And In The Silence After by C. J. Lavigne
~1800 words, 9 minutes reading time
Issue 1 (Winter, February 2023)
Behind the great stone walls, the city is celebrating.
From the hillside overlooking, this revelry is visible only through the glow of lights. The soft hint of coloured lanterns spills above the balustrades in shades of crimson and blue. The occasional sparkling explosion of golden fireworks lights the dark, illuminating tiled roofs and spires and the massive tower at the centre, its windows gleaming with too many candles.
Cheering comes intermittently, fragile and drifting in the night. It is just enough to reach the forest, where the trees gather close and a single rider follows the path up toward the little house at the edge of the bluff. Here, only soft sounds venture: the rustle of the breeze in the leaves, the chirp of a cricket, the soft thunk-thunk of the horse’s hooves and the creak of a leather saddle. The rider’s breath frosts, but only a little. It is not so cold.
His disguise is poor: an ostensibly plain cloak still too richly furred to be anything but noble, thrown haphazardly over fine thick silks. There’s embroidery on his gloves, and his horse is too high-spirited and long-limbed. Still, in the dark, there is no one to know him, or that he should not be here.
No light escapes the black lump of the cottage. Slumped in tall grasses where the trees taper and the path ends, it is mostly detectable through absence, a void blocking the stars. The horse shies at a trickle of pebbles beneath one foot before its master murmurs.
The rider dismounts, tying the horse to the post outside, and he does not pause or fumble in the night. The latch on the door gives way before him; he jiggles it lightly and pushes with his left foot in just the right spot so that the tricky wood will shudder open.
Inside, it is warm enough, and the rider shuts the door against the night and the distant revelry before taking five short steps to the fireplace where dying embers still very faintly glow. There is a pile of wood already chopped, waiting in a basket by the hearth; it is the work of a moment to throw on more logs and breathe the flames back to life.
The rider pushes back the hood of his furred cloak; the soft gleam from the hearth traces the fine planes of his features, strong nose and furrowed brow, a well-trimmed beard and a gold band that glitters across his temples. He is a large man, his gloved hands deft with the poker; he grunts when he straightens, and rubs ruefully at his thighs. There is enough light now to see the interior of the cottage, small but well-kept, more solid than it appears and simply but nicely appointed: heavy curtains, a low table and chairs, a shelf creaking with books and pots and jars. The carpets that cover the floor are rich and thick. The bed, heaped with blankets, is occupied.
“Your fire was almost out,” notes the rider, low-voiced.
There is a pause, during which the pile of blankets does not move, but eventually it responds, “Good thing you’re here.” The pile sounds muzzy, dream-disturbed, but its tone is amiable enough. The blankets themselves are like the carpets—expensively made, warm and plush.
The rider only moves far enough to sit, dropping a touch heavily at the mattress edge. The bed creaks beneath him.
The bed observes, “You’ve been drinking,” and the rider snorts.
“Obviously.”
“Shouldn’t you be out there waving?”
“The parading is done. They’re all carousing in the streets now, and no one needs me for that.” The rider tugs off a glove and places his hand on the blankets; his fingers are short and broad, without adornment. “Can you get up,” he asks, gently. “I wanted to show you.”
“It’s late,” murmurs the pile of blankets. “Your intentions, my lord—are they honourable?” A heavy fringe of wool shifts, though, and a slender hand emerges, ashen and veined. “My slippers.”
The rider has already reached for the slippers where they are tucked at the end of the bed, and he nudges them closer, placing them for two delicate feet as they emerge trembling from the covers. The rider’s broad hand takes the other’s ankles, gently, one by one, and slides the slippers on, mindful of crooked toes. “It’s chilly. I’ll get your cloak.”
“Hn.” The man who finally emerges from his cocoon, hair wild and sallow face unshaven, only drags two of the blankets over his thickly-robed shoulders. “These are already warm.” The fire etches his face in deep shadows; the lines of him are carved harshly but not cleanly. He is shaking.
“Unfashionable, though.”
“I’ll survive.”
The rider opens his mouth, and the man in the bed says, “Don’t,” and then the rider slides an arm around the other man’s shoulders and helps him to rise. The thin man is taller, swaying beneath the weight of his blankets. He coughs once, his hand clenching around the rider’s wrist.
“Have you eaten?” murmurs the rider. “Do you need anything?”
“I already have a nursemaid, and she’ll be back at dawn.”
“Hm. She should be here now.”
“She has a family, Rafe.”
“Then I’ll hire two more.”
“Don’t you dare. Look, I was sleeping. I was fine. Why are you here?”
