Author's Note 9-12-17: If you follow me on ao3, you'll know I've been rewriting this story. If you haven't... I'm rewriting this story. I had to transfer the chapters from Open Office (ew) to Word (meh) and decided to rewrite, especially since I lost my notes for the original plot in the Great Hard Drive Crash. So, even if you've followed this story from the beginning, please reread, since it's sort of different in some places and a lot different in others! Thanks! - JuJu
Author's Note: Well, for once it's not Hellsing. Surprise, surprise. :D
While playing this game, I couldn't help but feel that Darklaw and her subordinate had something going on behind the scenes (after all, throwing him in the dungeon for high treason was clearly a declaration of love).
But then the special episodes sealed my suspicions when Eve turned the Story into a fanfiction and Barnham managed to stand for an hour being socially awkward on her birthday. The fact that she stood with him for that hour only cements their relationship, ha-ha. Take note kids—in Labyrinthia romance has no place on the battlefield, but apparently lumpy pastries do.
By the way, I don't own it.
Zacharias Barnham woke with a curse on his lips and pleasure coursing through his veins. After jerking to a sitting position and realizing where he was, he fell back to his thin cot with a heavy sigh. On mornings like this, he wished that there were no duties to fulfill, no work to keep him from taking even a scant ten minutes to find some relief.
But he could already here his taskmistress bustling about one story below, preparing for the day's tasks even though 'day' had not yet arrived. It was time to rise. He looked blearily out of the small window that sat in the thin strip of plaster between his bedstead and the sloping edge of the roof, taking care not to bump his head as he opened the shutters. The thin light of pre-dawn cast the world in shades of muted color, a crisp blast of fresh air bringing goosebumps over his arms. A few resilient stars still twinkled above the thin, sparse clouds.
Rubbing his forehead, he grunted sleepily and threw back the heavy bedclothes. Rolling out of bed, he thumped across the cold floorboards and knelt to pull his underclothes from the oaken trunk that held the majority of his worldly possessions. He yanked the sleeping pants from his hips, letting them pool around his ankles before stepping out of them with a yawn. He had to take care to keep his head from colliding with the low beams in the room; his personal space was little more than an alcove, but it suited his purposes and he never spent long hours in it unless ill. And it wasn't fair to complain, since the Mrs. Eclaire had opened her home to him when he had nowhere else to go.
He stood naked in the morning air, fighting the discomfort as he waited for his body to behave itself and get under control. It was harder than usual, for the last remnants of the unwanted dream still floating around in his mind. It had been…delicious and pleasurable, even forbidden. But there was no joy in the thought, only chastisement.
A knight, especially the former Inquisitor and Head of Knights, should not be giving into the temptation of easy, indecent flights of fancy, even in dreams. That's why the majority of them were younger—it was encouraged, though not enforced, that they were to remain abstinent and unmarried while in service to the garrison. Their minds and bodies were weapons, sharpened to a razor edge against witches and all the filth that roamed the shadowy alleys of their beloved town. It would not do to dull them with wild fantasies and dreaming.
The dream itself wasn't the troubling thing, he thought as he finally allowed himself to dress. His mind turned while his hands performed the motions automatically, first with the long tunic and breeches, then the expertly polished armor. He'd had those sorts of dreams since his teenage years. Even the most well-trained mind lapsed now and again; it was natural and expected, though to dwell unnecessarily on the fact would be where one might err. It was the contents of the dream—no, the woman in the dream, that had him concerned. If it had been a stranger, an unknown face, then he wouldn't have cared in the slightest. But he knew that person.
He walked back to his cot, shooing Constantine from the foot so that he could properly pull the bedclothes over the strawtick and tuck in the corners until the whole bed was military-tight with nary a wrinkle in sight. He fluffed the goose feather pillow and placed it properly at a right angle to the headboard, as he had been taught to do in the garrison.
The wind was lessening, the cold air of morning holding the promise of a balmy, pleasant day. He took a moment to press his knee to the cot and lean out the window once more, breathing the air deeply to help clear the last of the cobwebs from his sleep-addled mind. The street below was empty save for Ms. Mailer, who ducked around parked carts and hopped across gutters in her haste. She mumbled to herself as she hurried, her bag full to bursting as always. She didn't seem to notice him as he hung halfway out the window and watched her head around the bend, towards the rustling treetops of the Eldwitch Woods.
He looked at the wood just visible beyond the mist and the town gates, rising just higher than the rooftops. His heart clenched as his dream came back again, taking advantage of the lull in his normally ironclad thinking. Eve…. He shook his head roughly, nearly slamming the sash down before running a hand through his messy hair. This mustn't go on! he told himself firmly, taking a deep breath to center himself. Constantine jumped back on the bed, stretching his limbs with a cute yawn before bumbling onto the soft expanse of his master's breeches between the faulds and the cuisses.
