John sits in the study, finalizing instructions for the estate in his extended absence, contemplating once more the rather complicated family dynamic he is creating by marrying Brianna. This late in his life, the idea of preparing to get married again feels unfathomable, and the fact that it's to a younger woman, the child of his dearest friend, only adds to the strangeness of it all. He should feel sick to his stomach, anxious at the enormity of the change, but instead, he feels an unexpected joy – something almost unsettling about the peace it brings him. A peace that, for all its comfort, feels unfamiliar. The contradiction persists, confounding him further.
His thoughts are interrupted by an abrupt knocking on the door.
"Yes? What is it?" he asks, sharper than intended.
"Has being in the Colonies corrupted your good manners?"
John freezes, the voice unmistakable, one he would recognize anywhere. It can't be. But when he lifts his gaze to the door, standing there is his brother – tall, broad-shouldered, his face still sharp as a blade and posture stiff, as if the arduous voyage has done nothing but enhance his already formidable presence. His heart stalls as his mind begins to race.
"Hal…" It is both a greeting and a question. Without a word, Hal closes the door behind him, the sound echoing through the room and marking the moment his presence settles in. Every graceful movement carries the quiet authority of a man used to commanding attention, and for a heartbeat, the very air seems to hum with the power he brings. John stands motionless, breathless, as the man before him feels both familiar in his strength and presence, and foreign due to the years between them that have created this distance. Hal's presence has always felt like both an invasion and a comfort, like a storm breaking over still waters.
As always, Hal's attire is impeccable. The deep navy blue tailored coat hangs perfectly on his frame, cut from the finest wool and lined with silk. The long sleeves, embroidered at the cuffs, catch the light as he moves. Around his waist, the hilt of his decorated rapier rests against a silk waistcoat in a muted shade of burgundy, half-hidden in the folds of the coat. His high black boots gleam like polished obsidians, rising just below the knee, the soft leather creasing only slightly at the points of movement. He removes his tricorn, tucking it carefully beneath his arm.
"It's good to see you, Johnny. I must say you look rather well." There's a new warmth in Hal's expression as his eyes glimmer with excitement. He's clearly pleased to be here, and the realization that perhaps John misses his brother is unexpected, but not unwelcome.
John blinks once, twice, before responding. His mind still struggles to reconcile the image of the older brother before him with the impossibility of it all. The last time he had seen Hal was years ago, before the world had been so irrevocably altered. The distance between them has become more than physical, and now, with Hal standing in front of him, John can hardly remember what it had been like to have his older brother so close.
"I…um, thank you." John closes his eyes, just in case he's dreaming. When he opens them again, he smiles. "It is good to see you, too."
"I apologize for arriving unannounced on such short notice. I received your letter regarding your engagement, and the one after that, saying the wedding is moving forward. I wrote you a long reply but then I figured it might not reach you in time.
"Yes, indeed. You have arrived just as I am about to ride out. I am in a rush so if you're going to berate me, Hal, please get it over with.
"You might not want to hear or appreciate the things I have to say, but really Johnny? You're my brother, the only younger brother I have. How could you think I would not attend your wedding?" Though his composure remains, emotion clouds Hal's voice, and shining in his eyes is an unfamiliar look of affection – a brother's joy, that John hasn't seen in years, or perhaps never at all.
"Is your wife with you? Is our Mother?" John asks, unsure if he hopes she is or not.
"No, Minerva did not like the idea of such a long journey, nor did she like the idea of leaving the care of our children to anyone for that long. I brought William with me as well. I know he doesn't want to be at the wedding, but I refused to let him wallow in London," Hal sighs, as if planning a battle would have been easier than to respect and deal with a young boy's grief. He reaches into his inner vest pocket, "Mother wrote you a letter for me to deliver to you. She is…she is elated, John. If not for the journey, I believe she would've come herself to welcome her new daughter-in-law. You've made this Brianna sound rather lovely...and exceptional; our mother is eager to meet her."
