and he can’t remember ever having been happier. Even his mother leaves him alone most of the time, slow and sluggish on her feet, heavily pregnant as she is. He has long since learned to avoid her where he can. No point in inciting her wrath if he can just stay … out of her way.
That’s easier in Stanton too. She often threatens to tie him to the bedpost or lock him up in the coal cellar under the kitchen, but only went through with it once or twice. He is supposed to be confined to his room, the key to its door safely locked away in her skirt’s pocket. But as soon as she’s gone, he scales down the trellis underneath the window, where the climbing roses grow. It’s worth the scratches in his opinion, and so far she has not caught him sneaking out. So most of the time he is free to roam the property at his leisure, as neither Mrs Lange, who is rarely to be seen, nor Mrs Thomas, the housekeeper, seem to mind.
Today, when he comes back to the cottage, after spending the afternoon exploring the surrounding woods, which are dark and mossy, Mrs Thomas calls for him before he can clamber up the trellis again.
His mind buzzing with nervous anticipation, he enters the kitchen through the back door, where Mrs Thomas greets him with a tight smile.
“You are going to be a big brother again soon, boy,” she says, taking a simple, stoneware plate from the cabinet over the stove and puts it on the kitchen table. With a short gesture she indicates him to sit. The legs of the coarsely-hewn chair scrape over the bare stone floor when he pulls it forward and climbs onto it.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Your mother. She went into labour shortly after midday.” She puts a thick slice of dark rye bread on his plate and adds some of the hearty cheese Will likes so much. But while he was ravenous before, he’s not particularly hungry anymore now.
“She is going to be alright, isn’t she?”
Mrs Thomas frowns. “Of course she is. Don’t you worry, dear boy, she is in very capable hands. She’ll be right as rain once this whole ordeal is over, you’ll see.”
Will stares at his plate, not daring to look up lest the housekeeper see the forbidden thought that has crossed his mind. Because what if she isn’t? What if she … dies?
He pushes the notion away, back into the dark recesses of his mind it had emerged from. Of course he doesn’t want her to die. He loves her. He does.
Does he? He does. But he is also afraid of her.
He’s afraid of a future that is just more of what he has had for the last seven years. Or worse, that one day her staring just at him like she wants to drown him in the rainwater barrel like an unwanted kitten will no longer be enough.
Though, would that really be so much worse?
-
Later that night he lies in bed, his eyes fixed on the cracked paint of the ceiling. He has heard her scream. Terrible, agonised sounds that have stopped a while ago.
Ever since it has been silent and he can’t help but wonder: Is he a big brother already?
Again?
He knows, somewhere out there, he has a sister. One that was born when he was still very little and didn’t understand what was going on.
He never met her. She was taken away the night his - their - mother gave birth to her. He only knows it was a girl, because he eavesdropped on Mrs Lange talking about it to Mrs Thomas. He wishes he knew what she looked like, or even just her name. Like this she’s a ghost. Not entirely real.
Sometimes he wonders what made his mother give his sister away but keep him, even though she clearly dislikes him. Then, he dreams about what it would have been like, had he been the one to grow up with strangers - people who always wanted children maybe. People who might have wanted him . And the jealousy that blooms inside his chest whenever he allows those thoughts is terrible and suffocating.
Silently, he slips out of bed and tries the door. It is unlocked. Mrs. Thomas’s doing, most likely. His bare feet are soundless on the wooden floor when he pads down the corridor towards the room he assumes his mother is in. He just wants to take a quick peek, see if she’s asleep so he can get a glimpse at his little sister just this once. Before she, too, is gone and he loses his only chance.
A sound makes him stop in his tracks. It’s not a wail, not exactly. More like a stifled whimper, barely audible through the cracked-open door to his left.
His heart starts pounding so hard, he almost worries his ribs will break. He pushes at the door and slips into the room.
It’s dark, but the crib that stands underneath the window is bathed in silvery moonlight. Slowly, Will creeps closer. He draws in a sharp breath when he sees the infant, tightly bundled up in strips of white cloth. It’s so tiny and fragile-looking, like one of his mother’s beloved porcelain dolls that used to sit on the mantelpiece of their old London home.
Every last trace of jealousy Will has felt evaporates at the sight of those soulful eyes and the tuft of dark hair.
He has never before felt such a fierce burst of love for anything or anyone.
“Hey,” he whispers and carefully, oh so carefully, caresses the infant’s perfect, ruddy cheek. And in this moment he hopes more than anything that his little brother or sister will go to a nice, loving family and that they will have parents who adore them. He’s actually glad that, if one of them has to stay with their mother, it’s going to be him.
He …
“Get away from her. Get away from my little girl, you demon!”
His mother is on him before he even has a chance to react. She grabs him by the arm and pulls him away so violently that he stumbles and crashes into the wardrobe which takes up half of the back wall. The crash startles the baby, which erupts into a piercing wail.
“I just wanted to see her,” Will cries, cowering on the floor, his hands raised protectively over his head. “I didn’t do anything to her. I would never!”
She doesn’t even seem to hear him. “Don’t you dare touch her! Don’t you dare!” she repeats over and over again, her voice shaking, her fists raised.
“What on earth is going on here?”
It’s Mrs Thomas who has appeared in the doorframe in her dressing-gown hastily thrown over her night clothes, her hair in disarray. She takes one look at the scene unfolding in front of her and shakes her head.
“What are you doing up and about, Miss Eleanor? You need to rest after the ordeal your body has gone through today.” She throws a quick, almost imperceptible glance in Will’s direction, urging him to slink away, when she takes his mother by the shoulder and bodily steers her out of the room.
The baby is still crying when Will is back inside his room. “I’m sorry,” he says, to whom - himself? His sister? The universe? - he doesn’t know. But he means it. He’s so, so sorry. He never meant to scare her. He never meant to scare anyone.
He falls asleep on the cold stone floor, leaning against the jamb. The next morning he finds that the door is safely locked, and that the trellis has been torn from the wall, the climbing roses crushed under the weight of the lattice.