"Ah, my little friend," he murmured, carefully running his fingers over the smooth fur between the pup's ears. "If only you could speak. Then I might ask you for some advice, knight to knight." Constantine rolled over, looking up at him with warm eyes and panting happily. "Come, let's get you ready for battle." He took the custom armor from its place near the bedstead and looked it over to make sure that he hadn't missed any dirt from its nightly cleaning. After a moment, the dog's head and torso were clad in the toy armor that looked either adorable or fierce, depending on Constantine's mood. "There. Now you are a proper soldier."
He opened the door, Constantine bounding ahead and nearly missing the stairs in his hurry, nails scrabbling on the wood as he went in search of his breakfast. He walked across the landing, passing the linen closet, Espella's room, and Mrs. Eclaire's room before reaching the privy at the other end of the narrow hall. He reached for the door, but before he could turn the knob it opened to reveal Patty's younger charge.
"G'morning, Sir Barnham." Espella stumbled groggily as she passed, one hand still rubbing at her eyelids. She was always this way before breakfast, and he was never sure if she even heard him respond in kind on her way to the stairs. Closing the door as he stepped into the little room, he prepared his own daily hygiene routine. It took almost as long as either of the women to brush his teeth and hair, scrub his face and neck, and shave the night's stubble away. Thankfully, Mrs. Eclaire had been one of the first houses to get indoor plumbing, and he didn't need to worry about wasting valuable water when rinsing. Plus, hot water on a cool morning was a luxury he was loath to part with, now that he knew it.
Finally, he patted everything down into place and looked in the mirror to make sure he was at the least decent. He knew many of the people in town thought him to be handsome, but he never found much worth looking at in his own face. It was symmetrical enough, his skin smooth and without blemish, but his nose was leaning towards the large side and the scar on his forehead left his face wanting, if he was to voice his own opinion. Not to mention the red hair, which others called an asset, though he didn't like it very much. It was far too easy to make jokes about a 'hot head' when one had both a short temper and fiery locks.
Descending the creaking stairs to the lower floor, he went through the squeaky door separating the staircase from the shop and found a warm, happy room. Espella was eating a buttered croissant slowly, her eyes vacant with daydreams as she stared unseeingly out the open door. Mrs. Eclaire, however, hurried around the room with more urgency than he'd seen from her in a long while, gathering baskets and wicker boxes and even the old wooden milk pail.
"Oh, there you are." Mrs. Eclaire stopped long enough to address him, a thin sheen of sweat visible on her doughy face. "Zacharias, I've got to go to town," she announced, throwing a knitted shawl over her shoulders to protect from the chill. "I've got to get there before the crowds come, so I need you and Espella to mind the shop," she explained breathlessly, pilling her arms with as many baskets as she could hold.
"Yes, ma'am." He didn't understand the hurry, but she was the baker and he the apprentice.
"While I'm gone, make the dough for hot buns. About three dozen should do to start. Now hurry, but don't rush them," she added, her hand pressing the air as if she could make him slow down beforehand. "Do them as I showed you, only don't dally." He couldn't help the look of surprise that passed over his features.
"So many?" he asked hesitantly, not wanting to sound impertinent. She laughed as she overturned a basket, Eve-the-cat spilling out with a squeaky mew of surprise and landing on her feet before taking off to hide under the hem of Espella's cloak.
"Have you forgotten the date?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye. "Tomorrow's the Spring Festival. Work hard today, have fun tomorrow," she chided playfully, wagging a finger at him before nearly loosing the baskets in the crook of her arm. She turned to leave, speaking over her shoulder. "Espella, be a dear and help Sir Barnham with the dough. I'll be back in a jiffy."
"Mm… yes, Aunt Patty." Espella stuffed the rest of the croissant in her mouth, stretching her arms over her head and twisting her neck. Barnham picked out a sweet roll from the day-old shelf, eating quickly he stoked the fire to life. Meanwhile, Espella began gathering ingredients from the cellar, pulling out bowls and utensils as she measured and began to mix, her sleeves pushed well back over her elbows.
When the fire was blazing, the bakery heating to almost uncomfortable temperatures, Barnham took the dough Espella had finished and began pounding it into submission while she began a new bowlful. Then he placed it aside to rise, just as she was through with the second batch. It was time-consuming, mind-numbing work, but it was what he needed. Focusing all his energy into the dough in order to please Mrs. Eclaire meant that he had no spare time to think over the dream, or even worse—it's implications.
They worked in companionable silence as the morning marched on, each taking a private pleasure in the fact that the bakery was closed to customers. It would have been hard to make so many hot buns if they kept having to stop and help, and most of the other citizens were busy enough with pre-festival activities that they had no time to worry about something so trivial as bread (though no one would dare voice such an opinion aloud within hearing distance of Patty Eclaire).