John accepts the letter, his fingers near trembling over the parchment and the familiar wax seal, "I dare say she is both of those things." John smiles to himself, "Brianna is exceptional in her own ways, but she is from Boston – a colonial woman through and through. She is well-mannered but not nearly as delicate as Isobel was."
"I mean no disrespect when I say this, but perhaps that is a good thing." John is frozen and mouth agape at Hal's words.
"I do beg your pardon?" he asks, certain he has misheard him.
"Do not misunderstand me, I loved her like a little sister – we all adored Isobel…" He pauses for a moment, the mask of his guarded expression faltering, "But you're different from all of us, Johnny, you always have been. You need someone with a sense of adventure to match your own."
"Never let my son hear you say such a thing." John commands, barely keeping the rage from his voice.
"I won't. I have long grieved for you, you know. Not just that you had lost her, but I do recall your vow after her death that you would never marry again. I had hoped that... Well, forgive me if I could not wait to meet the young woman who so quickly changed your mind." There's an unmistakable sincerity in his voice now, a pride in his brother's gaze that John has longed to see for most of his adult life.
Letting his anger dissipate, a small smile emerges, "I am grateful that you would come all this way. I would never ask it of you. As you well know, in my letters I told William that I would respect his decision on whether he would attend or not. I would not – and will not – drag him along, Hal."
"Of course not." Hal's voice regains it's cold, commanding edge. His brother had never been the most sentimental man, but now John wonders if Hal had come simply because of the invitation – or because, after so many years apart, there was something unsaid between them? "Well, I will leave you to finish your business, and then we can be off."
"Off?" John clarifies. Hal moves toward the door, adding over his shoulder.
"I'm coming with you." John is again rendered speechless.
"It's a long ride." John adds, his gaze never leaving Hal's.
"Good thing then that we have much to talk about." With an almost playful smirk, Hal closes the door behind him. It's the kind of smirk that suggests he's pleased for his brother – but that he has a long journey ahead of him.
John falls back into his seat, a quiet relief flooding him. Now, before he leaves, at least he can see his son. Respecting his decision to not attend is one thing, but John would not allow his son to be here and not say hello.
"William?" John's voice is soft, tentative, as he stands at the door, unsure of what to expect. The silence builds like a barrier, until he hears his son's voice from inside.
"Come in, Papa."
John steps into the room, his eyes searching for William, who's sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out the window with a distant expression. "You've grown…"
"You say that every time we're apart and you come home," William replies, rolling his eyes dramatically, though there's a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He doesn't even look up from the window.
"It's always true." John chuckles softly, his heart aching at the familiar deflection. William's grown into a young man, and though his teasing has the same sharp edge, there's an underlying affection in it that John has come to recognize. He lets the playful jab slide, walking further into the room, still trying to figure out how to navigate the emotions that have built up between them.
"William, I know you have no intention of attending the wedding, but I don't like the idea of leaving here alone." John says, his voice softer now, the weight of their estrangement clear.
William sighs, his shoulders slumping in that way that only teenagers seem capable of. "I won't be alone," he says, but the words are lacking the usual defiance.
"I know you're upset with me, and I understand why," John says, his voice gentle yet firm. "But William…I need you to know that nothing in this world will ever bring me more happiness or fulfillment than being your father. This wedding, this new chapter of my life feels like my last chance at finding peace. I never want you to think – or feel – that I'm choosing her over you. Or that you'll be shut out of my life or the family. I see how hard this is for you. I'm not asking for your permission or forgiveness, but I am asking for your understanding."
He lets the silence stretch between them, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a delicate balance – fragile but sincere.
"I will honor your decision, as I've said," John continues, his voice losing its lightness, revealing a vulnerability he's not used to showing. "But it would mean the world to me if you'd come to North Carolina with us. You've already met Mr. and Mistress Fraser. I'd like you to meet Brianna before I marry her."
"We've had a long journey, Papa," William's voice wavers, the words thick with something deeper than just tiredness. It's not the physical toll of travel – it's grief – the sadness that lingers even now, "I'll rest a few days, and if I change my mind, I'll make arrangements to get there."