“You should see.” The sturdier man keeps his arm around his companion’s shoulders, and his other hand at the thin man’s elbow. They move together easily, mindful of the darkness. “Watch your step. Tell me if it gets too cold.”
“Mn,” says the thin man—and he coughs again, short and dry, but he does not complain. He only braces himself, the blankets pulled closer before the rider opens the door and the two men can step outside to where the chill nips at their fingers.
The horse is waiting, which merits a delighted, “Hello, you old bastard,” from the thin man—who consents to lean against its broad chestnut neck, stroking, while the rider sweeps the furred cloak from his own shoulders and lays it out a little ways away, over the grass. The horse whuffles and nudges at the thin man’s shoulder.
“You haven’t unsaddled him?”
“I can’t stay. They’ll be yelling for me soon–I’m supposed to be anointed with a frankly astonishing variety of oils in order to properly receive the sublime provenance of the people, or… something like. It sounds messy.” The rider returns to escort the other man to the spread cloak. “Sit. Have a look at the city. Can you still see it?”
“I can hear it well enough.” The tall man, blankets held tight, lets his companion lower him to the furs; his long legs fold carefully, and he cranes his neck in the direction of the distant walls. “I can see the fireworks, a little. Is it as late as I think?”
“Probably.” The rider sits himself down at the edge of the spread-out cloak, and angles himself just so, so that the thin man can lean back against his shoulder. The thin man makes a discontented sound, extending the blankets and holding them open insistently until the rider shares them, burrowing under and tucking one arm around his haggard charge. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.” He is abashed now, with their breath clouding and the horse stamping an impatient foot as it shifts in the chill.
“No. It’s good. They sound like victory.” The thin man smiles faintly, the lines of his mouth pulling deep, and he lets the rider take his weight. His gaze drifts across the distant city, unfocused save when a glitter of sparks catches his attention. “They sound happy.”
“Hm.” The rider shakes his head. “They should be happy,” he clarifies, “but they’re toasting my name. It should be yours.”
The man in the blankets makes a small sound at the back of his throat. “Oh, no thank you. Ysolde, though.”
“Ah, they won’t forget Ysolde. I’ve put a statue up for her.” The rider surveys the city, then extends his free arm, tightening his grip around his companion’s shoulders as he leans in, pointing along the walled skyline. “Just there, under that gold flash, in the main square. It’s twenty feet tall and she’d hate every inch of it.”
“She’s going to haunt you.”
“Your pedestal is waiting next to it. Ten pedestals. All around the inner gates, and the biggest just outside the tower.”
“I am begging you not to.”
“Then you’ll need to be here to stop me.” The rider is infinitely mild.
“Ah,” says the thin man. “Well, then.”
The rider pulls the taller man more snugly against him, and buries his face in the other’s hair. He inhales, slowly, and says nothing.
The slender man, too, is silent. The horse whickers. For a while, there is only the sound of the distant celebrations, cheering and the pop of sparkling explosions, and the wind in the trees and the very soft sound of two men’s breaths frosting in the air. The thin man is content to lean against his companion, blankets tucked snugly; his eyes are half-lidded, but he tilts his head, alert to each wave of raucous celebration. It is the rider who slouches a little further and a little more comfortably with each slow exhale, his chin descending to the other man’s shoulder. “Was it worth it?” murmurs the rider, finally.
“Hmm?” The swaddled man smiles slightly. He turns his head, leaning his cheek against the rider’s, and he extends one hand to trace a long finger over the hammered gold circlet that rests on the other man’s brow. “Yes.” His hand spasms, and he draws it back, burying his fingers in soft wool. “I see you here. I listen to them singing. The choice was easy; the bargain was good.”
The sound the rider makes is noncommittal. He wraps both of his arms around the taller man, holding the other closer still, and he looks out at the city, his head lifting. “Twenty pedestals.”
“Alright then, no. It wasn’t worth it, after all.”
They only sit then, warm against the evening frost, the thin man held snugly in the rider’s arms. The horse pulls at the grass; the fire crackles in the cottage; the city, in the distance, rejoices.
When a low, rumbling wheeze drifts in the night, the thin man turns his head, snorting indulgently at his snoring companion; he lifts his hand again, extending one slender finger as he traces the gold band once more, nudging it up on the left to straighten it across the rider’s brow. Tugging the blankets more securely around them both, he slouches against the rider’s side and turns his unfocused gaze back to the silhouetted walls. A shower of red sparks blooms behind the tower, followed by distant cheers; the man’s lips curve. Whether there is a hint of wryness there, or regret—he is smiling.