"I hate you," Alcor said flatly and threw the block of charcoal that should have been bread out the kitchen door for some animal desperate enough to try eating it.
Meir laughed. "You're definitely no baker, lad, no matter how hard we try. At least that soup smells good."
Alcor rolled his eye and went to check on said soup, trying a small sip of the broth before tossing in a few more bits of herbs. Satisfied, he set the soup spoon aside and went to find a rag to clean up. He felt as though he were wearing more flour than had actually been used to make the damned bread.
"Shall we have another go?" Meir asked.
"You want bread, you make it," Alcor retorted. "I think if, after a year of trying, all I get nine times out of ten is charcoal, then we are safe in saying that bread making is your job. I am officially retired from baking." Meir snickered, but let it go.
Alcor strode out of the kitchen and down the hall to the study, settling down in the leather chair and pulling out the books to catch up on the week's bookkeeping. Of all the problems they had faced upon settling in, money and supplies had been the greatest obstacles.
Their boon had been the money his father had tucked away in a strongbox. It had provided more than enough to obtain what they needed from a village a few hours away. Well, for Meir to obtain, since Alcor did not dare show his face for fear of ruining any chance at establishing relations. The money had also been sufficient in allowing them to set up various investments that currently kept them comfortably situated.
Bookkeeping took no time at all, mostly because it was something that he had found he enjoyed doing. When that was finished, he wrote out two letters—one to the solicitor through whom he maintained his investments, and the other to the bookshop clerk he dealt with to obtain more volumes. Already he was having to make numerous changes to the study to accommodate the expansion of his book collection.
Letters finished, he closed them and sealed them with the rose crest he'd had made a few months before. Just as he finished, he heard the familiar sound of a horse racing up the drive and Meir's steps as he went to the door to greet the boy—the book clerk's son, in fact—who ran errands for them.
He grimaced, reluctant as always to face anyone, but it was dark and though it had taken a good three months, the boy had grown accustomed to the horrific sight of him. Anyway, his new books should have come that day and he wanted them. Tidying up the desk, Alcor left it and went to join Meir outside.
Sure enough, the boy, Thomas, was near to falling over with packages. Foodstuffs, a few clothing bundles, and a paper-wrapped package that could only be Alcor's books. Thomas darted a look at Alcor, then quickly looked away, but he smiled brightly enough as he deposited the goods, and he handed the books directly to Alcor, instead of leaving them for him to pick up himself. "Good afternoon!"
"Good afternoon, Thomas," Meir greeted. "How is your father?"
"Well," Thomas said. "He says snow will come soon, so you'd best get in any further requests before travel makes getting them impossible."
Alcor laughed, a deep, rough sound, but much improved from the fact that once he had not been able to laugh at all without coughing. He handed over the just-penned letters and a couple of coins. "That will be all for the rest of the year, I promise. Would you like some soup?"
Thomas immediately nodded and followed them through the house to the kitchen. Meir fixed him up with soup and bread and a cup of tea. Then he made up a bowl of his own and shot Alcor a look when he would have nothing more than tea.
Ignoring him, Alcor focused on the tea, mind wandering over the chores left for the day before he could retire to read and rest.
"Um…" Thomas started to speak, then fell silent, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Alcor shared a look with Meir, who gently prodded, "What is it boy?"
"Ah—well—I was wondering… See, some people came into town today to go up the mountain. Well, come up the mountain near here, you see. To see the healer, I mean. And I wondered, why don't you ever go to see the healer?" The last was spoken to the soup bowl, with a brief, nervous glance at Alcor.
"Healer?" Alcor asked blankly.
Thomas' head shot up, face bright with eagerness. "Yeah! The healer. He's famous, you know. The best one for miles around. They say there's no illness or wound he can't fix. I'm sure he could—um—well—you know. Help."
Alcor smiled briefly and took another sip of tea. "I'm beyond helping, I'm afraid."
"He can fix anything," Thomas said stubbornly, then took another swallow of soup. "This is really good."
"Thank you," Alcor murmured over the rim of his teacup. It smelled good, and he knew the broth was excellent—that was the most past tea he could keep down, even after all this time. Meir liked to say the inability to eat was all in his head, but if so, that was also where the memories of burning flesh resided, which only made sense so far as Alcor was concerned. "I believe there is still a slice or two of pumpkin pie, if you are inclined."
"Am I ever!" Thomas said, and finished his soup with enthusiasm, then bolted off to find the pie for himself.
Meir chuckled and went to refill his bowl, grabbing a couple more pieces of bread as well. "So what books did you get this time?"
