Author's note, 14 April 2015: Chapter almost fully rewritten and replaced.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Chapter 1: Crossroads
It was the time of the day the violet-eyed boy loved most, the hour when the afternoon begins to melt into evening, when shadows lengthen and the sun drops low behind the trees, leaving a trail of fiery clouds in its wake. Free from the dullness of his chores and with the hour of apprenticeship in the healer's musty cottage already gone and forgotten, the boy slipped quietly up the stairs and opened the attic window, to climb out along the slippery planks and settle in a hazardous perch atop the slanted roof. His father's inn stood high amongst its less stalwart companions, with three stories put sturdily together out of wood and stone and a tall, whitewashed attic where mattresses lined up, waiting for travelers in need of a shelter for the night but not enough coin to their names. It was not often that the boy could relish a quiet hour on the top of the world, with nothing but the sky and the birds for company, while underneath him life would carry on as the townsfolk hurried along the same trodden lines in their eagerness to complete the day's work and retire to their homes or to the inn's cozy common room, where a fire burned brightly in the hearth and the wench handed out steaming mugs of mulled drinks.
The town lay small and cramped in the valley between rather steep hillsides, yet handily placed at the crossroads where a carriage road tied the harbor to the capital from west to east and met two other trails heading further inland. Even though they meandered painstakingly amongst clusters of rocks and trees, they still carried a steady flow of guests that only dwindled throughout the harsh winter months, when snow would bury the passes and few men would venture the journey in sleighs pulled by sturdy, long-haired ponies. Thus the town prospered, be it from trade or lodgings, and high walls had been built around it to keep both outlaws and beasts at bay while guards patrolled the streets and kept the gates safe.
In that particular afternoon at the end of October, a biting wind had begun to blow, whipping the boy mercilessly in his unsheltered spot. And yet he could not bring himself to go back, for not many days were left until the first snow would fall and confine him to the ground until the following spring. He pulled his hood up, grasped his coat closer to his body, and waited for the slow stream of townspeople to make their way to the inn, his signal to climb down and help his father handle that evening's customers. The hour was growing late and the shops had locked away their merchandise, but no tell-tale chime was coming from the bell hanging above the door. The boy frowned, squinting in the near-dusk. Too many men and women were lingering outdoors, defying the cold and the growing darkness, congregating in large, chattering groups, and their voices reached the boy in a rising murmur, words blurred together as threateningly as the rumbling tide.
The boy swallowed uneasily and crawled closer to the edge, sweeping his gaze over the crowds. From his high vantage point, the town was a maze of narrow streets, winding like the threads in a spider's web from the central square, an empty stretch of ground covered in battered cobblestones and home to many a fair and celebration, to the four gates breaching the town walls at the four cardinal points. A large wagon was rolling through the western gate in a swarm of urchins and dogs, its brightly colored bulk swaying dangerously on the uneven road, but the boy spared it no more than a passing glance. The southern path was empty as far as his eyes could reach and nothing but shadows covered the road to the east, wide and well-kept but bordered by tall, thick trees that hid it from sight after the first bend.
The northernmost gate stood closest, yet something akin to a dull fear kept the boy's gaze averted even when nothing more was left to search. The land that lay to the north was the poorest, a collection of sad patches of dirt that battled boulders and ancient, deep-rooted trees for dominion and served as nothing but shelter for several derelict huts claimed only by the strangers and the dispossessed. It was a dreary place indeed, where men and women with grim faces came and went away with the passing of seasons, and where they were suffered to live only for the hard labor they took on in exchange for little more than a pittance. The boy turned his eyes to the north at last, only to discern the tell-tale glint of weapons as the gates were pushed open to allow a small group of guards to pass through. He fisted his hand against his chest to calm his rushing breath. There were so many reasons that could call the Watch in that place of frays and squalor, he told himself again and again, even as two monks clad in black, hooded robes emerged from beneath the shadows of the gate.
One monk was walking boldly ahead, his robes a dark stain amongst the bright blue uniforms of the Watch, while the other stepped slowly and carefully but never far behind, clutching the reins of a skittish mule harnessed to a two-wheeled, wooden cart. And, even as he fought to subdue the unruly animal, the monk's eyes never left the charges his cart carried, two battered figures huddled closely together against the narrow planks.
The unusual procession was making its way along the streets, and the crowds scattered to the sides to allow it to pass but, as it progressed to the heart of the town, the men and women fell into step behind it in a silent cortege. Up in his high shelter, the boy drew closer to the slippery edge until nothing was left between him and the fall but a sole row of shingles, and he hooked his fingers inside the shallow space between two tiles. His eyes prickled and filled with tears as they strained to recognize faces still obscured by distance and dusk, and the boy wiped at them furiously with his sleeve, craning his neck even further until everything was hidden by the twists in the road.