John takes a step closer, his heart aching as he watches William's face, young but still so heavy,
"You sound so…" He pauses, his voice softer this time.
"Responsible?"
"I was going to say grown-up, but yes, that too." John smirks as he watches his son's feigned annoyance. He can't help but feel a mixture of pride and sadness – pride that William is becoming his own man, and sadness because the distance between them feels impossible to cross at times. He opens his arms, offering the embrace he's always given so freely, unsure whether William would reject it.
William groans, rolling his eyes so dramatically that John can't help but laugh. "Oh, Papa…" he mutters, but then he takes a few steps forward, arms stiff and awkward, before wrapping his arms around his father.
John pulls him in tightly, placing a kiss on the top of William's head the way he always had. It's not the same as when he was a boy – there's more restraint now, more distance. But still, he holds him as if trying to turn back the years that have slipped by, like they're still the same father and son, even though so much has shifted between them.
"I love you, Papa. Travel safely." William's voice is quieter now, less irritated, but still carrying that subtle edge of teenage independence.
"I love you too, my son," John says, his throat thick with emotion. He wants to say more, to try and pull his son closer, but he knows now isn't the time.
"Are we ready?" Hal asks, pacing at the doorway, his question sounding more like a command, as always.
"Yes, I suppose I am." John replies reluctantly, wishing he could spend at least a few more minutes. William pulls out of the hug and sits back on the edge of the mattress with a heavy sigh, "If you change your mind..."
"I know." His voice is quiet, and there's a brief pause before he adds, "I'll think about it." William looks at his father, and for the briefest second, John sees something more in his eyes – something soft, but quickly masked by a forced indifference. It's just enough to make John hope.
"Don't keep me waiting, Johnny," Hal's voice echoes through the halls. John rolls his eyes. He can't help it – it's Hal. And of course, he's being the same way he always is, but still, that little flick of irritation is enough to make John's eyes roll towards the heavens in exasperation. Before he can say anything more, William's voice catches him off-guard, sharp and quiet.
"I saw that, Papa," John freezes for a moment, caught in the act. He turns back to William, a sheepish grin appearing on his face.
"You saw nothing," he mutters, trying to salvage some dignity. "You're too observant for your own good."
Raising an eyebrow, William's eyes twinkle as the ghost of a grin tugs at his lips, "I won't mention it if you don't," he says, leaning back and looking much more like the teenager he is. He doesn't say it aloud, but John sees it – his son is growing up, and that's both wonderful and heartbreaking all at once. Honestly, it is worth it just to see his son smiling. John moves toward the door, just a beat away from stepping out of William's room, but he pauses, lingering a moment longer, looking at his son.
"Take care of yourself, William. I'll see you soon enough." His voice carries a tone of fatherly concern, but it seems there's always more he wants to say.
William, trying to hold it together, gives a tight, emotionless nod. With a quiet sigh, John steps out, closing the door behind him gently. The echo of it lingers in the hallway, a subtle reminder of what he's leaving behind.
As he walks down the corridor, his thoughts tangle – mostly about William, but also the inevitable journey ahead. And then he reaches the stables. There, Hal is already waiting. He stands by a fence, adjusting the position of his tricorn hat with a flick of his fingers, his coat settled perfectly on his shoulders. John approaches, though he doesn't make any move to rush.
"At last," Hal calls out, his voice carrying that familiar teasing tone. "I took the liberty of having your horse saddled for you."
John raises an eyebrow. "My horse…whatever for?"
Hal shrugs with a grin, his hands resting casually on the reins of his own mount. "To ride, of course."
John glances skeptically at his horse, "I was not kidding when I said it is a long journey. I assumed you would prefer a carriage."
"I prefer to keep our conversations private, Johnny," Hal says, his tone suddenly more serious. "A carriage can be a bit too…open. We have much to talk about, and I don't want anyone in earshot of what we're saying." His eyes flicker knowingly as he gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward the stable, as though to emphasize the idea of privacy.