"A few more history tomes," Alcor said, unwrapping the package to examine the contents, not certain himself he remembered which ones he had sought. "Ah. An accounting of when the royal family nearly died out, a history of the first faerie wars." He picked up a small book bound in green leather and held it out. "An herbal."
Meir looked surprised then took the book with a smile. "Thank you."
Alcor shrugged and continued to examine the last two books in the set, both general histories of the country. It had, for whatever reason, become an interest. Though his next order was mostly going to be scientific and medical books; history was his primary interest, not his sole.
"Maybe you should seek out this healer, if there really is one," Meir said thoughtfully. "The lotions and creams ease the pain somewhat, aye, but perhaps a healer could offer a few more ideas. There is no stipulation in the curse that you be completely and totally miserable."
"I'm fine," Alcor said shortly. He was. The pain was not fun, but it was much better than it had been upon his first waking, even than it had been a little over a year ago when they'd first arrived at the lodge. No doubt, as the years passed, it would improve of its own accord. Gallivanting off to see a healer was pointless, and he had no desire to inflict himself upon society anyway.
"Stubborn," Meir muttered, but let it go as Thomas returned to enthusiastically devour the remains of the pie Meir had made just the other day. "You'd best be getting back," he said after a time. "Your father will worry if you're not back before dark, and dark comes early this time of year."
Thomas heaved an aggrieved sigh, but obediently carried his dishes to the washing pail and double checked he still had the letters given to him by Alcor. "Anything else you need before I leave?"
"No," Alcor said. "Don't dawdle."
"I won't," Thomas said with a grimace. "Not with those creepy soldiers come to town, sniffing around and bothering everyone."
Meir lifted a brow at that. "Oh?"
"They won't say nothing," Thomas said. "Just stay in the inn and walk around the town all scary like and ask a bunch of stupid questions." He shrugged. "Papa says they're probably looking for some criminal who's escaped. They'll be gone soon, he says." He glanced at Alcor, then away again. "You really should go to the healer. He's nice."
Alcor almost laughed, but instead only shrugged. "I'll think about it. Run along home now."
"Yes, sir," Thomas said and bolted from the kitchen with a final wave and farewell.
"Soldiers?" Meir said softly after they heard him leave. "Do you suppose…"
"I doubt it," Alcor said dismissively. "That was more than a year ago; how would they track us all the way out here? That aside, only Thomas and his father have ever seen me, and they will not just hand us over even if they do put two and two together."
Meir nodded, though he still looked troubled. "Your soup really is marvelous. I do not understand how you can cook so splendidly, but bake so terribly."
Alcor rolled his eye, but said nothing, merely moved to wash the few dishes in the basin. He looked out the window over the washing tubs, eying the sky critically. "You may want to bring in more firewood."
"Aye," Meir said and drained his tea before moving to the back door, grabbing the cloak hanging there before slipping outside.
Dishes washed, Alcor put away the remaining soup, carefully storing it in the larder for Meir to steal later. He put away the bread and fetched a rag to wash down the table. Finished, he threw it in the wash basin and blew out the lights in the kitchen, minus one for Meir to see by.
Then he went upstairs and washed down with the water in a wash bowl, tossing the used water out the window. Slipping into older, softer clothes, he went back downstairs in time to help Meir disperse firewood throughout the house—study, kitchen, and their respective bedrooms. He looked at Meir in question as they finished.
"I'm going to lie here a bit and do some reading," Meir said, motioning to his bed. "My old bones like the soft."
Alcor rolled his eye, but nodded and motioned out the door before heading that way. Meir rumbled an absent agreement, knowing Alcor meant he was going down to the study and to come find him if anything was needed. Though his voice was repaired enough to speak as often as he liked, Alcor had grown used to being brief and, most often, silent.
Downstairs, he fetched the books he'd left in the kitchen, put out the light, and moved to the study. Sitting down, he added the new books to the catalogue he had created while bored one rainy day then shelved them in their appropriate places, minus the one he wanted to read.
Moving to the reading chair he had moved to rest beside the windows, he pulled up a lap blanket and began to read. He'd been reading for perhaps an hour when the sound of hooves on the drive broke the silence. Alcor looked up with a frown, immediately setting his book down and shoving aside the blanket. Realizing belatedly he had not put on his boots, he nevertheless strode to the door and threw it open.
Thomas was racing toward the house and barely stopped in time to avoid crashing into the steps. He threw himself off of the horse and dashed up the steps even as Meir appeared in the doorway.