It was the silence that reached him first, as the townspeople fell quiet one by one, and within it the clatter of hooves grew, drawing more and more near with excruciating slowness, until the procession came into view from around a corner, so close that the boy had to bite back a gasp. He could see all of it now, the man bound to the cart so warily, the ropes coiled tightly around his limbs and the child cowering against his chest. As a stray ray from the setting sun came down to play on their pale hair and set it alight with glacial fire, the cart rolled closer and the man lifted his head, his gaze fastened on the small silhouette at the edge of the roof.
The boy scrambled back as if burned, his feet struggling against the slippery tiles, until he felt the window frame dig into the small of his back. Beneath him the crowd pressed on but the boy sat still, biting mercilessly into his fisted hand as if to choke back pain and guilt alike.
For, hard as he tried, he could not bear to look down into the empty eyes of his friend.
The guards manning the western gate were facing what was maybe the most peculiar moment of their lives, that had insofar veered safely between sleep, meals and the drunken brawls from which everyone emerged with several bruises to brag about but no lasting grudges.
And, by the looks of it, they were dismally unprepared.
A tall, large wagon put sturdily together out of wide wooden planks, embossed on all sides with outlandish patterns and painted in clashing hues of purples, greens and blues had paused in front of them in all its garish wonder. An equally flamboyant young man had just jumped down from the driver's box and was stomping the ground to bring life back into his numb legs while measuring the three guards with a look that made them feel as if they should be offended, though somehow they could not pinpoint the why. Maybe the challenge lay in his grin, teasing but carefully kept below the point that warranted retribution, or in his blond locks sticking up at impossible angles in a hairdo that sadly no one had had the clairvoyance to outlaw, or in his shirt dyed a vivid shade of red that somehow seemed to complement his fiery disposition.
Hell, even the two hardy, brown horses that had taken advantage of the moment of respite to graze on the sparse grass at the edge of the road were idly chewing their meal with a disparaging glint in their sly eyes.
The eldest guard threw a withering look at his faltering companions and advanced on the newcomers with the right hand on the hilt of his sword. "State your names and the reason why you seek entrance," he barked.
The young man lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Be at peace, my good sir, for we're a humble troupe of travelling actors who ask nothing but the privilege to perform our awesome plays in front of the good men and women of.. of... what's this god-forsaken place called again?" The last question was directed in a loud whisper at his travel companions, who had meanwhile gathered in a neat row behind him. A choir of groans encompassing various pitches and levels of exasperation was his sole answer.
A shorter man flaunting a headful of shaggy blonde hair and a piercing green gaze underneath unthinkably thick eyebrows sighed wretchedly and took a step forward. "Gentlemen, I am Arthur Kirkland, playwright. If word of my name or of my work has yet to reach your ears, do not despair, for we have traveled the roads for many weeks now with the very purpose of bringing the unrivalled delights of theatre to those wretched souls blind to the benefits of culture. Now, if you upstanding gentlemen could generously allow us through and point the way to the nearest inn, we would certainly waste no more of your valuable time."
The guards blinked dazedly in unison. "Do you carry any weapons with you?" one of them ventured, scratching his head sheepishly.
"No weapon whatsoever but the blunt contraptions that the plots masterfully devised by myself might constrain us to wield during our engaging performances." The man kept carefully his face straight but his green eyes were dancing with barely concealed mirth.
"Fine, then move along," the other guard waved them through, eager to be rid of the strange lot. "Follow the street along the monastery walls until you reach the market place, then head left. The inn is a tall building with green window panes, you can hardly miss it."
"And this is how it's done," Arthur hissed pointedly in the direction of his taller companion as the latter resumed his seat on the driver's perch. The young man scowled without much resentment but made sure to stick out his tongue for good measure.
With a strike of reins the wheels groaned under the weight and began to roll forward. As the wagon passed through the open gate, a swarm of children assaulted the newcomers with screams of joy. The startled horses snuffled and danced nervously in place, and Arthur pierced the offending urchins with a vengeful glare.
"Begone, you vermin, before I bring the whip to your backs," he yelled, and the children shied away, eyeing cautiously his bushy eyebrows that had come together in an almighty frown.
The tall man winked down from his perch, driving onwards while the children dashed out of the way and reassembled in a subdued herd. The sparkle of eagerness sprang back to life into their eyes as a patter of running feet drew closer and closer and a disheveled boy stumbled in from a side path.
"They've caught the witches!" he announced proudly, nearly out of breath. "They're bringing them here…"
A murmur of delight filled the air as the urchins surrounded their herald and fled the way he had come, while the companions watched them go and then stared at one another anxiously.
"Witches? Here? I thought witch hunts had died down long ago in this part of the country..." Arthur muttered, reaching out to catch by the scruff of the neck an unruly child who was running circles around him while waving a wooden stick. "Peter, get inside the wagon and don't come out until I say so."