John watches his brother for a beat, still taken aback by Hal's rare show of restraint. "All right, who are you? And what have you done with my brother?" he asks with a smirk.
Hal chuckles, low and genuine, shaking his head. "I'm still your brother, John. But it's been too long since we've had time for a proper conversation."
John exhales, a mixture of amusement and exasperation as he walks toward the horse, taking the reins. Runing his hand over its neck briefly, John swings up into the saddle, feeling the familiar weight and rhythm of it beneath him. There's a comfort in riding – something that makes the miles ahead seem just a bit less daunting.
Hal watches him with a knowing smile before mounting his own steed – a larger, black stallion with an air of quiet authority. "Ready?" he asks, giving the horse a slight nudge.
John nods, his gaze briefly flicking to his brother before focusing ahead on the road. "I suppose I am."
They ride side by side, the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves the only sound accompanying them as the estate begins to fade into the distance. Neither of them urges their horses faster. There's a long way to go yet, and John can't shake the growing unease gnawing at him. What could Hal possibly need to discuss so urgently that the privacy of a carriage is not enough? Is someone dying? Or dead? Is Hal dying or in imminent danger? Did someone else from John's past come forward with new threats to expose his secrets and ruin the family name…again? Is the crown declaring war?
Hal starts the conversation with safe pleasantries, commenting on the beauty of the nature that surrounds them and the almost uncomfortable warm weather of the south compared to England. Then, Hal shifts the subject, talking mostly of himself – his wife, his children, and the cruelty of death. As he speaks, Hal is unfazed while John's mind is consumed with thoughts of war, death, and scandal. It only makes him feel more uneasy, wondering just how long it will be before Hal finally speaks the words that have been weighing on his mind. As John is about to interrupt him, Hal finally makes eye contact.
"You are more than capable of taking care yourself," Hal says, his voice unexpectedly softer. "But ever since Isobel died, I've been thinking about you a great deal more."
"She died years ago, Hal," John mutters. He's not trying to dismiss her, but he can't hide his confusion.
"As did Lieutenant Dalrymple…"
John's head turns so sharp so fast he fears his neck will snap. His grip on the reins tightens, turning his knuckles white. For a heartbeat, his entire body is consumed by a rush of anger so hot it turns his blood to ice. The audacity, of all people, for Hal to bring up Hector so casually – placing him on the same level as Isobel, as if Hector would have ever been as loved and adored as she was. His teeth grind together, biting back the urge to shout. If he weren't on this saddle, he might have broken his brother's jaw right then and there.
"Is there a point to this joyful tirade, or is this your long-winded way of saying you're worried about me, or are you more worried about the woman I'm about to marry?" John's voice rises in annoyance, but underneath there's an even deeper pain and anger. Even if their union had been allowed, Hector would never have been loved and accepted in the same way Isobel was.
"I always worry for you, John," Hal responds, his voice heavy with the sincerity that only comes from years of brotherly concern. "It's not something I can turn off on a whim."
John scoffs, his mouth twitching. "Worried more about what new ways I will tarnish the family name?"
Hal's gaze doesn't flinch, his tone deepens, but no less firm . "Yes, but John, you understand why I do. I had no choice but to send you to Ardsmuir."
"You had a choice, Hal, and you made it." John's voice comes out laced with resentment. The silence that follows is thick with tension, stretching the chasm between them even wider. John's words linger, unresolved. Finally, he speaks again, "I loved Isobel…but she was not the love of my life."
The admission is raw, slipping out before he can stop it and the words cut through the layers of anger and frustration. John is laying bare something he's confessed to exactly one other person, and that was not his brother.
Hal's expression shifts, a subtle understanding flickering across his face. "I know," he says gently. "There are things we don't talk about, but I know them all the same, Johnny. I know you lost someone you loved at Culloden." There's something in Hal's voice now – something safer, a rare tenderness that for the first time in years, John feels a hint of safety – a feeling that Hal might actually be ready and willing to listen.
