The Pact

(Author’s Note: This story is a work-in-progress, and will be expanded from a novella. If there are errors, please forgive me. I would appreciate any feedback to help improve it. Thank you.)

I

“There’s the mark, my blood be thy blood, and in this vow, we shall share our new fortune. Our eyes see forever as one, and we will walk beyond worlds and through the end of time.” Albion held out his wrist, the mark still fresh with blood. His brother, Gawain, scratched a mark akin and held out his own wrist.

“Your word is mine, my word is yours, let our infinite fate be sealed.” He answered.

“And so, it will be done.” Albion replied. They reached out and grasped each other’s opposite arm, standing tall between the stones as the clouded sky began to turn above. The wind blew hard and tossed their hair and cloaks. It looked as if it were about to storm, but the clouds didn’t stir from their circling. Moments passed, but nothing came to be. Gawain frowned.

“Did they sell us a farce, Albion? A mummer’s jape?” He wondered. Albion looked up, studying the clouds, and shook his head.

“The weird woman swore on her life, Gawain. Otherwise, she would better pay two-fold for what she scalped us. Now, all we have are pretty wounds for a worthless tale,” He said, scowling at his own foolishness. Gawain began to let go, shaking his head.

“Father and mother will expect us back soon. Éastorhild’s been asking for us to mend her door frame.” He groaned. Suddenly, Albion grabbed his hand back, as it occurred to him that the harsh wind was silent; the evening sun had grown a pale grey.

“No, something’s not right.” He began, but then felt something pass between them, a tremble of force in their veins. Suddenly, Gawain buckled over and pulled Albion down, his face withering before Albion’s eyes. His hand grew gnarled and coarse, and he keeled over, gasping and choking. He frantically felt about his head, and his once rich black mane was now balding and sparse. Gawain’s head then jerked up, and now an old man scowled at him, terrified and angry.

“Gawain!” Albion cried. Gawain’s face turned to rage, tearing the grass out of the ground as he struggled to get up.

“What did you do?! What have you done to me?!” Gawain shrieked, his voice tight and hoarse. Albion stumbled back in fear.

“I-I don’t know! Wait please- “He faltered as Gawain lunged at him. He pinned Albion to the ground, grasping his arm hard, and he felt the energy pass between them again. Immediately, Albion’s bones collapsed, and his skin stretched tight across his face. He dropped to his knees, feeling the life drain from him and his joints growing tight and twisted. Gawain stumbled to his feet, now a youthful man again, and looked on in shock; Albion was now the old man. Trembling, Albion looked up at him, holding his burning wrist. Gawain’s mouth twitched wildly, struggling to speak, to say anything.

“Al-Albion? W-what happened? What did we do?” He stuttered. Albion looked down upon his wrinkled hands, shaking through to his heart.

“We’ve done something wrong.” He whispered.

II

England had always been cold. In the time of the latin departure from the shore of the Thames, the skies held their same gloomy pallor as any day since. In that rosy war the fog still clung harshly, and thus did that fifth Henry owe his spoils to the mud which was fed by the spirited rains. No, ne’er in his 1,414 years of living, had the climate ever ceased to mislay the chill of the North Sea. Drawing his gaze from the melancholic picture outside, a young old man goes to button his sleeve when he catches something that has changed for the first time in a millennium.

“The mark’s fading.” Albion observes. On his wrist, the rune he scratched into his flesh has grown paler, more so in the last hundred years than in the thousand. Albion buttons up his starched sleeve and slips on his jacket, shoving the thought to the back of his mind. But the temptation slips forward again, and once again he dwells upon his predicament in his journals.

“Ever since that clouded autumn eve, the distortion of our brotherhood has pushed Gawain and I far from ourselves, who we used to be. We’ve became many people. Neither old nor young at the same time. This uneasy balance, we’ve kept for centuries, but it has grown hard to endure. It’s 1885 now, I can barely keep the pace.” Today, he’s pretending to be a young gentleman by the name of Louis Huckle, dressing himself up in sharp clothes — tweed and cotton — and brushing his sheared, mousy hair into a fashionable coif. All this, to fancy an aristocrat and his daughter; the society of future headstones. He rubs the circles under his eyes, trying to muster up his enthusiasm for youth.