"No, I won't! You're not my father to tell me what to do!" Peter squealed and threw his stick at Arthur, who caught it easily and then glared at the sight of the boy's defying eyes, shadowed by eyebrows as thick as his own.
"I am your older brother and you will obey me!" he bellowed, and carried the struggling child to the wagon. Unconcerned with flailing limbs and shrieks, he threw the boy inside, slammed the door shut and slid the bolt into place, while the noise of heavy objects colliding against walls followed suit.
The remaining travelers did not bat an eyelid at the all too familiar scene. A tall, slender woman and a man hidden underneath a hooded cape kept walking unperturbed by the side of the road.
"You'd better go in and fetch your wig before it gets torn to shreds, Gil," the woman said, pushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes and chuckling quietly, "or so help me, if we have to flee one more town in disgrace because you tricked some God-fearing folk into believing you're the devil made flesh, I'm delivering you to the first church myself and I'm taking over your roles."
Gilbert offered her a mischievous smirk, his eyes flashing red from under the shadow of his cowl. "And get unawesomely bruised right before my big performance? No way. And besides," he added with a wink as he tucked inconspicuously away a few stray strands of white hair, "the only one willing to claim your roles would be Feliks, and I'd wager ten mugs of beer that Matthias won't feel as inclined as before to rescue him from your evil clutches."
"Damn right I won't!" the tall blonde shouted down from his perch, earning himself an indignant "Hey!" from the long-haired man sitting next to him.
Arthur fell back into pace with them, his eyebrows still knitted in annoyance. "If you bloody twits are done plotting how to ruin my plays, you'd better start figuring out how to get past that," he said, pointing at the dense group of townspeople blocking the road to the left, just as Matthias cursed and pulled on the reins sharply.
"The goddamn crowd grows even thicker further on," he yelled down as he surveyed the street from his height, "and the road's not wide enough to push through. You could either wait here or move on until you find another opening, there must be more than one way to reach the inn."
"What do you mean, 'you'?" Arthur asked morosely. "What are you planning to do?"
Matthias put away the reins and slid to the ground. "I want to take a look at the witch before she disappears into a puff of smoke. Feliks, take the reins, will you?"
The smaller blonde pretended to be very busy studying his fingernails. "I don't want to, driving totally gives me blisters."
"Come on Feel," Matthias whined, "are you mad at me? It was a joke, a joke!"
"I'll drive," the woman offered, and Matthias nodded towards her gratefully.
"Thanks, Liz, don't order dinner without me!" he managed to shout over his shoulder before getting swept into the advancing crowd.
Arthur stepped closer and threw her a hard look. "A witch hunt is no laughing matter, Eliza, you know you should not encourage him."
"He needs to witness one so he can understand, doesn't he?" she sighed.
It had been a punishment of sorts that the boy had forced himself to endure, to hear every thump of wheels against cobblestones, every harsh word and laughter, until distance melded all into an indistinguishable murmur. And even then he lingered, clawing at the tiles until his fingers turned red, torn between numbing fear and smothering guilt.
Curse the cowardice that had kept his eyes away from his friends' torment, denying them the sole consolation he could offer.
Even when a door burst brutally open and the ground crunched under the weight of heavy steps, the boy held his breath and clung even tighter to his precarious perch.
"Tino Väinämöinen, I know you're up there," his father's voice reached up and the muffled sounds, muted by distance and the receding clamor, held something so akin to compassion that the boy let himself slide down, low enough to peek inquisitively off the edge of the roof. His father stood in the middle of the street, his arms crossed against his chest in a gesture that looked more resigned than forbidding. "You should come down now," he added, and the weariness in his stance and voice shattered the last wall of the boy's resolve. He clambered up and pushed the window open, slipping his legs through the narrow opening and dropping back in with practiced ease.
And, during his hasty retreat, his gaze did not turn even once to watch the eastern gate open wide and allow through a tall, intimidating rider, wearing a blue coat covered in the thick dust of the harbor road.
When Tino reached the first floor, the metallic sound of the bolt sliding back into place echoed throughout the quiet house and he slowed his pace, treading carefully on each step of the creaking staircase. The front door was never locked at such an early hour, not as long as there was still a chance for a stray patron to wander inside, and the boy swallowed a gasp at the sight of the common room, empty and cold as the fire died down, licking at the last remnants of charred wood. His father was leaning against the back of a chair, staring into the dwindling flames, and Tino moved closer and tugged at his sleeve until the older man turned his eyes on him.
"What's going on, Father?" he asked, and the innkeeper sighed heavily, pulling his sleeve out of his son's grasp.
"You will forget you've ever known those foreign lads you've been sneaking out to see during the past years – don't even bother to deny it, son - and pray that nobody else remembers. They stand accused of witchcraft and will be put on trial by orders of Abbot Olav."
