"I hear you're living out of state, running in a whole new scene. You know I haven't slept in weeks? You're the only thing I see." –Anya Marina, "Satellite Heart"
-o-
It was a busy day in the tavern. The bartender was running the place almost single-handedly. People bustled here and there, demanded drinks, started brawls, and generally made the day an average one for the weathered barkeep. He kept an eye on the opening and closing door, preparing for customers. At about noon a woman entered with a boy tagging along behind. A younger brother, perhaps, or possibly a son. She pointed to a table in the corner and said something to him. The kid obediently went to it and sat.
The woman approached the bar and asked for a glass of wine. She was young, maybe half the age of the curious bartender. Her skin was fair and freckled, her eyes and hair bright. She would have been quite attractive, but the scar on her face and her drawn, tired expression labeled her as a fighter, even without the armoury of weapons she had strapped across her body. She took the wine and sat at the table the boy was at.
Being a man raised in a family of humble, chivalrous blood, he kept a noble eye on the solitary woman and boy. Not many approached them. One enormous bulk of a man came in at one point. He sported a bushy red beard and made the floorboards shake when he stepped. The large man raised some alarms with the bartender, but the trio at the table seemed on decent terms.
He gave the woman a piece of paper, spoke shortly with her, and left. The woman watched after him until he left, and caught the bartender staring. He quickly looked away from those piercing eyes and went back to polishing a glass. But when she looked away, he watched again.
After giving the envelope in her hand a skeptical look, she tore it open and read the paper inside. Whatever was in that letter greatly interested her, and she leaned forward anxiously to read in depth.
The evening wore on. A hopeful suitor approached the mysterious woman's table but left disappointed. When the night came upon them, she quietly came back to the bar and ordered a room for the night. Instead of going to her room, she returned to the corner table.
A group of boys rushed her the moment she sat down, and ran off instantly. She looked surprised and stood immediately, finding her coinpurse missing. The group of boys ran out, and she after them. The woman returned a few minutes later, her right fist bruised and a few throwing knives missing from her array of weapons, her purse back on her hip.
The bartender saw this entire scene play out, and when the woman came back to the counter for another drink, he quickly handed it over and prayed she would turn in soon and leave.
-o-
Jacqueline raised an eyebrow at the wide-eyed old bartender, who practically threw her wine at her and scavenged up the coin she put down. After leaving for her room, she retrieved the note that Johann had brought her and stared at it again. It had made its way through the grapevine of people she was associated with to her. The parchment was covered in wide, unpractised script, crumpled from travel and her hands. It was stained in several places where the author had pressed too hard with the quill and ink had splattered across the page. For proof of sender, a long hawk's feather had been folded in with the letter. It was covered with edits and scratched-out sections, but got the point across. Jacqueline sat on her bed and read it for the tenth time.
Dear ("Dear" was harshly crossed out, as though he had angrily changed his mind.) Jacqueline,
(The beginning is littered with discarded starts, most of them brusquer than the one he had chosen.) I hope this letter reaches you, and does not get intercepted by others. There is little I can safely say. I regret not seeing you before you left, and if this does reach you I hope that you are well.
The general has betrayed me, as has my fath—(Here is where he pressed too hard, and the ink has blotted out some of the text.) –not expect any sympathy from you. The Old Man has passed on in your absence. The community here fares well, and Georges harasses me daily. I (He crossed that out as well, with several rude, dark lines, and then corrected himself in bolded text.) we anxiously await your return.
Ratonhnhaké:ton
Jacqueline rubbed her chin, wondering why he used his full name. Probably because most knew him as Connor. The news of Achilles' death was a bit of a shock to her—he had always seemed so invulnerable. But she could see through the polite letter; she had known Connor too long, and could tell behind the courteous façade, he was very upset with her, possibly even angry.
"Who's that from?" Léon asked curiously, leaning up to try and see the note from where he sat on the floor.
"A friend." Jacqueline replied absently, still thinking.
Léon wiggled his eyebrows. "Connor?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yes."
"Ooh!" The boy laughed. "Is it spicy?"
"Léon!" Jacqueline smacked his head chastisingly. "No, it's not! Sometimes I wonder why I tolerate you…"
"Because I'm a lovable scamp?" Léon fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to wave a fan over his face.
"Because you stick more than a barnacle."
"Ha!"
Jacqueline observed the hawk feather and twirled it between her fingers. She knew she deserved his anger for leaving as suddenly as she had. After a few minutes of absently trailing the feather over her palm, she left her room to retrieve parchment and a quill from the bartender.
-o-
Connor was prepared to hunt down his dinner, his bow strung and quiver full of new arrows. And Bisou's, though the hound had become rather impatient and refused to spend much time with him anymore unless he had meat for her. The same could be said for Blanche, who was now getting along in years, and the old mare was more apt to spend time away from him unless feeding or grooming was in order.
Connor was angry with Jacqueline, yes. Or as angry as he could be, anyway. After Achilles' death was when the poisonous emotion had set in. He was frustrated with her, and his father, and Washington. He was frustrated that he had yet again drawn the short straw, and was left alone.
Steeped in his thoughts, he didn't notice Ellen approaching until she was almost upon him. "Connor, I've your laundry." She hitched a wicker basket up her hip.
"Oh," Connor blinked out of his venomous reverie. "Thank you, Ellen. You can set it inside."
"Right," She smiled brightly and reached into the pocket of her apron to retrieve a small envelope. "This came for you in the post today."
"Thank you." He accepted the letter and opened it. There wasn't much text on the page itself. The script was neat and cursive, though almost too small be read. There were a couple circular, rusty stains where a wine glass had been set. A white dove's feather fluttered out and landed at his feet as he read the short message.
My dearest friend,
Our correspondence is not safe. Your letter reached me but I fear I am raising too much attention to trust any further post to slip through the fingers of the enemies I have provoked here. Even my allies I cannot completely trust yet. I will return before this time next year. Until then, expect to hear little from me.
Love from France,
J.
P.S. I understand your anger. Please, forgive me.
Connor reread the note a few times. As always, no matter rash her actions, she managed to make him feel guilty for ever being upset with her. It was the first he had heard from her in over two years, and he admitted that it was disappointingly short. A few of her choice phrases such as, "My dearest" and "return to you" and "Love from" made something inside his belly and his heart flutter not unpleasantly. He folded the letter up again and tucked it into the front pocket inside his robes, making sure it was safe. He picked up the feather from the ground.
Ellen came out of the manor, her basket empty now of the folded clothes. "So, who's sending you letters, Connor?"
"Jacqueline is in Europe. She only replied to one I sent her." He answered simply, neatly fixing the feather in with the others on his bow.
"Oh! Love letters, then?" The seamstress winked and grinned dazzlingly. "Well, I'll not pry. Have a good day!"
"You as well." He called after, a bit embarrassed, but he would let her think what she wanted.
Bisou came trotting up to him, a surprise after the dog's recent behaviour. Connor knelt and rubbed behind her ears. The hound sniffed around him, settling on his shirt, where Jacqueline's letter was. She whined and sat, her tail making dusty waves back and forth.
"You are smarter than you let on." Connor observed, smiling lightly at the intelligent hunter. He stood and whistled, and the dog came trotting after to hunt with him, the first time she had done so since Jacqueline had left.
Later that day, Bisou curled up in a corner of her mistress's former room and quietly passed away.
-o-
-I love love love the song I chose, because it's so fitting for this whole mini-chappie. Highly recommended song right there!
-Yes, if I'm doing my math right, Bisou was about 10 at this point, making her a fairly old dog for a large hound. Poor puppy. :(
-Review for letters across the ocean!