“It’s a delicate dance, these lives of mine, but it’s one I’m tired of playing. My mind’s a mess! I’ve had a thousand names, a thousand faces, spoke a thousand tongues, lived a thousand lives, but my heart yearns for one. My brother is still lured into the fantasy of it all; I suspect he wants nothing to do with me anymore. He doesn’t want to be tied down anymore, no . . . and much to my regret, neither do I. Shall we finally let go of each other? Will I accept the senseless shadows and recede from the stage? I should have had my cue long ago, but I know I cannot end things on my terms. I am bound to the folly of youth and its threadbare devotions. I have seen too much. I have done too much, and there is no entertainment in forethought any longer. My soul longs to rest.

“But I forget myself — I always have. My pain lies with my bliss, my anger with my joy, for I have appreciated the random privilege of watching the world turn. Watching people change their hair and their clothes and their habits, acting like their way of life has always been the same, or thinking that they know better. I’m always in on a joke that no one knows, but I need someone to know me again. Gawain doesn’t understand anymore, nor will he even care to try.” Ready, dressed, and finished with his diatribe, Albion rings the bell for Ferdia, their butler, one of the few people they trust to keep his words short in return for a sum at large. Dearer more to the two men than he could ever know. Albion sighs, then walks over to the window and looks out over the street, thinking dismally over the day’s progression.

“Well, here’s my chance then, talking to these political people, Sir George Healy and his daughter, Rosemary. Another pair to bother my brother and I with favors and fancies, another pair to turn away. Sir George is Gawain’s friend, really, but I know he wants to introduce his daughter to me, as they often do.” Ferdia interrupts his thoughts, knocking on the door. Albion calls for him to come in, still gazing out the window on the typical gray swath that paints the London sky.

“Master Albion, the Healy’s have been here for a few minutes now, and Master Gawain has already attended to them. Why did you ring me?” Ferdia inquires. Albion sighs in displeasure.

“Because I knew they would send for me anyway. Tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes. I want to skip Sir George’s weather reports.” Ferdia nods and leaves, leaving Albion back to his depressing mental routine. Albion then walks over to the mirror to look himself over, straightening his tie, brushing back his hair, and looking into his pale, old eyes.

“I look tired,” He thinks. “Time to present myself, I guess.”

Going out into the hall, lined with the tokens and artifacts collected over the years, Albion heads for the stairs, but out of the corner of his eye, he notices a young woman down the adjoining hall, stopping him in his tracks. A mane of dark chestnut hair rests upon her head, some strands falling on her delicate face, and dark chestnut eyes to match. She’s handling a Noh mask brought back from Japan some years back, carefully tracing her fingers over the grooves and details with intent fixation. Curious, Albion approaches her cautiously from the side. Looking over her shoulder, he figures it the perfect time to introduce himself.

“You know, ma’am, that’s a Yokai,” He says. “It’s a demon that eats your soul and leaves nothing but the bones.” She jumps back, flinching, and sets the piece down. Albion steps away from her a safe distance, grinning at his little jape. She then adjusts the creases in her dress and composes herself for an answer.

“Sir, I apologize for touching your mask, but I don’t think it’s polite to sneak up on people, much less scar me with your language. I could’ve broken it.” She says, straightening her back. Albion chuckles a little, amused at her mannerisms.

“But then what’s the fun in that?” He asks. “I could care less about the art. The surprise is really the more valuable experience.” With that, it dawns on her face who he was.

“So, you must be the young man, Mr. Huckle.” She says with an accusing finger.

“And you must be Miss Rosemary, then. Shall we go meet your father?”