Tino blinked once, twice, his mind struggling to yield to the confirmation of the fears that had already blossomed within, then swallowed hard and clenched his fists at his side. "For how long have you known about this, Father? You and all the other cowards in this goddamn town?" His voice rose accusingly, the shyness he felt around the older man all but forgotten. "You could have warned them! You could have saved them, but the thought never crossed your mind, has it? One single word from Abbot Olav and everyone dances for him like puppets on strings..."
His father's muscles flexed menacingly and, before Tino could move back to safety, the heavy hand cuffed him against the side of his head, filling his sight with tiny whirlpools of darkness.
"You are still young, boy," the innkeeper hissed in a cold voice, studying with disbelief his son's flushed cheeks and fierce eyes that, in all his seventeen years of life, had never before flashed with so much wrath, "and you have yet to learn how the power of fear wielded by the church can sway even the strongest of hearts and bring any man to cower under its bidding. For your own good you'd better start learning fast."
Tino held back the urge to touch his aching skin, and took a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving his father's face. "No, Father," he murmured. "This is one lesson I will not learn."
And, before the older man could retaliate, he turned on his heel and ran to the back of the room where the door to the stables still stood ajar. His father's sharp voice followed him but he did not pause to listen. The courtyard lay empty before him and as he rushed outside and further away into the street, stubborn tears that had nothing to do with his bruising cheekbone began to sting the corners of his eyes.
The nameless faces in the crowd held a sickly fascination for Matthias as he weaved his way through, the last traces of smile lost from his lips. Around him men chatted pleasantly, their voices rising and falling no more menacingly than the echo of a summer breeze, and the women leaned into each other to whisper and laugh, some holding their children's hands or carrying them into their arms. Yet soon they would witness the pain and humiliation of some helpless creature, giving it no more thought than to any other welcome distraction from the day's toils, and then return to their homes and jest about it over that evening's supper. Matthias gritted his teeth as he watched them pass by. Like so many times before, he could already see the lust for violence creeping behind their otherwise good-natured faces, the sight equally enticing and repulsive, like the slithering coils of a snake preparing to strike. And like so many times before, he would watch them from afar, unable to tear his eyes away, hating them and hating himself for not lifting a finger to rescue those so unfairly punished for being feeble or different or simply alone. Matthias was no coward, far from it, yet life had taught him early on that the world was no longer a place for heroes but could be so much more forgiving towards a seemingly loud-mouthed fool.
Bodies pressed against him as he walked on through the narrow street and Matthias used his sharp elbows obliviously to keep the onslaught at bay, until a weight crushed against his side, pushing him into a pack of men wearing the garb of field workers. Rough arms caught his fall and even rougher curses graced his ears as his hand reached out to catch the perpetrator, yet nothing but air slid between his fingers when the boy who had stumbled into him so ungracefully rushed into the throng, shooting back a single glance that revealed a pair of lavender, purposeful eyes. Matthias offered an apologetic smile to the grumbling men and then moved on, feeling for his money pouch as an afterthought. Its reassuring bulk still filled his pocket and he shrugged, banishing all thoughts of the strange boy when the road ended abruptly in a large, crowded square and the voices around him hushed to whispers, and then to silence.
Nothing happened for a short while and Matthias obeyed the flow of the mob pushing him on towards the centre. Then came the clatter of hooves and wheels against cobblestones and the crowd parted like waves when a rickety cart and its armed escort came into the open, the bodies shuffling and rearranging until Matthias found himself facing an empty expanse and the promise of a first-row seat to the grim performance to come.
Barely visible between the soldiers clustered along the sides, the cart was a crude contraption, nothing more than thin, unpolished planks of wood fastened together on two wheels and bordered by cross-shaped rails. The mule harnessed to it looked scrawny and mean as it inched forward, flicking its long ears and snorting distrustfully at the monk holding the reins, until it thrust its hooves stubbornly into the ground and refused to budge. The monk pulled impatiently at the reins but the mule pranced on place, drawing deep lines into the dirt and pushing the cart back against the hassled escort. Curses echoed as the soldiers moved away, some to the sides, some stepping up to grab the unruly animal.
And, as the last barrier that stood against the eyes of the crowd stood apart, Matthias drew his breath sharply when his gaze fell on not one, but two prisoners – a man and a child.
It was not often that the clergy would shift their scrutiny from the womenfolk and hunt for witches elsewhere, yet Matthias saw at once why they had settled upon the man kneeling in the wooden cart. He saw the beauty of his face even under the layers of blood and grime that tried to conceal it, his features so delicately shaped that they conjured up visions of sprites and elves from old legends, and his skin and hair so pale that they seemed kissed by the moon. Feyness clung to him like a mask and pooled within his eyes, large and devoid of any feeling, and, as he held his head high proudly, his gaze never drifted, as if immersed in a world beyond.