For as long as he has needed to hear such a tone in his brother's voice, John isn't certain he's able to speak – not these words. After all the years of silent judgment and resentment, telling him would only make Hal more ashamed of his 'different' little brother who not only lost to Red Jamie…but who was too weak to fight back against an even worse monster. But the words come before he decided to say them.
"That is not all I lost at Culloden…" John's voice cracks when he finally speaks, the words tasting like ash as they leave his lips. His eyes dart toward the horizon, not ready to face his brother just yet, seeking solace in the distance. It's a battle, as it has been for two decades. Finally, he looks at Hal, his gaze resigned. "More than just someone I loved, it took pieces of me, too – things I'll never get back."
Hal, riding alongside him, watches him with an expression that mingles confusion and concern. "What do you mean?"
John swallows, fighting the lump that constricts his throat. Hal is right beside him now, their legs almost touching as his brother looks at him with open confusion and genuine concern. The question is there – fearful but patient. John has only shared this with Brianna and Jamie, but he never thought that after near twenty-five years, the day to tell his brother would come.
"Do you remember after the battle of Prestonpans?" John asks, though he doesn't need the answer. "I was ignored, ridiculed, hated. Hector became my only friend, my only source of solace before the war. His death at Culloden – those days after – they were a nightmare I could not wake from. I needed to get away...needed air...to escape the glares of men who wished I'd died on that battlefield." His voice falters and John closes his eyes, allowing the memories he has actively suppressed to finally flood his mind.
"I never saw him, Hal. He was behind me. And then...he just was – came out of nowhere. His hand covered my mouth before I could scream, he unarmed me before I process what was happening." The words rush out now, too fast, too tangled. They trip over each other. "The shock of it, the pain…" His voice cracks, a rawness he can't control. His throat tightens as his chest heaves with emotion. "It's why I still carry my dagger to this day."
Him, who? Hal's voice cuts through the storm of John's thoughts, unsure, confused. "Johnny, what are you talking about?" John's breath hitches. He wipes his eyes, but his hand trembles.
"I don't know who he was, Hal. That's why...after..." His words catch again, too many fragments of memories pulling at him at once. He tries to swallow the shame, but it sits lodged in his throat. "The reasons you sent me to Ardsmuir...I was trying to bury it. Trying to forget...all of it. And the bloody shame…" At that, Hal stops the horse. The reins shake in his hands, and his gaze shifts to John, distant and confused.
"All these years, John…all these bloody years, and you never once...?" The question hangs in the air, unspoken but felt between them. Hal's eyes are full of hurt, confusion, but there is something darker underneath – something far more dangerous. John braces himself, fear gnawing at the edges of his resolve.
He prepares for the disbelief, for Hal to tell him he'd been a willing participant. The thought alone makes his stomach churn. But then, Hal dismounts, abruptly, almost violently. He pulls John from the saddle with a desperate force that leaves John no room to resist. John buries his face in Hal's shoulder, and though his brother's arms feel foreign around him, they are steady; unyielding. I t's everything John needs, everything he never allowed himself to ask for.
John stands motionless; disoriented. Perhaps Hal's embrace is simply because they're alone in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around to witness such an open and emotional display. For a fleeting second, John is sixteen again, doing the one thing he wished he could do back then – run to his big brother for protection. For what feels like an eternity John doesn't move, until his breath shudders.
In the safety of that embrace, John screams, as loud and as long as he would have that night. The echo of his broken, raw and guttural cry carries all his fear, pain, anger, and shame to the forest around them, heard only by Hal, swallowed by the trees, the birds, and the creatures of the forest. His tears come next, hot and relentless, all of it rises up and crashes over him again and again until his throat is raw and his voice hoarse. It's as if everything he's kept buried is rushing to get out lest he bury it and lock it away once more.
John is still pressed against Hal's chest when the echo of the scream finally fades out, dizziness sweeps over him. The pulse thunders through his chest, his body shaking with the aftermath, and his grip on Hal tightens like an anchor in a storm. Hal returns in kind and holds him steady, refusing to let go as the world still spins.