When the baker returned, Espella had just finished washing the bowls of messy dough and Barnham was turning the last few browned rolls over onto a metal rack to cool. Both were sweating profusely in the heat of the shop, Espella's hands red from the soapy water and Barnham's armor covered in bits of dough and flour. Mrs. Eclaire allowed them a short break from the oven, taking over while they carried the groceries to the cellar. The underground room was not as warm and even quieter than upstairs; they both stopped and enjoyed the reprieve for a quick moment before performing their next chore.
"Are you excited for the Festival, Sir Barnham?" Espella asked as she handed vegetables to him out of the baskets. He stood precariously on the very top of a wobbling stepladder, placing the sun warmed vegetables on the wooden shelves. They'd last longer in such a cool, dry place.
"A knight has no time for excitement. It clouds judgment on the battlefield." His voice was solemn as he made sure the eggplants and tomatoes wouldn't roll over the shelves, their straight lines marching evenly. "However… I am thankful for a day of rest," he admitted after a moment's thought. "For a healthy body, having rest is just as crucial as exercise." To others, the distant, clipped tone might have been offensive. But Espella had grown used to his aloof nature and didn't think twice about the military outlook on life.
"I'm excited," she responded cheerfully, her fingers tracing the braid on a rope of peppers. "Dad commissioned the tailor to make Eve and I matching dresses. I wanted white, but she wanted black, and we settled on gray in the end since it's between the two," she prattled on, absently handing him the rope instead of the cucumbers he'd been expecting. "I can't wait to see them in person. The design was so lovely on paper, and even in the fittings Ms. Tailor wouldn't let us see the finished cloth."
"I—I did not know that Miss Eve would be in attendance," he stammered, his heart fluttering wildly at the thought of Espella's dark-haired friend. I must stop this! he thought frantically, nearly falling from the ladder in his panic. Romance has no place on the battlefield; how many times must I repeat these words?! "She has… er, she has never done so before." Storyteller be thanked, that the dark of the cellar hid the brunt of his struggles from the man's oblivious daughter! He didn't think he could explain himself to her, not without looking like a fool.
"Oh, she's so stubborn," Espella blurted in exasperation, nearly throttling the string of peppers. She let him take it and hang it from the beams, stepping back to let him descend the ladder. "She's always making excuses. Dad says its because she's so shy, and I'm worried I might have to force her hand!" She put out a hand to steady the ladder when it caught a divot in the earthen floor and nearly toppled.
"If—" He paused, unsure if it was proper to condone the actions of the Storyteller's daughter now that she was ultimately not a witch. "If Miss Eve does not wish to go—that is, if she does not enjoy festivals, 'tis more courteous to let her stay at home, is it not?" She sighed, frowning.
"That's just it!" Espella handed him the milk pail and he placed it in the corner, covering it from mice with cheesecloth. "She loves festivals. It's just the crowd that she hates." Now it was his turn to frown. He'd seen the woman in question stand unflinching in front of the entire town on countless occasions. Did she mean to say that every time, the High Inquisitor had secretly been shaking in her boots from nerves? He'd never seen her shy or scared in front of the denizens of Labyrinthia—quite the opposite. In fact, he'd always admired her ability to remain composed in the public eye.
"I know what you're thinking," Espella said, seeing the reflection of his doubt in the light from the upper floor. "But when she puts on those clothes, she becomes… a different person. It's like the clothes are her personality or something." She thought a moment. "Well, it's true that clothes can give you confidence. Maybe it's just more potent in her."
Barnham understood—he felt the same way, in a sense. Whenever he wore his armor, he felt as if he were suiting up for battle. His metal raiment was a protective structure, and while he was inside any sort of blow would have no effect on his person. It gave him the confidence to do things he wouldn't normally do, like bake bread or (he remembered with a hint of embarrassment) give a substandard pastry as a gift.
"'Tis a sound argument," he agreed slowly, taking extra time with the milk so that he could school his face into a more neutral expression. She stared at him, but if she saw anything amiss she didn't remark on it as they made their way up to the bakery. After the cool darkness of the cellar, the bakery was utterly stifling and it was hard for him to argue against going to change into less… metallic clothing. But perseverance was a key factor in a knight's training, and he was a man, was he not? Only a weak pageboy would dare admit that the armor was too heavy and too hot for something as paltry as a spring workday.
Mrs. Eclaire was waiting on them with more work, and despite having worked in the bakery for many months he was still caught off-guard by the sheer amount of things he didn't know how to do. Under Patty's tutelage, he toiled over spiced cakes, gritted his teeth at pounding sugar into a fine powder, and grunted with effort as he tried to make his large, clumsy fingers shape delicate petals from itty-bitty pieces of dough. He was so busy that he didn't have time to dwell on his thoughts, or the startling revelation that the former High Inquisitor would be at the Spring Festival.
He certainly had a new appreciation for the vendors that harked their wares on holidays.