His slender body made him appear almost frail in the midst of the stout guards, but he had been no easy prey if one were to judge by the battered looks of some of his captors. Yet Matthias wished the prisoner had been less brave, less defiant, for the offended men had been quick to exact their revenge. His lower lip was split and swollen and a trail of blood had congealed into his hairline and down his cheek, pointing at more bruises and cuts that started along his neck and disappeared inside his torn shirt. They had tied his hands with rope behind his back and then fastened his arms against the rail so tightly that his shoulders were nearly twisted out of their sockets, while nothing betrayed the pain he must have been feeling but the rigid set of his jaw.
They had left the child unbound, too dismissive of his young age to deem him a threat, or maybe confident that wherever the other prisoner might be taken, he would follow. Matthias brushed his gaze questioningly over him. The child clung tightly to his companion, circling him with his arms in a desperate embrace and burying his head against his chest. Under loose strands of hair so light that they appeared impossibly white, his half-hidden face betrayed the same graceful contours, his cheekbones less high and proud and chin less sharp, yet bearing a close resemblance to the man at his side. They could be nothing else than brothers, Matthias decided, too close in years for a father and son, and he shook his head in pity at the understanding.
The townsfolk shared no such feeling. They watched with greedy eyes, whispering in each other's ears with voices hushed but filled with expectation. Whatever deed the two captives had done to deserve the clergy's ire, it could not have been so terribly offensive, Matthias surmised, for the crowd appeared to be seeking entertainment rather than retribution. Yet the longer the procession kept still under their searching gazes, the more restless they grew, stirring and raising their voices and daring one another to act. At his right, someone bent to pick a stone from the dirt, and without thinking Matthias reached out to seize the man's arm, knowing that once the first stone was tossed the second would be quick to follow.
And his hand froze half-way when both captives turned to look upon the assailer with an uncanny synchronicity. The man's gaze was dark and daunting in its emptiness, but it was the sight of his brother's eyes that made Matthias curse softly and take a step back in awe. Even in the dimming light of the approaching evening, the open eyelids revealed a rich purple the likes of which he'd never encountered before, and an unfathomable intensity that had no place to linger on a child's face.
Under the strength of their icy stare the townsman faltered and staggered on his feet, and the stone slid from his numb fingers. He tried to speak but no words came out, then he swallowed, and found his voice in a trembling cry.
"Witch!"
Matthias groaned. Around him more voices rose, speaking of devils and pyres, and more men and women armed themselves with stones. The prisoner's lips moved in a stifled hiss and the child shook his head stubbornly. And finally laughter echoed, low and dangerous, as a stone flew to collide against the man's already tortured shoulder. His face twisted for the first time in a grimace of pain, but his eyes never left his brother's, and his mouth shaped a single word. Please.
Matthias watched the child slide reluctantly to the bottom of the cart, and then searched the square for more threats. The stone had rolled nearby, one sharp edge smeared with blood. The guards had moved out of the harm's way, clearly content to stand aside and allow the scene unfold, only waking from their indolence long enough to push aside a boy who had rushed in their midst, screaming in rightful anger. The boy stumbled and fell, and as he lifted his head Matthias recognized the keen lavender gaze from only minutes before.
"It's too late now, kid," he muttered, and his wrath sparked at his own hesitation. There was nothing more to be done, he told himself again. The captive would know pain again, perhaps no sharper than what he would endure thereafter at the hands of the church, and then he would perish at the end of a noose should fate show him mercy. If not… Matthias tried to banish the vision of flames eating at bruised, pale skin that had suddenly invaded his thoughts.
It was then that a rider entered the square at a gallop, scattering the townspeople away from the reach of the massive hooves of his horse, and reined in with flawless precision alongside the handful of watchmen.
Even Matthias, though taller than most, felt dwarfed by the size of the rider and his horse. The newcomer held himself straight in the saddle, holding his grey behemoth of a horse in check with apparent ease. His face, sculpted in stern, rigid lines was hidden behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and the plain, blue cloak thrown back on his shoulders revealed a uniform that lacked any adornment but a sword with the sheath and hilt engraved with intricate heraldry.
The guards eyed the sword with grimaces of undisguised confusion, until the man who seemed to hold more authority bowed his head in salute and spoke up.
"Welcome, Commander. Pray forgive us for not sending an escort to greet you, but you were not expected until tomorrow."
The stranger appeared to pay him no heed. Anger sparked in his harsh eyes as he turned in the saddle to survey the scene, his gaze shifting from the eager faces of the townspeople to the dark robes of the monks, brushing over the battered figure of the bound man and coming back to settle on the worried guard.
All movement ceased and the crowd held their breath, waiting for him to speak.
A single word came out of his mouth.
