Adarian MacNeil couldn’t sleep. Not particularly surprising he supposed, he had just done something so morally ambiguous as to be evil, some would say. He sipped from his glass and smacked his lips. He was well and truly drunk, but even that wasn’t enough to chase away the terrors that hid in the dark. The voices, ever accusing, that haunted him. It was necessary, he knew. Reaper’s Scythe, it was necessary. He went to take another sip from his drink, only to find his glass empty.

“Scything Sickle…” He slurred to himself, clumsily opening the drawer in his desk and removing another bottle. This would be the second he started on tonight. Perhaps not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but it worked for him. If his liver stopped working and he died ten years too early, it was what he got for his sins. What goes around comes around, as they say.

“I’m a… a shitty father.” He mumbled lowly as he slumped into his chair. “I’m a shittier person though… so there’s that.” He took a long draw on the bottle before holding up a single finger, like some scholar who had made a world-shaking discovery. “But.” He said, and hiccupped before continued. “I’m a damn fine politician.” He snorted at that, then giggled like a teenage girl. His shoulders started shaking with laughter, then sobs.

He didn’t want to be this person, this individual, but he had to be. He didn’t want to strip the Knight Captain O’Donnell down to the nubs, then rebuild him into someone his own family would hardly recognize. Adarian didn’t want to be unable to sleep at night, or to be haunted by the orders he’d given for the rest of his life. He would never forget tonight, but it was a necessary evil. He needed someone inside the army. Someone who was already broken enough to be malleable. As a Knight Captain, Robert O’Donnell fit the first part of that bill, and after tonight, he fit the second part also. Adarian would have to play his cards carefully, but he now had a potential asset in the army. At least he hoped so, he truly did not want to start over… to have to orchestrate such bloody events again, it turned his stomach.

Adarian didn’t like the person he was becoming, but he also knew it to be necessary. A dangerous, bloody game was coming. In a game like that, there were only two types of people in that game: The players and the pawns. Adarian MacNeil knew which he was going to be: He was going to do what he had to do in order to ensure that the MacNeil family line didn’t die with his son.

***

Pat MacNeil, much like his father, was unable to sleep. His eyes were wide, and his lips trembling. Pat didn’t consider himself to be a particularly cowardly fellow, it was unbecoming for the son of a Duke to be so. He knew that there were those who could crush him in combat, or even intelligence, but he was a MacNeil. In the end, good blood won out. His family was known for being leaders of men, and he would be too. A leader couldn’t shy away from blood, as Pat’s father would say, but if the young lord was being honest, he didn’t really have the stomach for it. Pat was the sort of fellow who would rather be sitting in a ballroom singing about heroic deeds-preferably surrounded by a group of attractive young ladies of the court- rather than out actually preforming said heroic deeds. He had chosen the rapier as his weapon of choice not because it fit his body-type or style, nor even because it was the type of sword that his father carried, but rather, because it was light, and the swirling handle looked rather elegant. His appearance was ever carefully contrived for just that: his appearance.

Pat was a courtier. A bad one, admittedly, but a courtier nonetheless. He was built for social balls and quick escapes from a bed that he wasn’t supposed to occupy, not the bloody scene that had been his father’s study. He had a cruel streak to be certain, and enjoyed scaring others, but he wasn’t very fond of blood. He’d only drawn his sword on a man once before, and he had been in the process of going from being drunk to hungover, and his family’s lineage had been insulted by a common gravedigger! Exceptions to his peaceful nature were to be made, certainly, but for the most part, Patrick MacNeil was, if not a lover, certainly not a fighter. He wasn’t someone who could witness the removal of people’s ears without flinching, or watch a man drown on his own blood without taking some psychological damage. Hence, he was awake.

Pat Ruminated over the fact that in two weeks’ time, he would be leaving this city with that man. It made him distinctly uncomfortable to imagine being on the road with him until they reached Swallow’s Rest, and almost fearful to be locked on a ferry with the man. Pat was no saint, and he knew dark deeds were sometimes a necessity, but he would rather not witness them. He was a courtier after all… if a bad one.

***

Braxton Bolindear was reading when a shell-shocked Robert O’Donnell stumbled his way through the door to the bunkroom that they shared. Normally it would’ve been odd, if not necessarily unseemly, for a room to be shared between and officer and an enlisted man, but Braxton was nearing twenty-five years of honorable service in the name of his majesty, and had turned down a knighthood on no less then three different occasions: in short, the forty-year-old veteran was an officer in all but name. He normally served as a Command Sergeant Major, a man who served as a military advisor to a quarter of the intelligence division. This posting was supposed to be his version of vacation. Currently, this vacation was being disturbed by an extremely troubling sight. A young, red-haired lieutenant was stumbling drunkenly through the door face pale with shock and body shaking. He was covered in blood, none of which looked to be his own.