III

“It’s a sad season. There’s been no sign of comfort or good humor, nor the least amount of service to our temperament. It’s too drenched, the air too thick, and I don’t see any indication from weather reports of relief.” Sir George chimes in, but with no success to draw Gawain away from his reports. His thoughts begin to circle irritably in his head.

“He’s always so foul when it’s dull weather. It really is a wonder to me that this time of year isn’t more festive.” He supposes he’ll try and prompt him again.

“Curry, what say you of our current state of affairs? Don’t you think we should have another holiday for January? We could certainly bring it up to fancy the other lords for the next session.” He inquires again. Gawain looks up from his reports, slightly annoyed.

“George, we have all the time in the world to come up with ways to drink in public, but right now you and I need to draft this bill.” He snaps, tapping on the paperwork with his pen. Throwing up his hands in defeat, Sir George concedes.

“Well, I do apologize, Raymond. You must forgive my ill humors,” he yields. “But I do ask, when is your nephew coming down? Young Mr. Huckle? I’ve heard about his academic success and entrepreneurship. He’s really quite a fine young man, and he should get to know people his own age.”

“His business is up to him,” Gawain replies, shaking his balding head. “I cannot will him to appear unless the sky falls down, and in this event it’s only a mizzle.” He waves his pen towards the weather outside. Gawain turns back to the reports, much to Sir George’s frustration. Ferdia then enters Curry’s office.

“Sir, your nephew will join you shortly and apologizes for being late. He couldn’t find the proper tie to present himself.” He reports. Gawain nods, looking up from his spectacles.

“Very well Ferdia, make sure there’s still enough cucumber sandwiches for the luncheon. He likes to eat them all when no one’s looking.” He says, waving Ferdia out the door. He hands a part of the bill to Sir George to look over, adamant to keep them both on schedule. His effort, however, does nothing to sway Sir George’s impatience.

“You don’t mind Rosemary looking around your townhouse, do you?” He asks, looking over the paper. “I do say you have a lovely arrangement of artifacts. She’s very intrigued by that sort of thing.”

“It’s not of any concern to me, she may do what she likes.” Gawain mumbles, burying his nose in the reports.

“Yes, but I mean she’s been so distracted these days” Sir George interjects. “After old Henry died last year, she’s acted rather coarse and disillusioned, looking into all this mythos and magic and whatnot. I’m afraid she might be into the occult.” Gawain looks up at George, quite finished with his attitude, and snatches the paper back. He rises from his enormous desk chair, adjusting his waistline around his rotund frame, and heads for the door.

“Curry? Where are you going?” Sir George asks.

“I’m going to eat, George. Evidently, we can’t get anything done while my stomach and your brain are empty.” He retorts as he leaves. Shrugging his shoulders, George follows closely behind him. Much to his surprise, out in the parlor he sees Rosemary and Albion awkwardly descending the stairs.

“Oh! Mr. Huckle! I see you and Rosemary have acquainted yourselves!” He exclaims. The young man hops down from the penultimate step with a smile and strides over, hand outreached to take Sir George’s. Rosemary follows carefully behind and joins her father at his side.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Healy,” Albion says, shaking his hand. “Uncle’s told me much about your tenure in parliament- — very remarkable! I just bumped into your daughter down the hall; she was quite curious about this Japanese theater mask.” He holds up the mask and twiddles it around.

“It’s a lovely piece,” Rosemary begins. “I was only admiring it.” She folds her hands behind her back, as if she had been guilty of some infraction between her and the boy. Gawain, meanwhile, is stomping about, waiting outside the drawing room door for lunch.

“Uncle,” Albion calls to his brother. “There’s no point in getting worked up over lunch, Laurenz should have it all set up in no time.” Gawain huffs in annoyance, crossing his arms.

“It’s a quarter past one, Louis. We should have had lunch an hour ago.” Finally, Ferdia opens the large oak doors and leads them to the buffet, letting the party fill their plates and satisfying Gawain’s ill temper. They then settle around the coffee table, set up with cucumber sandwiches, lemon tarts, and fresh coffee. Sir George gabs on about the excellent quality of the meal and the tarts; Gawain ignores him, stuffing his face with cucumber sandwiches, a roast beef platter, and a glass of bourbon. After thirty minutes of small talk and dining, Rosemary decides to quietly start a conversation with the young man, more occupied with staring at the reflections in his tea. Rosemary leans over to him on the divan.