"Men—soldiers—looking—" He gasped for breath, doubled over with hands on his knees. "For you," he finally managed. "Soldiers looking for—" He hesitated then finished, "a beast."
Alcor's mouth tightened. "Where are they?"
"Coming this way, don't know—saw them and came—" Even as he said it, the sound of more horses reached them. Behind him, Meir swore softly and vanished—no doubt to get his sword.
"Get in the house," Alcor said sharply. "Go to the kitchen; do not leave it until we say so. If something happens, you sneak out into the woods and get home as quickly as you can. Understand me?"
"Y-yes," Thomas stuttered then obediently vanished into the house as well.
Alcor watched as the men reached him, detesting the growing dark that shortly would make it nearly impossible for him to see. There were three of them, all dressed in the blue and red of the royal army. One appeared to be a captain, the others he could not discern rank, but they were young enough they could not be much. The captain was an older man, his dark beard touched with gray. His eyes were sharp, dark even in the limited light. Almost as one, the soldiers dismounted.
Not wanting them in the house, or any closer to it than necessary, Alcor strode down the stairs to meet them. They all looked at him and flinched, the two younger ones looking away. Only the captain held his gaze, the barest of grimaces flicking across his features before he mastered them.
Before he could speak, Meir returned with sword in hand, striding down the steps to stand beside Alcor. "Can we help you?" he asked coldly.
The captain reached into his jacket and withdrew what looked like the sort of case Alcor's sister had once carried to hold her makeup powder for the occasional touch up. It was ornate and heavy looking, but the light was too lacking for Alcor to tell the design. He said something in a low tone, and Alcor swore it flashed some sort of bluish light.
After a moment, the captain closed the case with a snap and returned it to the inner pocket of his jacket. "You are under arrest for murder," he said and rattled off the names of the men they had killed more than a year ago in a field some weeks away.
Beside him, Meir gave a barely audible sigh, sounding more tired than Alcor could ever remember him being. "You've no proof we did such a thing," Meir said. "We're only humble scholars, living here and doing no one any harm at all. Why are you coming with accusations of murder?"
The captain looked pointedly at the sword then slowly moved his eyes up to stare at them with hard eyes. "Scholars?" He spat. "We have that thing's description well enough," he said, pointing to Alcor. "Peasants witnessed it, said there was an altercation between a man, a beast, and three peers of the realm. You murdered the three men and ran for your lives." He reached into his jacket and withdrew the silver case again, muttering as he opened it. "My mirror shows you crystal clear and here at last I find you. Come peacefully, or come dead."
Meir drew a sharp breath. "Mirror? You have a Mirror of Seeing? Where—" He cut himself off, mouth drawn down in a tight frown.
Alcor felt as though he had lost track of the conversation. What was a Mirror of sSeeing? He'd never heard of such a thing, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had been made by faeries. "You still have no evidence we did anything. There most certainly was no altercation with nobles. Do we look as though nobles would see fit to talk to us?"
The captain laughed. "Certainly I do not speak to vile beasts that should have been left to finish burning."
"Shut your mouth," Meir said softly, but with an edge to his voice Alcor had never heard before. He drew his sword from its sheath, the sound of the steel ringing in the growing dark. Tossing the sheath aside, he stepped forward to stand between Alcor and the captain. "We live here quietly, causing no harm and disturbing no one. If you have proof we did something, by all means present it, but do not malign my friend."
Alcor stepped forward, wrapping his hand around Meir's upper arm and trying to get him to calm down. "Meir, that's enough, I don't care what they say. Stop letting your temper get the best of you."
Meir shrugged his arm off. "No. Even supposing we had killed them, the law says a man may kill in self-defense—of himself or others. That mirror would have told you they were high on dragonweed and perfectly willing to rape, steal, and even kill. If they died, it was because others fought for their lives."
"That may be so," the captain said lightly, "but one of those men was my godson, and you'll pay dearly for hurting him." He rested his hand lightly on his own sword, but his expression now was as cold as Meir's.
Alcor was going to be sick. He didn't want violence.
He and Meir would live through whatever happened, these men would not. He did not want more deaths. "Stop this—"
It was only as Mutt snarled that he realized he should have figured out much sooner where the damned dog had gone. Seemingly out of nowhere, Mutt launched himself at the soldiers, causing one to cry out in pain, and the smell of blood was suddenly thick in the air. Then Mutt yelped in pain and fell to the ground, lying still for a moment before he began to struggle to his feet.
After that, the world spun out of control. Try as he might, Alcor could not make sense of all that happened. He shouted and struggled to put an end to it, but when he wasn't doing his best to avoid a blade himself, he fought uselessly to get Meir and Mutt to back off—
Until, abruptly, everything went too still.