"Explain."
The guard's hands began to shake under the inquisitive stare and his voice stammered. "J-just an errand for the Church, Commander. Orders from the Abbot to apprehend these two witches and bring them to the monastery for trial."
The Commander pressed his mouth in a thinner line and nodded once, then dismounted and threw the bridle on the guard's arm. He took the three steps that separated him from the captives and, pressing the back of his gloved hand under the bound man's jaw, he tilted his face upwards. Indigo eyes stared back at him defiantly, as if daring him to attempt his worst, and he let go with an unreadable expression. Within moments, he removed a dagger from the sheath inside his boot and cut in one swift move the rope holding the prisoner fastened to the rail. The man fell against the side of the card with a barely heard sigh, and then slumped into the waiting arms of his brother.
The Commander eyed the small gathering of watchmen with undisguised disdain.
"So the town guards have become a pack of hunting dogs standing at the clergy's beck and call? You will take these prisoners to the Watch House. There will be a trial conducted by the Magistrate and a punishment dealt according to the law should they be proven guilty."
His words were clipped as though by restraint or disuse, but his voice carried an undertone of power that made his order unquestionable. Conflict surfaced in the guard's stare but he did not dare disobey. Nodding tersely, he turned to his men and instructed them with a quick gesture to follow, yet before they could move two dark figures stepped forth, and the watchmen's eyes clang to them with hope restored.
"Commander, a word if I may." The voice belonged to a small yet burly monk, who seemed more used to hard labor than cunning words until one noticed the shrewd gaze half-hidden beneath his cowl. At his side, a second monk was shifting his feet uneasily, pulling with gnarled fingers at the dirty, lank hair around his bald patch and blinking rapidly his red-rimmed eyes. "I am Prior Tobias, right hand to Abbot Olav. We are under orders from the Bishop himself to root out and apprehend the witch threat, for the preservation of our Church."
The Commander glanced once more at the prisoners. The bound man's face looked strikingly young as he lay in the boy's trembling arms, his eyes half-closed and his exposed neck trailed with bruises.
"Do your orders also entail tormenting children?"
"Children?" the other monk cried out in a high-pitched voice. "Trust not your eyes, for the devil's guile knows no bounds. These wretched creatures," he pointed with a shaking finger, "are devil's ilk, gifted with a child's likeness to stir your pity and deliver them from their rightful fate!"
"Enough with this nonsense!" the Commander barked. "Return to your monastery and let Abbot Olav know he can seek me out if he wants to speak against my decision."
Prior Tobias bowed his head and took a step back in acknowledgement. "The Abbot is now making ready for the evening's prayers, but come morrow you will hear from us again, Commander."
The Commander nodded, and then dismissed the monks from his attention, turning once more to his men. "Take the prisoners away and scatter the crowd, or I will have you punished for disobedience."
A sharp blow to the mule's side got the animal on the move. As the cart began to roll, a guard came to stand in front of Matthias and jabbed his chest with the pommel of his sword.
"Go home, there's nothing more to see here," the man grumbled.
Matthias raised his hands in an appeasing gesture and backed away in a nearby alley. The sun was setting and he was certain to get lost in the dark, unfamiliar streets, but he had no wish to return to his companions just yet, his thoughts too crowded with strange, inscrutable eyes and unanswered questions.
By the time the convoy reached the Watch House the town had plunged into darkness, and no other light lingered under the clouded sky but the candle flames quivering faintly here and there behind closed windows.
The building stood barely visible on the other end of a narrow courtyard marked on three sides as the Watch's property by a wrought iron fence that ended firmly lodged into the thick stone walls. A guard stepped forward and tapped the blunt edge of his sword against the locked gate. The metallic sound spread in echoes and a door cracked open, spilling torchlight as a man came to stand on the steps. The guard called out to him and the man disappeared back inside. A short moment passed and he emerged once more carrying a lit torch, then came to the fence and fumbled with one hand at the lock and chain that held the gate secure.
As he waited for the gate to open, the Commander dismounted and tied the reins to a post. Under his watchful eyes, the guards were helping the prisoners get off the cart. The child jumped down easily enough but the man stumbled, hindered by his bound hands, and he hissed when a watchman grabbed his shoulder to steady him.
"Careful," the Commander instructed and followed them through the open gate.
The prison was built below ground, in a wine cellar that had been given a new face when, years before, the house had changed ownership and purpose. The space could barely fit three cells on each side of a corridor so narrow that it did not allow two people to walk shoulder to shoulder. The cells had been furnished with thick wooden doors and solid latches, irons bars blocked the small, square holes allowed as sole source of ventilation in the place were the back wall was rising slightly above the street, and the prison had been deemed satisfactory for a town that rarely faced worse criminals than drunkards or ruffians, and where the miscreants were not known to be put under lock and key for more than a night or two.