They were only allowed to stop work at the noontime meal. Barnham sat in the chair, his legs aching from squatting before the oven and his elbow throbbing as though he were still working the sugar with a pestle. He wanted nothing more than to tear off the armor and douse himself with cold water until he couldn't feel the sweat dripping down his back, but he merely took several deep breaths and pushed the errant thoughts from his head. Mrs. Eclaire was right: the time for rest would be tomorrow. He still had an afternoon's work ahead of him.
Espella visibly wilted, slumping down in her seat until her cheek rested against the cool, smooth wood of their dining table. Her arms spread across it until he could have touched her fingertips without moving a muscle, her blonde braids spilling across the back of her cloak.
"Cor, I'm so tired," she groaned listlessly. "How did you ever do it by yourself, Aunt Patty?"
"I can't say," the woman replied, as jolly as ever despite her cheeks reddened from the heat and her apron stained with both food and perspiration. She put a light lunch before them: sandwiches on toast and ginger water. Espella gulped her drink eagerly, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. He sipped his more leisurely, enjoying the tang of ginger and vinegar across his tongue. The ginger wouldn't upset their stomachs the way plain water might after being hot for so long, and it tasted refreshing as he quenched his thirst.
In a momentary lull after lunch, Barnham found himself unsupervised as he rolled the dough for cinnamon buns. Mrs. Eclaire was instead helping Espella by icing small cakes while the girl decorated the trays themselves. He let the two of them talk, resting his muscles as he gently kneaded and rolled out the dough. Once again, Espella was chatting about the festival, but Patty was a much better conversational partner about this particular topic than he could hope to be.
"I do wish that someone will invite Eve to dance tomorrow," Espella said wistfully, tossing her braids over her shoulders as she pulled apart Eldwitch flowers. Tinier buds, resting on a bed made of the petals of their larger brethren, outlined a tray of colorful jellied rolls. It would be just one of the many displays at Patty's vendor stall, showing off the abundance of treats for sale. "I wouldn't mind if I didn't dance with anyone but Dad. Only… I want Eve to dance," she muttered fiercely to the tray as she straightened a bud. "At least once." Barnham froze, staring at the pale dough on the cutting board.
The Spring Festival was a time of renewal and celebration, to herald the coming of warmer weather after a blustery, icy winter. It was a time to rest, to play games, to spend an afternoon in the company of close companions while eating and drinking one's fill. But at night, the games ceased and the torches blazed to live all around the Square until it shone as brightly as the noon sun. The bands came forward, and then… then it was a time of dancing.
Of course, everyone danced, from stumbling toddlers to hobbling elders. Friends and family danced together, siblings, companions, mothers and fathers enjoying the night air as they exercised the day's excess away. But… there came a certain point in the night when the children left and the music changed. It was an unspoken signal to begin a time-honored tradition that had been in place for as long as anyone could remember.
The young men of the town would ask the young ladies of the town to dance. It was a rudimentary form of addressing one's attraction—everyone knew that most, if not all of the town's courtships began at the springtime dance. It was something nearly sacred to Labyrinthia, part of the endless cycle of growth and rebirth that continued on though no one knew how or why it ever started in the first place.
The thought of Eve in the arms of another sent an unwarranted fury through his body, much to his shock. Outwardly, he was enough in control of his own body that no one suspected a thing. However, the poor dough was rolled within an inch of its life as he vented his unspoken frustrations on it. He took up the bowl of buttery cinnamon spread and began brushing it heavily over the dough, his mouth set in a thin line.
Why should it be that he was feeling this way all of a sudden? It wasn't as though he had any claim to the woman. She wasn't his. She was a friend, his former superior and current workmate. She held no special regard for him—none that he could see, anyway—and they had no shared secrets. And romance, it was… he was built for battle, not blushing. But still! Why was he so unsettled about the thought of her, happy in the embrace of an unknown man?
He managed to quell the anger in his gut with some difficulty, but he kept his ears guiltily trained on the ladies' conversation. Was Espella speaking of someone in particular? Was there a name to the faceless man holding his—no, she is not mine. He grabbed the dough, nearly tearing it as he roughly began to fold and roll it into the proper log shape. Mrs. Eclaire didn't notice the mistreatment of the bread, her back turned towards him as she laughed over Espella's words.
"That girl, dancing?" she hooted, stopping her work lest she mar a cake by accident. She wiped the tears from her eyes after a moment, licking her lips before turning back to the miniscule designs decorating the top of a raspberry mille-feuille. "As bashful as she is," she mused as she worked, squinting her eyes to follow an imaginary line with her icing shaper, "I doubt she'd ever accept an offer, even if she did get one." The bubbling in his stomach settled further at her words, though he didn't quite understand why. Yes, maybe she's right… maybe….