As his breathing evens out, Hal loosens his hold but doesn't let go. John pulls back, his face flush and still raw with emotion, wiping his eyes. He glances at Hal but looks away, unable to meet his brother's gaze. Hal stands motionless for a moment more, his gaze fixed on the ground, his expression unreadable. But then he lets out a slow breath.
The silence that follows the scream is a suffocating and oppressive weight on John's chest. He watches Hal with a quiet intensity, the look in his eyes is still full of concern – softer now, but shadowed with an uncertainty that John feels in his bones. He is unsure of what's unsaid between them, unsure if it's something they'll ever speak aloud. Hal takes a moment to check the saddlebags, pretending that he isn't glancing over at John as he does. Hal's hands move to the reins, the motion almost mechanical in its certainty, having already made up his mind.
"Shall we continue on?" Hal's voice is steady, though there's a rasp in it, betraying the rawness beneath. John nods, wordless, his voice lost somewhere deep inside him.
With a slight tug, Hal leads the way, John lowers his head in submission, the reins loose in his hands as they walk. The decision to walk rather than ride is unspoken but clear – one that is framed as a question but is more a command. He can't lift his eyes from the road as he follows behind his brother, wondering despite his brothers comfort and assurance that he just ruined something between them.
They walk for a while, side by side, the rhythm of their steps fills the space between them. John doesn't expect Hal to speak, nor could he find the words himself. The steady pace offers a quiet sort of comfort, the sound of the birds overhead, the soft rustle of the trees – all of it feels like a balm for the rawness inside him. As their walking settles into something familiar, a strange kind of peace begins to settle too. Neither of them speak, and yet, it feels like the loudest conversation they've ever had.
John doesn't know how long they walk, but the sun has shifted position by the time he feels a subtle shift within himself. The stillness that had settled in his chest seems to open, and in that space, words begin to stir. Inhaling a deep breath, John closes his eyes for a moment, gathering the courage he hadn't known he would need.
Without being asked, he begins to tell Hal the events as he remembers them, despite the lack of clues to the scoundrel's identity. He emphasizes how quick it all was, how it could have been worse, as if that might comfort his brother or somehow lessen the weight of it all. But as he speaks, John isn't sure if he's convincing Hal – or himself.
"I just made peace, or accepted, that I would never know who it was."
The words linger, an unsettling shift in Hal's demeanor that John can't understand. All this time John had imagined anger, confusion, rage – even sympathy – would be his brother's reaction to this knowledge. But this silence... this withholding of emotion, is something John never anticipated.
Hal's troubled eyes avoid John's, and in that brief second, John sees something else creep into his eyes amidst the surprise and rage – fear...and recognition.
John's pulse accelerates, there's a war within him now, between the instinct to mount his horse and ride fast and far to escape the unbearable weight of it all – and the desire to stand his ground and face it head-on. His feet, however, remain planted, step by step with Hal, matching his pace. He watches his brother, studying him with an intensity that feels foreign, as if something inside him demands answers – something that will either restore the peace or rip it apart.
The words are a pressure, pushing from his mind and flooding his chest, forcing him to ask a question he's never considered - one he is now terrified to ask after all these years.
"What do you know?"
Hal's expression is a mixture of reluctance and remorse, as though he's wrestling with the weight of something he's never spoken aloud. Finally, his lips part, but the words don't come easily, as if the very act of voicing them would make it real in a way it never was before.
A sickening sense of dread coils in John's stomach. It's a mix of disbelief and frustration, of regret and longing, all twisted together. His mind flashes back to their childhood – back when there was no space for secrets, when their relationship was simple, when trust was a given. But that feels like a lifetime ago now, and the gulf between them has grown so wide that every passing second only makes the silence more unbearable.
As the seconds stretch on, the familiar knot of unease tightens in John's chest. He doesn't want to ask again, doesn't want to push Hal further, but the silence is unbearable. The words sit there between them, immovable, impossible to ignore. The longer Hal takes, the heavier the air grows, suffocating like the thick humidity of the North Carolina heat – hot and oppressive, threatening to choke him.