The entrance had remained unchanged from the days when the cellar would host nothing more harmless than bottles of aging wine – a trap door cut in the floor of a pantry turned guardroom, occupied now by two low benches and a table covered in melted wax and food stains. Under the trap door, steep stairs descended into darkness and the torch bearers climbed down first, holding the flame high above his head to light the way for the others.
The Commander was the last to descend, stooping carefully under the low ceiling, and he kept still for a moment to consider his surroundings. Two rows of doors stood ajar, revealing empty cells shrouded in darkness, and the air was cold and damp. Guards and captives huddled together in the narrow space, waiting for his orders, and his gaze traveled thoughtfully from the child's frightened eyes to the man's worn-out body.
"Here and there," he instructed at last, pointing at two cells on either end of the corridor. "Bring some food and more light."
The child gasped, and a single cry broke from his lips. "Lukas!"
A flash of panic crossed the other prisoner's face, but before he could struggle a guard seized his arm and forced him inside the cell nearest to the stairs. The Commander took a torch from one of his men, and then followed the captive inside, closing the door behind him.
For a few moments, he simply busied himself securing the torch inside an iron ring lodged between two stones in the wall. The prisoner had not moved, and when the Commander finished his task he saw that the other man had recomposed his features in an impassive mask.
"Turn around," he said, removing once more the dagger from his boot.
The prisoner's gaze traveled from the weapon to the taller man's unperturbed eyes, and when he turned his back at last, the Commander could have sworn that only the bonds around his wrists were keeping him from raising his shoulders in a shrug. He took a step closer and drew the blade over the ropes, watching them slide to the ground in long, frayed pieces.
The prisoner waited quietly until the last knot fell, and then rotated his shoulders once, with the muted snap of articulations falling into place. Then he spun to face the Commander again, holding his arms rigidly at his side in what appeared to the other man as a struggle to keep himself from touching the raw skin on his wrists.
Both men waited quietly for a long moment, as if taking each other's measure.
"So, Lukas..?" the Commander finally spoke, breaking the uneasy silence.
The other man only blinked, seemingly unwilling to reveal anything else.
"Fine. Just Lukas," the Commander conceded with a frown. "My name is Berwald Oxenstierna. You have nothing to fear from me," he added as an afterthought, blaming the prisoner's reluctance on the only thing he could think of.
The young man had yet to utter a word, but Berwald had never expected that the first sound to escape from his lips would be a dry, hollow laughter. The uncanny mirth died as soon as it had surfaced, and when the man spoke his voice was soft and the way he tried to spare his injured lip gave it a strained lilt.
"I do not fear you; I am simply questioning your motivation."
Ever since he could remember, Berwald had faced the world with forbidding eyes and lips that never seemed to smile. He knew joy and sorrow as well as any other human could, yet somehow his feelings seldom forged their way outside the confines of his soul. At first it had been a source of great anguish, but as the years passed by he had learned to live with the fear, or uneasiness at best, that his tall stature and stern, commanding countenance inspired.
And now he could barely conceal his bewilderment as he watched the prisoner who, though weary and wounded, confronted him with the pride of royalty in rags.
"Witchcraft is nothing but nonsense spewed by the Church to keep ignorant folk on their leash," he answered. A bitter smile seemed to twist the other man's lips, yet faded away so fast that Berwald dismissed it as an illusion of the flickering torchlight and went on. "Still, accusations have been made and I cannot let you go without a fair trial to clear your name, lest you be hunted again by some zealots."
Lukas tilted his head slightly to the left and stared with a look in his eyes that made Berwald feel inadequate. "Fair trial? For a man in your position you are quite naive, Berwald Oxenstierna. If you truly wish to help, then take care that no matter what happens to me, my brother remains unharmed."
Berwald raised an eyebrow at the half-veiled insult but decided to let it go, storing in his mind the detail that the prisoner had let slip. "Make no mistake, I intend to save both of you. We must talk more, but for now I will let you rest and send for a healer to treat your injuries."
Lukas shook his head in disdain. "There's no need. Clean rags and some water will serve me better than the healer ever could."
The Commander scrutinized him once more, appraising the gravity of his wounds and wondering what to make of the new insight. "As you wish," he conceded at last. "I will see you again in the morning." Without speaking another word, he turned on his heel and left the cell.
The metallic thud of the bolt sliding into place made Lukas flinch, and in his solitude he made no attempt to conceal it. He approached the door with faltering steps and ran his fingers slowly over the unpolished wood, as though testing its solidity. It stood strong and immovable, and Lukas let himself slide to the ground, resting his head against the unyielding surface.