"And what's this 'I don't care' business? You're plenty old enough for a suitor or two. Why, my sister was just—"
Barnham's attention drifted as the baker launched into a story about her elder sister. He didn't know if she truly had a sister or not; if she did, the woman didn't live in Labyrinthia. Then again, he mused as he made a minute adjustment to a fold in the roll, she wouldn't have to, would she? The last ten years had been nothing but a pack of lies, fed by a man trying desperately to keep his daughter safe from her own mind. No one's memories were completely accurate.
Even he wondered about who he was. Who he had been, rather. The memories that were said to return to the town were slow coming, some remembering everything almost instantly while others took weeks just to recall their original last name. He could barely remember anything, other than that he was fairly sure he'd always been called Zach. Zacharias seemed nobler, perhaps, but the name was still familiar. He sometimes had muddled dreams about towering glass buildings and streets that were never, ever silent. But those dreams were more often than not lost in the few quick blinks between sleeping and waking.
He didn't much care to know who he'd been, though it was instinctive curiosity that plucked at him. Whoever Zach of the glass buildings and loud streets had been, he'd given up that life for this one, and he—Zacharias Barnham, defender of Labyrinthia and apprentice baker—was pleased with the one he now led. He felt no compelling urge to ask Mr. Cantabella about his past, like others had.
Still… there were parts that he wished he could remember. He wished to know of his parents, or some family. He thought he remembered them, but was that a figment of his imagination, filling in the cracks? It might have been that he was just as alone in the old world as he was in this one—save for Constantine and his friends, and Espella and Mrs. Eclaire, of course. And Ms. Primstone couldn't have been his teacher, though he thought he distinctly remembered a teacher just like her when he was a young boy.
Espella listened, entranced by the baker's winding tale of flirting and intrigue that flew into a single night of passion and a whirlwind proposal. When Patty was done with the raspberries, she pulled another tray of unfrosted cakes towards her with a little frown.
"Of course, he died soon after and she followed him of a broken heart, so I suppose it was love in the end." She tapped the icing shaper against her chin, leaving a little trail of chocolate. "Sir Belduke did say it was something-or-other, but a broken heart… yes, that's what it was, all right."
"How romantic," Espella breathed dreamily, only to catch herself and blush. "I mean, not the part about death, that's sad. But the rest of it was beautiful." She busied herself with the flowers. "I want Eve to be as happy as your sister was," she said, voice filled with resolve.
Barnham took a knife and began cutting the log, thinking over her words as his mind trailed back to his problem. If he couldn't bear seeing her with another man, the only option was for him to dance with her first. But if he did that, he'd have to court her, and romance was not his forte. He didn't want to break her heart, or at the least give her a false hope.
Do I even have feelings for her? It was the first time the question had popped into his head, despite the intense dream. He cut mechanically, thinking it over. He dreamed about her, yes. But that was more lustful than anything else, was it not? Wasn't infatuation supposed to be butterflies and strumming minstrels and bluebirds chirruping together in a blooming apple tree? He'd never felt any of those things.
But… his mind went back to her birthday, standing in the office. He'd been afraid to face her disappointment in his gift, but why had he tried to make her a gift like that in the first place? He'd heard Espella saying that éclairs were Eve's favorite dessert, but his original goal had been to make a cake in her image. Wasn't it to express gratitude or friendship? And why had it been so important to him?
Because it would have made her happy. That was the long and short of it. He had wanted her to be happy, just like Espella. But her happiness… unless it was where he could see it, did it still matter? Yes, of course! his brain said. Well. His heart was a different story. It was pettiness, pure and simple. I want to make her the happiest. And he was fairly certain anyone else who dared to try would cross him, and then he'd be thrown into the dungeon for public brawling, and she would most certainly not be happy with that, and….
Maybe I do. In a way. He'd never really thought of it before. No, he hadn't allowed himself to think of it before. But now, standing in the middle of a bakery and cutting cinnamon rolls, he realized that he wanted Eve. Not just as a passing fancy, but… real want. The kind of want that might cause a whirlwind marriage before dying of a broken heart. He wanted her to look at him, and smile at him, and let him touch her pale skin to see if it was as smooth as it appeared to be, and not let anyone else dance with her because he had already called it first—the answer came to him as easily as anything.
You'll have to ask her before anyone else can get to her.
He immediately brushed the idea aside. It was impossible. Even if he did have those sorts of feelings for her—feelings that were welling up like internal floodwaters now that he'd let them have their moment in the spotlight—he couldn't ask her to dance. His heart felt tight, an imaginary iron fist squeezing the blood from it in a relentless grip. For one, Mrs. Eclaire had already hit the nail on the head: even if he did ask, she would most likely say no because she was shy.
And he was so easily flustered when it came to expression emotions. Hadn't her birthday proved that, when he was only showing his feelings of camaraderie and—alright, perhaps even that was something of a basic affectionate gesture. The problem was that he'd been trained to keep his emotions on a tight leash within the garrison, to not let them cloud his mind when dealing with witches. Now, even the best-meant compliment was blundered into an insult thanks to his inarticulate mannerisms.