Hal shifts uncomfortably, eyes still not meeting John's. He looks toward the horizon, as though he too is searching for some form of escape, but there's no getting away from this now. He exhales,
"I didn't know...not for certain," Hal says, low and careful, as if the words he's about to say are just as dangerous as the silence that preceded them. "The changes in you, John...I assumed the death of Hector and the events after Culloden were responsible for them. I thought that in time you would make your peace and find a way to move past it." Hal's voice cracks slightly, "And I know that pain went on for years. I ought to have done more, Johnny – to have discerned that something more was tormenting you to such self-destructive ends. "
John's hands tighten around the reins, knuckles white with the pressure as his throat constricts. The words that follow catch in his chest, his pulse quickening. "But you suspected something? Even if you couldn't prove it?"
Hal lifts his gaze to meet John's, regret written on his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words seem to falter in the space between them.
"How could I suspect something like this? I couldn't know…" He trails off, taking a long pause before continuing, "All I knew is that when you returned from Scotland, something had broken in you, Johnny. I should have asked. But I thought you'd tell me when you were ready."
John's breath hitches, a bitter laugh escaping him at the thought. "I would never have told you, Hal. Even if you had asked, I would have chosen death over that confession." He admits softly. Hal's shoulders sag slightly, a subtle shift that speaks volumes more than the words themselves.
"I know…" Hal shifts uneasily, looking away again. He seems to wrestle with his own discomfort before speaking, his voice strained. "I should have done more, Johnny. I should've been there for you, in ways I wasn't. I could've been more... compassionate."
John's chest tightens at the admission. He's about to speak, but something stops him. His heart feels heavy, weighed down by a mixture of anger, confusion, and that same sickening recognition in Hal's eyes. He can't help but ask the question that's been gnawing at him.
"Did you ever hear anything about it? Rumors? Or... even drunken whispers from men who were there?" His voice trembles, just barely above a whisper, as though speaking it aloud could make it real.
Hal's eyes flicker toward him, but he doesn't answer right away. His breath comes shallow and uneven. There's something in his expression, something John can't place, and it stirs a fresh wave of panic in his gut.
"Are you telling me...do you know who it was?" John's voice is rising, though his body still feels frozen in place. His gaze locks on Hal's, not letting his brother turn away, not letting him avoid the question any longer.
Hal's face tightens, a mix of reluctance and something else in his eyes. His lips part, but it's clear the name is stuck in his throat, as though speaking it would make it too real, too dangerous.
He exhales slowly, looking away as if to gather his thoughts. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. "I don't have a face or a name, John... But from the little you've told me, it sounds like it could be someone high-ranking, someone protected, but–"
John cuts him off, the tension snapping inside him. "But what?" His voice cracks, the emotion spilling out faster than he can control.
Hal's eyes harden, not in anger but something far more complex. He looks at John with something like pity, but also understanding, like he knows the weight of what he's about to say. "But the consequences of digging into this, John... it would've torn everything apart. Our family, our name. It wasn't something to take lightly."
The words hit John like a physical blow, his mind racing with the implications. He wants to shout, to demand answers, but something in Hal's expression tells him this isn't something either of them can face yet – not fully.
John's heart races as he cuts in, his voice strained with disbelief and frustration. "Did it not matter to you, Hal? All these years, was it easy to ignore it? To pretend it didn't–" He stops himself, unable to finish the thought. "I don't even know why we're discussing this...it's far too late to change anything."
Hal's eyes harden, not in anger, but in something colder than ice, darker than the night sky. His jaw tightens as he steps a little closer to John, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone. "Do not mistake my silence for indifference, Johnny. I haven't had the proper context for years, but now that I do, I know what it means. After the wedding and upon my return to London, I'll make certain this man's name is uncovered, no matter what. But you need to understand something." He fixes John with an intense, unyielding gaze. "When I know who it was – if they're still alive when I do – no one will be safe, Johnny. Not for this. No one."