Alcor stared in wide-eyed disbelief at the sword thrust through Meir's chest. That was going to be hell to clean up, and now they would have to deal with the matter of Meir not dying as the guards understandably would expect.
But then Meir tumbled to the ground, making awful noises as he struggled for a breath he could not take. Ignoring the soldiers, Alcor dropped to his knees and pulled Meir close, not really certain what he could do but hating those terrible sounds.
Meir's eyes were glazed with pain, but he still somehow managed to smile faintly. "Finally broken."
"What?" Alcor asked.
"You—broke—" Meir made a hideous choking, coughing noise "—my curse. Thank y—"
Alcor stared in horror at the body that went abruptly slack in his arms. "Meir, you gods damned idiot—wake up! This isn't funny. Meir! Meir!"
He let go of the body, feeling cold and numb with shock, with disbelief. Meir couldn't be dead. They were both cursed, they couldn't die until—but Meir had just said—but how was that—
Somewhere, he realized he was screaming.
Then something, or someone, moved behind him, and Alcor snapped. He heard someone scream in pain, others bellowing in anger and knew he was the cause, but simply did not care. Here and there he heard Mutt growling and snarling, followed by more cries of pain.
At last he had the captain, meeting the contempt in those eyes with a cold fury of his own. Knocking away the bastard's sword, he grabbed him hard and shoved him into the side of the house so hard he could see the man struggle to stay conscious. "If you wanted your godson to live," he said, "then you should have drilled hard lessons into him. If you did not want him cut down like a common thug, you should have taught him it was wrong to rape and steal and murder. Did you think his status made him special and exempt from those rules?"
"He did not deserve to be cut down by filth like you," the captain retorted.
Alcor laughed. "Filth like me. That's amusing." He slammed the bastard's head into a wall again. "My friend did not deserve to be cut down by filth like you, but he was. Life's not fair. Tell me why I should not kill you for killing my friend."
"If you kill me, more will come to take care of you. An animal like you? They will stake you out and light a fire."
"Do I look as though I have any further reason to fear fire? The worst it can do now is kill me." It was hard to be flippant, so hard, but not as hard as living with the knowledge that Meir was dead.
He loosened his hold and threw the captain back toward his fallen men, wondering if either of them was alive. Turning to Meir, he heard too late the sound of a sword and snatched up Meir's, turning just in time to barely avoid the sword aimed at his back and to sink his own into the captain's gut.
Wrenching the sword free, he cast it aside and ignored the captain as he fell.
Striding to the other two soldiers, he saw that both were, in fact, still alive—if only barely. Mutt's muzzle was soaked with the blood of at least one. "Get out," he said softly. "Tell your superiors that the matter is resolved. If ever people come to trouble me again over this matter, I will hunt you down and kill you myself. Do you understand me?"
They said nothing in reply, merely nodded and fled to their horses, struggling through obvious pain to mount and ride off.
Alcor strode back to the body of the dying captain, watching dispassionately as he died slowly from the wound. A flash of silver in moonlight caught his eye, and he bent to pick up the silver case he had seen the captain draw before, what Meir had called a Mirror of Seeing.
Undoing the clasp, he flipped the case open and saw that one half of it was, indeed, a mirror. Not a very good one, however; it was oddly clouded, and he could see no reflection whatsoever. Shrugging, he tucked the mirror away and finally returned to Meir's body.
His strength gave out halfway there, though, as he saw the too-still form lying there, barely lit by the moon above. Nearby, Mutt gave a mournful howl. Alcor collapsed to his knees and threw up the little tea still in his stomach. Even when there was nothing left, his stomach kept trying, his entire body shaking as it fought his stomach and the wracking sobs that had at some point overtaken him.
Only the sound of Thomas' distress drew him from his own shattered state. He stumbled his way to Meir, resting a hand on his friend's chest, hating the faint smile frozen forever in place. "I hate you," he said softly.
What had Meir meant by his curse being broken? He did not even know what Meir's curse had been. He'd just assumed it was the same as his own, but that obviously was not the case. With a rough sound, he withdrew and forced himself to his feet.
"Is he—he—" Thomas stared at Meir, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Alcor strode up the steps and picked Thomas up, carrying him back into the house and upstairs to his own bed. "Stay here," he said quietly.
"He's dead," Thomas whispered.