But to not ask. That was the silent invitation to the rest of the town. She is free. Take her. That could not, it would not do. Every available man would want to court her, and that was the very last thing that he wanted to happen. Even so, to dance? With her? What if he embarrassed himself? Or worse, what if he embarrassed her!? He'd only just got the town to stop referencing his 'Wild Ride' every time they spied a shying horse. The last thing he needed was a nickname worse than Bouncing Barnham.
No, no. I can't do it. There's another way. There had to be another way; no, there was no other way, for the festival was tomorrow. He could track her down and confess tonight, but he was unprepared and he'd just say something terrible. If he looked into her eyes, without regaining the grip over his pattering heart and squirming gut, he doubted he'd be able to string a full two sentences together. But how was he supposed to walk out to her, before the whole town, and ask her to—
"Zacharias!" The voice, filled with alarm, yanked him from his thoughts and he gasped, coming back to the here and now just as the knife was torn from his hands. He looked with wide eyes at the baker, who brandished the blade as she fussed. "Whatever are you doing, child!?" she shrieked. He looked down, realizing that for the last few minutes, he'd been steadily cutting into his greaves with the sharpened blade instead of the dough. If it hadn't been for the metal, he would have probably lost a finger or two. He stared at her, trying to think up a plausible excuse for his inattentive blunder.
"Oh, it's alright," she said after a moment, fingering the edge of the knife. "You didn't break my knife on your armor." That's what you're worried over?! "Oh, dear. The heat's gotten to you," she tutted, seeing the blank stare. "Go. Take a walk and clear your head."
"But—I can finish these—"
"No, I'll finish the rolls. You're liable to break something, or burn the bread because you were off daydreaming. Take a walk, come back in an hour or so," she said in a motherly tone, pushing him out the door before shutting it firmly behind him. He looked up and down the street before heading in the direction of the garrison; perhaps Mrs. Eclaire was right. A walk may do him some good.
He strolled without paying attention to his surroundings, his mind focused on the tumult that his problem created. The sounds of armor and clink-clank of weaponry alerted him to his position, but he let his feet guide him as he pondered over the few choices he really had. He was so preoccupied by his mental struggle that, before he realized it, he stood before the Audience Room with his hand poised to knock. His body flooded with shame as he realized what he'd been about to do.
Before, when the Story meant something to the people, their problems were carried by either himself or the High Inquisitor to the Storyteller, who would then write solutions into the newest chapter. More lies, more lies. He shook away the thought. He'd been about to humble himself and ask for help, out of habit. Stupid, stupid! The Story was words on a page, meaningless unless the wet ink worked its magic on a hypnotized patient. There was no helpful magic to make his problems vanish. He turned to leave, but before he could step down the first broad stair the door behind him opened.
"Sir Barnham?" He turned automatically and saluted, his mind conditioned to answer his former lord and master's call. He'd been doing it for a decade. "Is there something wrong?" Mr. Cantabella, asked, tilting his head. Barnham always forgot how small he was, without the thick cloak billowing out and making him seem like a larger than life deity figure. With just his plainclothes, he was no more than another tired old man. A tired old man with a sharp, scrutinizing gaze and a keen sense. He found himself at a loss for words.
"F-forgive me, I apologize for disturbing you," he finally said with a low bow, chalking the Storyteller's appearance to some sound he must have made on the stairs. "I had been thinking and—'twas an unintentional gesture on my part, coming here," he tried to explain quickly. "I was merely… I mean, I am used to—"
"You came for my help." It was the truth. Barnham licked his lips, staring stoically at the stone between their feet. "You came to have a Story written for you."
"F-forgive me. I meant nothing by it."
"Come in." He looked up to see the man smiling knowingly. "Do you think you are the first to lapse? Don't be embarrassed. Old habits die hard, they say." He stepped back, waving him in with a kindly gesture. Barnham looked around at the posh furnishings, no less admirable and extravagant now that it wasn't an official Audience Room any longer. It was the Storyteller's office, holding all the things he'd kept crammed in the tower of his home. It was still messy, albeit more spread with the piano in one corner, the painting materials against the western wall, and the papers in semi-neat stacks around the large desk.
The Storyteller sat in his throne, lacing his fingers as he stared with shrewd eyes. Barnham took a smaller seat, his hands in his lap as he felt like a schoolboy in the principal's office for some offense rather than a man seeking advice from an elder.
"What's the matter, Zacharias?" he asked softly. "What's on your mind, that you came here from the bakery for my Story?" Barnham chewed on his lip, trying to think of the best place to start. On one hand, the Storyteller was a man without judgment, who always listened patiently to the cries of the townsfolk. On the other, he was humiliated enough just being here, much less spilling all his troubles and emotions onto someone he used to revere. Not to mention an attraction to the High Inquisitor. Former.