John feels a shiver run down his spine at the ferocity in Hal's voice. There's a finality to it, a certainty that chills him to the bone. His chest tightens – both grateful for the promise, but also fearful of what it might bring. For the first time, a thought he's never allowed himself to entertain rises to the surface: he may finally have a chance to confront the man. It was always a lost cause in his mind - the truth along with the past would remain buried, but Hal's promise has cracked open a door John never thought would budge. A not-so-quiet voice suggests it is not Hal who should be the executioner. Now the reality of it is creeping in, like a slow, steady wave that he can't stop, gripping his heart with something that might be fear – or perhaps something far more frightening.
"Thank you," John says, his voice is much more subdued than he feels. He looks away, then back at Hal, a small, almost imperceptible surge – he doesn't know if it's the anger, the pain, or something else entirely, but the feeling is clear. "If you find him...you need to let me face him."
Hal stares at him for a long moment, and though there's no outward change in his expression, John can feel the tension in the air between them. Hal's protective nature runs deep, and though he doesn't immediately respond, John knows he's heard the unspoken request – more than a request, really. It's a need.
"No matter what this reckoning brings, you will not face him alone, John," Hal says, his tone low and firm. "You've always had my back, I'll be at yours." Hal's jaw tightens. "And if I need to take this into my own hands to protect you, I will," he adds, almost as an afterthought.
John meets his brother's eyes. The promise hangs between them, an unspoken agreement they both know will come to pass. Hal's eyes lock on John's briefly as they walk on, a silent warning beneath the surface: This might not end the way you think it will.
Then Hal gives a small, almost imperceptible smile, his voice teasing yet tinged with fatigue. "Well, my dear brother, I don't know about you, but I think we're getting a bit too old for all this walking. Perhaps it's time we let the horses resume the heavy lifting."
"I quite agree. I'm starting to feel it more every year, but at the moment walking feels better."
Hal gives him a sidelong glance, his voice light but with a hint of mischief. "You're not looking for an excuse to escape, are you, Johnny? Don't want to be late – or worse, injured – before your big day."
John snorts, rolling his eyes, though he can't help the reluctant grin tugging at his lips. "You've got me figured out, Hal." Hal gives a slight nod.
The silence stretches out as they mount their horses. Hal stands a moment longer, watching John carefully, as if waiting for some sign that he's truly steady, both in body and spirit. John shifts in the saddle, a small but telling motion . His hands grip the reins a little too tightly, his posture stiff – yet he manages to hold himself upright, even if the weight of the world still feels heavy on his shoulders.
"Ready to continue?" He asks, once satisfied that his brother won't topple from the saddle. His gaze lingers, still protective, still unsure, waiting for a beat longer as John settles himself into the rhythm of the ride.
John can only nod in acknowledgment, the weight of what Hal has said too much for him to express anything more. Gratitude, yes – he feels that. But beneath it all, there is also a rising tide of anger, one that churns in his chest and makes his throat tight. He's torn between the two: the relief that Hal would make such a promise and the frustration that it has taken them this long to even begin addressing the truth.
Hal takes a moment to steady himself. His gaze is distant, lost somewhere in the forest ahead, "I know you still grieve, and I regret that my words and actions back then made you feel as though you couldn't come to me. But...have you ever told anyone?"
"No, not until Brianna." John's response is measured, yet there's an undeniable edge to his words.
Hal's brow furrows, the disbelief cutting through him. "You knew Isobel our entire lives, yet you trusted this woman more with such a secret?"
A smirk tugs at his lips at the thought, "She's kept many secrets for me already. She knows everything, Hal. "
Hal nods again, then gently nudges his own horse forward. The path ahead is long, and though the weight of their conversation hangs in the air, the steady clop of their horses' hooves fills the space between them, grounding them in the present. With each step, John feels the tension in his shoulders begin to ease, though he knows the conversation isn't finished – not by a long shot.