He sat there for a while, his body still but for the heavy breath rattling inside his chest, until the hinges of the trapdoor above screeched loudly and the corridor echoed with heavy footsteps. Lukas raised his head, suddenly alert. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door and he stood up hurriedly. Then came the muffled thud of a weight touching the floor, followed by a short struggle as a hand fumbled with the bolt, and the door finally flew open. The guard standing on the doorstep barely spared him a glance. He pushed a laden tray inside with his foot, retrieved the torch and slammed the door shut, leaving the cell shrouded in the half-light spilling through the narrow, barred window that had been carved in the wooden planks.
Lukas sighed and knelt next to the tray at his feet, pushing it further to the spot on the floor where the window cast a luminous square. A cup of water stood closest and he grabbed it and drank deeply, mindless of the sting in his lip and the drops that trickled awkwardly from the corner of his mouth, until he washed away the taste of ash and dirt. He put the cup aside and sifted through the rest of the small hoard, gritting his teeth at the thought that it brought nothing but further proof of the Commander's goodwill.
Bread, which he pushed away when his stomach squirmed at the notion of holding anything solid. More water in a wide, earthen bowl filled to the brim. A roll of bandages, a tiny jar of salve and, hidden under a stack of clean cloth, a needle and thread.
Lukas shook off the tattered remains of his shirt, soaked a piece of cloth in water and began to clean the dirt and dried blood from his skin. He worked slowly, methodically, unveiling the darkening bruises that lay hidden under layers of dust, feeling gently for cracks in the ribs and pouring a handful of water over the shallow cut on his shoulder, until he reached the web of grazes on his neck.
And then his anger began to flare brighter and brighter with every stroke of his hand, anger at the heavy boot pressed against his neck, holding him down even as he claws weakly at the thick leather. Air comes in sparse breaths and blood drenches his hair where the blunt edge of a sword had split skin and the man above him laughs, grinding his foot down. Lukas feels like his collarbone is about to break, and for a second he knows he will die there, gasping for air in the dirt, when the pressure relents and a voice pierces through the pounding in his years.
"…he wouldn't want any harm to come to his beloved brother, would he?"
The weight is gone and Lukas turns on his side, drawing breath in until his lungs are close to bursting. You should have run away, stupid, brave little brother, he thinks and overwhelming shame engulfs him when a blow to the chest throws him back to the ground, under the frightened gaze of the child he could not protect.
"Fucking coward," he spits at the self-satisfied monk when they finally lift him to his feet, but it's a guard's gloved hand that strikes him over the mouth in retaliation and Lukas tastes his own blood as they force his hands behind his back.
Lukas tilted his head to reach the scrape under his chin and focused on the burning sensation to banish all other thoughts. It served no purpose to remember, other than to fuel his rage and cloud his mind. He took the jar of salve and removed the stopper. The pungent smell of herbs filled the cell and helped Lukas compose himself some with its familiarity as he smeared the ointment over bruises and skin rubbed raw. He wrapped bandages around his wrists and neck, dabbed two fingers in the salve and touched them to his swollen lip, and then nothing else remained to be done but the most grisly of his tasks.
Lukas held no illusions as to the gash under his hairline. He threaded the needle and set it aside, then dipped a fresh cloth in the small quantity of clean water that was still left in the cup and wiped it over his forehead. As flecks of congealed blood peeled off, fresh drops began to trickle anew, soaking into the fabric. Yet Lukas did not pause. When he deemed the wound clean enough, he grasped the needle in his right hand and felt the wound with his left. He thrust the needle through his skin right under the end of his fingertips, keeping the gash closed, and went on blindly, one stitch at a time, closing his eyes under the new flow of blood. Warm droplets of crimson caught into his eyelashes and then dripped down his cheek, and Lukas steeled himself against the sickening sensation of thread running through flesh, every bruise, every sting of pain, you deserve it, for your carelessness and your stupidity.
By the time he was done, his hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the needle, and his head swam with pain and exhaustion. The need to rest became overwhelming and he sat back on his heels, looking around the cell for the first time. There was nothing resembling a table or a chair, or anything else for that matter but a makeshift bed, nothing more than a straw mattress raised on a low frame of wooden planks and covered with a ragged old blanket.
Lukas gathered his shirt from the floor and stood up when a sudden rush of cold air revealed the presence of a window. It was a narrow opening, built close to the ceiling but just low enough for him to rest his elbows against the thick slabs of stone and peek through the bars at the outside world. It opened to a back street, so close to the ground that Lukas could discern nothing else in the shadows but the shapes of cobblestones and the foundations of the houses across.
As he stood there, a single ray of moonlight pierced the darkness and came to rest on the ground. Lukas reached out through the bars and the speck of light came to dance for a moment on the palm of his hand, only to be whisked away again behind the amassing clouds. His fingers closed around empty air. With a sigh, he withdrew his arm and moved away from the window, then sank on the bed, his mind empty as his eyes followed the play of shadows wavering on the wall in the dying torchlight.