"The Spring Festival is tomorrow." He stopped, gauging the reaction.
"Yes. It comes faster every year." The Storyteller nodded, rubbing his chin. "What of it?"
"I mean, 'tis nothing wrong with the festival. It makes everyone happy." He paused. "'Tis… the dancing, sir." The man gazed thoughtfully at him, picking up his quill from its holder and tapping it against his chin. The action reminded him of Eve doing the same thing in their office and he suppressed a chill. Getting out of hand again. Must stop this.
"Whatever do you mean?" Barnham frowned thoughtfully.
"Well, perhaps not all the dancing. Just a part of it."
"Hmm… I'm afraid I still don't understand." The Storyteller lifted his hands. "Perhaps my age is finally getting to me, but I don't see the problem with everyone's dancing."
"It's not everyone's dancing! Just mine."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I… the problem is that I wish to ask—that is—I want to ask someone to dance." He cleared his throat, trying to cross his legs and failing when the armor got in the way. "But 'tis more than that, too!" he said quickly, when the Storyteller tried to speak again. "Romance has no place on the battlefield! 'Tis nothing but… but a fool's errand for a man… of…." he trailed off, feeling his face grow red.
"I'm not seeing where this problem of yours lies, Sir Barnham." He was tapping the quill again, and cleared his throat. "If you don't wish for romance, simply don't dance."
"But that is the problem!" he groaned, leaning forward in his chair. "I cannot dance with her tomorrow night, but for her to give her hand to another? 'Tis beyond what I can reasonably bear!" He fisted his hands on his thighs, staring angrily at the carpet. "A harder battle has never been fought, and I seek answers in vain. I don't see how I can stop such a thing from happening. One must happen, or the other, and neither of them can—must—be." The room was quiet, save for the ceaseless rhythm of the quill.
"Who is this woman that's grabbed your attention so thoroughly?" There was a hint of laughter in the old man's tone. "I've never seen you so besotted, Sir Knight. I think some sort of congratulations is in order, for her to have been special enough to catch your eye."
"A fairer maiden never was," he blurted out, before he had a chance to take stock of his feelings. He clamped the mental lock over his festering emotion, lest it take full control. "I mean, 'tis but a fair maiden," he excused himself uncertainly.
"Yes, but what is she like?" He thought a moment.
"Her eyes are… well, her fingers are… her hair is like… her countenance, it—I cannot say for certain. She is beautiful, for sure." He hadn't thought much about beauty, but he was fairly certain Eve's looks fell under that category. Gorgeous, perhaps. Stunning. Enchanting. Bewitch—perhaps that was too far. "A word to capture her essence is beyond the limitations of my vocabulary," he finally concluded with certainty.
"I see." The Storyteller hid a smile behind his fingers as he rested his head on them. "Go on." Go on? How? He tried to think of what the others used to say in the garrison, the lesser trained boys who hadn't learned to keep their chatter to a minimum and spoke of pretty girls and bosoms and sneaking out to meet them under the moonlight. He came up with nothing and looked helplessly at the questioner.
"When did you first notice these feelings?" Today. That wasn't altogether true, though, was it? He'd just let himself start thinking along these lines today. Maybe I should have been more controlling. Maybe I could have stopped this before it got this far.
"I can't say for certain." He stumbled over his words, the confusion tying his tongue and making him sound, to his own ears, like an idiot. "But I was… smitten. Before I knew it. Before I had time to brace against it. 'Tis a shame towards my training," he sighed.
"Nonsense." He looked up in surprise. The Storyteller, speaking of sacred training as though it were… nonsense?! "Don't sell your emotions short. If you feel this way, it must be for a reason. No training in the world is worth missing a chance at having a special connection with someone else." His hand reached beneath his bangs, rubbing over the scar of fire on his face. "Now… what leads to you to this conclusion, knight? Why do you consider her an object of affection?" He hadn't really thought it over, other than just not wanting her to dance with another man. But he could see where the Storyteller was trying to lead him, and followed as blindly as he ever had.
"I like to hear her talk. People are frightened of her when she points and pretends to be mean, but she's just teasing and I think that's… cute." When did I start noticing all these things about her? "I worry about her, walking home in the woods all alone like she does. And I… I want…" I want to kiss her. "I-I-I want to stay by her. I find excuses to stay, even when work's over."
"If love is a fool's errand, you're a great fool indeed," the Storyteller laughed. He felt an odd mixture of shame and relief, as if they were sharing a secret. "But you're not the first man to fall victim to it, nor will you be the last." He shifted in his seat, but didn't dare disagree. "However, if you really want to ask Eve to dance, I believe there just might be something I can do to help."
"E—Ho—W—Wha-a-a-t!?" He leapt to his feet, cheeks blazing. Had he noticed? Had everyone in town noticed? Did they all sit and laugh behind their hands at Zacharias Barnham, fallen so far, to be the lovelorn fool that pined after Newton Belduke's daughter?