"Yes," Alcor said, just as softly. "I am sorry you saw all that. Stay here, rest if you can, and tomorrow I'll take you to your father, all right?" He would have done it then, and should have, but there were other things he needed to do first. "If you can't sleep, make some tea. But stay in the house, all right?"
Thomas nodded slowly, face a mess of tears and dripping snot. Alcor reached out, but faltered, not really certain what to do, but Thomas took the matter into his own hands, obviously reading some sort of permission, for he threw himself into Alcor's arms and hugged him tight, sobbing hard. "I heard the screams—and saw—and why would they—"
Alcor held him awkwardly, wanting to cry again himself, but a numbness was setting in that he could not seem to overcome. Worse than when he'd woken in that monastery, worse than realizing his family was dead and he was a monster, worse than even looking in the mirror. Meir was dead. Meir, who despite everything, had been his friend—and it was only now, too late, that Alcor realized friend was indeed the word.
Eventually, Thomas calmed down and fell asleep. Alcor lay him down and wiped his face, then pulled up the blankets and left him to sleep. Out in the hallway, he trudged wearily toward the stairs, but a spill of silver light upon the floor stopped him short. Looking up, he followed the light to Meir's bedroom, pushing the door open slowly to see the faerie lantern on the table beside the bed.
Meir had obviously been in bed when the trouble had started, just as he had said. He had been interrupted writing, however, rather than reading. Alcor had glimpsed the beat up looking journal once or twice, but never asked after it.
His chest tightened, and he almost thought he'd start crying again, but after a moment the strange, distant numbness settled back into place. He reached out idly toward the lantern, lifting it with no expectation—except he nearly fell over as it lifted light as a feather in his hand.
Then tears did sting his eye. Somehow, someway, Meir had given the lantern to him; that was the only possible way that he could have picked it up.
Setting the lantern down again, he quickly gathered up Meir's personal effects to bury with him. That seemed proper somehow. There were pathetically few of them, and beneath the cold numbness he felt a brief twisting pang. He picked up the journal last, slipping it into his pocket, then retrieved the lantern and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Lantern held high, he went back down the hallway to the linen closet and pulled out two old sheets. Then, he went downstairs and back outside. As though sensing his need, the lantern flared brighter, casting light across a large portion of the yard. Closest to him, the captain finally lay dead, his face frozen in a grimace of pain.
Alcor walked past the bodies, on to the stable, where he quickly found gloves and a shovel in the backroom, as well as an old horse blanket. Carrying it all in addition to the lantern was difficult, but he managed well enough, depositing them well behind the house in a small field where, at his sister's insistence, a few of her favorite hunting dogs had been buried upon their deaths.
He pulled on the gloves and returned to the front yard. Getting the bodies around to the back was laborious, and he could barely bring himself to touch Meir, but he at last managed it. When that was finally done he paused only long enough to place the lantern and strip out of his sweaty, bloody jacket before bending to the task of digging graves.
It took hours, and his body was screaming in pain by the end of it. The gloves had not really proved terribly helpful in the end, not when the blisters and blood and pus had managed to stick them to his skin, and he had to tear them off.
But at last, he got the bastard captain into a shallow, half-dug grave and covered over. Then, he carefully wrapped Meir's body in the sheets, tucking his belongings in with him. He was dizzy and exhausted and near to sobbing with pain by the time it was all done, but as the sun came up, Meir was properly buried.
Alcor threw the shovel to the ground, picked up the lantern, and started to stride back to the house. Halfway there, however, he remembered his jacket. Purely from habit, he went back to fetch it. As he picked it up, objects spilled from it, clearly upset by the way he had tossed it carelessly aside.
Meir's journal—he had forgotten to put it with everything else. Stooping, Alcor retrieved it and stared at the worn brown leather, mind too drained to formulate any thought. Then he saw his rose lying upon the ground, and bent to retrieve it as well.
Rage filled him then. Rage and pain and misery. It wasn't fair! Meir had helped him, helped those stupid peasants. Meir, who obviously was long past needing to be cursed, had been struck down by the sort of bastard who could stand a hard lesson of his own. Why? What was the point of all this if it only ever resulted in more pain?
He hated the rose suddenly and everything associated with it. Love vows! Ha! What was the point? Only one person had wound up mattering to him, and that person was dead because of someone very much like the person he used to be.
Alcor grabbed a handful of petals and tore, rage growing by leaps and bounds when the rose exhibited no sign of damage. He tore and tore, casting handful after handful of petals aside, heedless of the pain wracking his body, oblivious to his own tears, aware of nothing but the tearing and throwing of petals—until exhaustion and grief and pain abruptly overtook him, and he dropped to the ground unconscious.