Braxton, ever the soldier, calmly closed his book before standing up with a sigh. A Study of The Natural World and All of Its Inhabitants: Written by Asgar al-Halaby of the Alrimal Aldaakina, Translated by Seth ‘Almakira’ Gill, was a fascinating read, for something with such a lengthy and boring sounding title, and he was keen to get back to it. For now, however, his attention was needed elsewhere. He strode across the bunkroom to the young red-haired officer, and grabbed him gently by the shoulders, leading him to a chair.

“Easy there, boyo,” he said, helping the lad to a chair. “Deep breaths that’s right, in through the nose, out through the mouth…” Robert shuddered at this and let out a hoarse cry before leaping out of his chair. Braxton hadn’t the damndest idea of why, but he wasn’t about to let the young man hurt himself or someone else. So, Braxton did what any good Sergeant Major worth his salt would; he took that officers fancy arse, and put it firmly back right where it belonged. In this case, that happened to be the chair that it had been connected to just a moment before. Braxton decided a different approach was called for.

Braxton Bolindear had known Robert for a while, not for a long time per say, but long enough to know a few things about the young man. The first was that he was a talented intelligence officer, possessing a certain straightforward charm that made him a good choice for diplomatic and intelligence gathering missions alike. The second was that he was still a young soldier, not broken of the training given to him at the Knightyard. Robert O’Donnell was trained and conditioned to follow orders, no matter what. He would eventually grow out of this phase, as most young officers did, and start to come into his own, but for now, he was a pawn very easily gripped. It was the second of these facts that made Braxton certain that what he was about to do would work. He inhaled deeply, then barked;

“Attention Soldier!” Robert Instinctively snapped up. Before the lad had time to stand, or think twice about what was happening, Braxton let out an onslaught of orders. “Stay Seated Soldier! Give Report. Now!”

This would only work because Robert was in shock. Any other time and he would just assume Braxton was joking with him. Braxton grimaced. He probably shouldn’t have dropped formality with the lad, as he did have a position to maintain. Even if he wasn’t an officer, a Command Sergeant Major was a good bit more necessary to the functioning of the Intelligence division than a young Lieutenant. Braxton refocused on the events at hand as the young man spoke, his voice quavering, and eyes unfocused.

“I was called to the Dukes estate, to give the entrance Exam for the Knightyard to Lord Patrick, but was sidetracked from this goal by two letters. One informed me of my promotion to the rank of Captain and Knighthood… the other…” he hesitated before breaking out of his trance and starting to cry, looking at Braxton. “He made me take their ears Braxton… Just told me to cut them off, due to treason and smuggling or some such… He told me to take their ears, and I did… Oh Reaper above, I did, like it was nothing even, I didn’t even hesitate, I just walked up and started cutting… What’s wrong with me Braxton? What happened? I don’t understand. Its like I was there, but I wasn’t? And then, then the last one…” Roberts hands arced through his red hair, pulling on it nervously, then harder, hard enough that Braxton was concerned that the man might actually tear his hair out. “Oh Threshing Hell… I took his tongue Braxton…And he bled to death, right in front of me, and there wasn’t anything I could do… Oh Chaff, oh Burning Chaff, I’m a murderer, Braxton, a murderer!”

Braxton wrapped the man in a hug, as much to restrain him as to comfort, and held him fast.

“There there, Boyo, take it easy now. Yer not a murderer, it’s okay. There’s many a man done things under order that he ain’t particularly proud of. I know more about that then most. That’s right, let it out. Don’t you worry yer little head over it, Boyo, I’ll take care of it.” Braxton grinned to himself, somewhat sadly, “Even if ye did just get promoted, you’re still a half-trained welp compared to an old wreck like me. Aye, Knight Captain or no, I’ll be taking care of the darker business. No shame in it, eh Boyo? Some of us are built for the Light of honor and loyalty, others for the Dark Night.”

Braxton continued to console the hapless Knight Captain until the lad finally succumbed to sleep. When that happened, He let the man slump down into the chair he had been sitting in, before standing and walking over to his writing desk and making three copies of a letter; one for his superior officers, one for the local Magistrate, and one for the Duke. When that was done, he picked up his long-hafted axe and slung it over his back, along with a cloak, then strode out the door, locking it behind him. After handing off two of his letters to couriers, he turned his feet towards the center of the city, where the Fairground Markets were. Where the Dukes Manse was. As his feet started making their way forward, he had a thought.

Aye, some are built for the Daylight of Honor and Loyalty, and others for the Dark Night of Silent Justice, and Swift Retribution. I know which camp I belong to, he thought sardonically, Aye, and I know what camp ye belong to also, Duke. But you are Twilight, and I… well, I’m the Witching Hour.