"Another," Bane called to the barkeep, Lenny Malchowitz, the same man who'd owned and operated the only pub on the mountain since before he and Harry could hold a pint of beer each. Harry tapped at the bar from beside him, signaling for a refill of his own.

"You're a fool," Harry admonished without prelude as Lenny sat fresh glasses of cold drink in front of each of them without ceremony. Bane took a sip and waited for the rest of Harry's tirade, he knew his friend had been holding it in for some time now.

"That so?" Bane muttered into his glass, preparing for whatever it was that Harry had arrived at after three cold drinks.

"She's perfect for you," Harry announced, slamming down his already half emptied glass, "I've known you for your entire life - and your George is the one."

It was the truth. They had been friends their entire lives. Harry had known Bane before he was called 'Brisbane', before the bear attack and the limp. Harry's mother had been the previous Lady Brisbane's companion, widowed with the care of her only son, she'd raised Harry alongside the Sefton children. Harry and Bane had been competitive in all things, Mal their tagalong even then, dying to do whatever it was the older boys had their sights set on. For a time, the three of them had been inseparable. Then had come the war, and Malcolm had been too young to enlist, so the older two had left him behind.

Seven years later, they'd returned to find their parents dead, Malcolm grown and Blair married. The younger brother had changed in their time apart, taking advantage of his position as the lone bachelor on the mountain, in combination with his generous inheritance - he'd been labeled quite the catch back then. Even with Bane and Harry's return home, who could want a poor man or a cripple when placed beside the handsome, rich and able Malcolm Sefton. So Harry and Bane had fallen in line, decidedly behind Malcolm. Changed themselves by the years in battle and the blood and the horrors of war - the two were now closer and closed off more so than ever. This only widened the gap between Malcolm and his brother, who consistently chose Harry as confidant and friend. All of this had simmered for several months, right up until the arrival of Cora Thorn. Everything had gone to hell in a handbasket from there.

"Who says I haven't noticed that?" Bane replied docilely, continuing his journey into his drink.

"You're the idiot who was trying to marry the other one," Harry muttered sourly, refusing to let Bane's mishap go, "You best bless whatever Saint stands by you that George intercepted that letter to begin with."

Bane smiled at his friend's drunken declarations... Harry was the only soul he had told of the Georgina debacle. After having his fair share of amusement at his oldest friend's expense, Harry had whole heartedly put his vote behind George as being the correct choice. Harry had tried to talk Bane out of marrying the blonde and lovely Georgina St. John since the beginning of the letter writing. They'd each known her that first season on the Mart, and Harry had never liked her. He compared her to a large and meniacle predator, intent on the Sefton fortune and the Brisbane title. But the moment he'd laid eyes on George, the antithesis of her cousin, Harry had been delighted.

"She's not the least bit afraid of you," Harry stated, still touting George's many features, "She's quick as a whip, polite, sweet - and has that darling little mouth -"

"Aye!" Bane barked reigning in his friend's adoration of George, "She's my wife, remember?"

"And then there's that!" Harry laughed, pounding a fist on the bar in joy at his own discovery, "You won't let anyone look at her twice without getting your hackles up."

"Maybe its just because of how my last marriage ended, Harry - ever think of that?" he argued, letting that old bitterness slip into his voice. It often came to him when he'd spent too long in his cups with Harry.

"That's the thing," Harry continued, waving a finger philosophically in front of his own nose, "I have a theory -"

"You have a theory?"

"Yes, a theory, old man," Harry insisted with a sly grin, "YOu are a man who would not have anything taken from him that he wasn't willing to part with."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bane asked in confusion.

"Maybe somehow you knew Cora wasn't worth it, wasn't what you needed," Harry said quietly, lowering his voice to relay his seriousness, despite his intake of alcohol.

"Say it plainly, you idiot," Bane chided with a role of his eyes.

"The Dark Saint himself couldn't take this woman from you..." Harry answered without hesitation, "I would bet my life on it."

"You're forgetting one thing," Bane laughed at his friend's impassioned conclusion, "There is George herself."

"Ah," Harry answered, tapping the bar for his next cold drink, "And there is the heart of it, my friend. You are afraid of what she will do to you.... which means you have already lost your soul."

"You're drunk," Bane scolded with a shake of his head as he accepted his next drink as well.

"And I'm right," Harry insisted with a shrug, he was a man who did not need confirmation to believe what he was saying now.

Their waxing was interrupted when a group of rowdy young men entered the bar with their colorful companions, like pet birds hovering at their elbows and squawking with laughter. Malcolm was at the center of the herd of them as they loudly ordered a round of pitchers for their party.

"I can see he's heartbroken," Harry hissed spitefully as they both watched Malcolm's interaction with two of the painted women.

"Be easy," Bane tempered, a rare thing from his mouth that only Harry and his family would witness in this lifetime, "He lost more than I."

"You're too easy on him," Harry disagreed seethingly, "You carry that guilt around like a cross, old man."

"And you try to bear it more than any one should," Bane bit back, sipping at his drink, turning away from the picture of Malcolm exchanging flirtatious smiles with the strangers surrounding him.

"I've never lost a wife, but I don't imagine it measures lower than what he lost, my friend," Harry persisted, anger broiling just under the surface, his drinking forgotten.

"You give me too much credit," Bane disagreed easily, that guilt tugging at his chest like the old companion it was, "I lost the illusion, he lost the true thing."

"Now who is being the poet lariat?" Harry chuckled, at last turning his attention away from Bane's younger brother and his follies.

"He suffered a loss I couldn't have imagined with Cora's death. I understand it better now - I have lived it three or four times in these last few days," Bane added, volunteering the vulnerability, counting on Harry's inebriation to wipe the memory before morning, "Whatever she was to me, Cora was the love of his life."

"Name of the Saints, old man," Harry swore, morosely, signaling Lenny desperately, "Did you just admit you're in love with George?"

"You're drunk," Bane answered gruffly, suddenly busy looking into his cup.