Oh great Story, did she know!?
"Calm yourself, boy." The Storyteller motioned for him to sit with the quill, his free hand searching in his desk drawer.
"B-b-but how did you know 'twas Miss Eve?!" It didn't occur to him that he might have lied, and saved himself some trouble. The Storyteller arched one brow, grinning wryly as he found a blank sheet of paper and began to fold it expertly.
"Hmm… who do you work with? Who pretends to be mean, and goes around town pointing at everyone and ordering them about? Who are they still a bit wary of, if not our own dear Eve?" Dear? "Now." He took his quill and began to write smoothly across the page. "As you well know, my Story holds no more power than those thin clouds out there." He gestured beyond the window. "But in certain cultures around the world, the idea of talismans exist."
"T-talismans?"
"If you write words in certain orders, and fold paper in certain ways, it might be beneficial." He licked his lips as he continued to write. "Yes…. I wrote this out in a way to bring you luck and confidence tomorrow. Carry it on your person, and you should be fine."
"Thank you." He took the folded paper, staring at it. These words, just because he'd written them a certain way, would bring him luck? Could it really be true?
"I was once your age, you know. It was a long time ago," The Storyteller added as an afterthought. "I asked my wife to dance. I was so nervous, my hands shook and I was afraid my heart would beat right out of my chest. I tried to hurry across the Square to speak with her, but I tripped over my own feet and sprawled out in front of the whole town. Bloodied my nose. But despite my embarrassment… she still danced with me." He smiled, a sad look in his eye. "Good luck, Sir Barnham. I'll root for you."
"I—thank you," he repeated, crunching the paper in his fist as he turned to leave.
When he reached the bakery once more, the preparations were complete. Patty explained that Eve had come by, and helped with the last few batches in his absence before running off with Espella for their dresses from Ms. Tailor. The sound of her name sent a funny thrill through him, and it seemed the paper grew warmer in his hand as he excused himself to his bedroom until supper.
Shutting his door, he took off his armor and set it aside to clean later before lying back on the cot. The sun was gone now, shining instead against the western roof and leaving his room in a murky, comforting twilight. He calmed himself, letting his eyes close until his heart regained a more normal rhythm. Only then did he carefully unfold the slightly crumpled talisman to read the words written there.
The bold
Knight, talisman in
His keep, awoke with determination
And thoroughly enjoyed the festival with no
Concerns for the evening's objective. He felt a sense
Of luck and as the day grew to a close, he was able to brush aside
His gnawing nervousness. The dancing began and he
Approached the maiden fair, self-confidence in
Check. His anxiety dissipated at the sight
Of her smile, and by night's end
His objective was then
Achieved.
He read the paper through three times, unable to believe that the way the words were written would cause any luck to come to him. And yet, the more he read it, the more confident he felt. It was as if the old man's encouragement was resonating within his breast, poured into the paper through his handwriting. It was as if Mr. Cantabella believed that he had what it took to defeat his qualms and make the right decision.
He watched eddies of dust in the sunlight, one arm slung over his head as he placed the talisman on the floor beside his cot. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind. It seemed only a moment later that someone was shaking him awake, and he looked up to see Espella standing over him with a candle. The room was darkened, and the breeze from the open window would have chilled his skin if it hadn't been for the armor.
"Sir Barnham?" she asked uncertainly, concern knitting her brow as she bent over him. "Are you feeling ill? It's not like you to go to bed without supper." Barnham sat up, rubbing his face wearily and shook his head to clear the cobwebs from his mind.
"No, I am not unwell," he promised her with a yawn. "Perhaps the day's duties wearied me more than I first thought. But rest assured that the breads of Labyrinthia will not escape my blade; they will be baked by my hand!" He stood, energy from his nap flooding his veins. His stomach rumbled and Espella covered her mouth with her hand while she snickered at his overenthusiastic display.
Even with the reenergizing catnap, the night's hearty supper soon had a soporific effect on his mind. Espella and Patty both retired to their rooms early, claiming tiredness from the overhaul of baking. Barnham agreed to lock up the store and make sure that Constantine and Eve couldn't get to the treats laid prettily beneath protective cloths.
Then he readied himself for the night. Moving quietly on the landing, he locked himself in the lavatory for a quick bath and returned to his room, taking off his armor and giving it a good shining while he let his hair dry.
He undressed and latched the window, crawling beneath his quilt and reaching down once to make sure that the Storyteller's talisman was still where he'd placed it. Constantine licked his fingers before jumping up and walking down to the foot of the bed to curl up. Barnham let out a breath, willing himself to relax. It didn't take long before he was fast asleep, his fingertips still brushing the folded paper as he snored.
Afterword: Read it. Favorite it. Review it. (bangs fist on computer and flour flies everywhere)