“So, I assume your patriarch isn’t any less difficult than mine?” She inquires. Albion chuckles, slightly amused.

“The habits of old men die hard,” He remarks. “Sir George and my uncle have rightly earned the colors of that old guard.” Albion gestures over to the two old dogs, laughing about some religious scandal in Manchester. Rosemary breathes a little sigh, folding her hands in her lap.

“Oh father, well, he’s a man of selfish affection. He means well, but as you can observe, he lets his mouth run ahead of his mind. As for your uncle, well, I don’t think I have the privilege of giving my observation.” She smiles coyly.

“No, observe away. I’ve had enough of my own opinion. However, I’d like to know your character a little better, after our introduction in the hall. What drew you to the mask?” He says, handing it over to her with a small toss. She catches it, amused at his playfulness.

“I like to become more invested in foreign cultures, understand those worlds and their customs. I’ve often found that other people’s cultures have more depth and nuance than our English lens lets on. To me, it serves as a break from our upper crust crowd.”

“I’m glad someone agrees with me. I’ve been all over the world trying to get away from here, but business has called me back again, unfortunately.”

“You don’t like England?”

“Well, I was born in Wales; we’ve never cared for the English to begin with, but somehow this island manages to dig in its hooks all over the world.” Albion sighs. Rosemary nods in agreement, fiddling with her fork. They pause their conversation, taking a few more bites in silence as the old men gab on about political skullduggery. Rosemary can’t help but try and nudge Albion again, curious about his nature.

“What sort of business do you do, Mr. Huckle? If you’ll allow me to pry.” She asks.

“Well, so far I’ve been working as a historian and a journalist for the local colleges. It’s a bit of a taxing profession, really, but the work does pay well.”

“Oh, my daughter!” cries Sir George, listening in on their conversation. “She had a profession too, quite remarkable. She was a nurse a few years back.” Rosemary blushes with embarrassment, tucking a loose hair behind her ear.

“I was a nurse in the field, yes.” Rosemary says quietly. This piques Albion’s interest.

“Tell me about it then.” Albion inquires. She clears her throat, carefully setting down her fork and rubs her hands, looking down at her plate.

“I had lived in South Africa. . . with my late husband, and during the war with the Boers, I treated the soldiers there,” Rosemary says. “The local women and I also cared for other people in the town the years prior. Many did die of course, but through the use of their techniques, our practice had far more success than other villages. We had a ninety-seven percent recovery rate, and if we had been taken more seriously, I believe they would have given us license to continue our practice after the war.”

“I’m sure they would have, dear” replies Sir George. “And old Henry would’ve admired your ethic as well, God bless his soul. If I can have it arranged, you should open your own practice someday.”

“In what country?” Gawain chuckles. Albion glares in his direction, looking him frostily in the eyes. Rosemary clears her throat again, leaning forward to engage the old man’s attention.

“Sir Raymond, I’m sure you’re aware that there are a few women practitioners here in London, aren’t you? I know a Mrs. Collins on Downing Street that works with Dr. Lanyard; she graduated as a full MD. They say that already qualified nurses will be able to practice fully in the next decade.” She states. Gawain settles back into his chair, cocking his eyebrow high.

“Oh, I’m sure,” he replies coolly. “But I’m certain there remains far more work to be done. I doubt there would be full accessibility for some time, in most of the world and for most of time from what I’ve observed.” Rosemary shifts forward in her seat, determined to advocate for herself.

“I’m glad you acknowledge that sir, but your tone was dismissive. While I know that there is less accessibility for my generation, I hope that men like you can help open up those opportunities.”

“True, but if I dismissed you, it was only because your goals seem a bit out of reach.” Gawain observes. Rosemary narrows her eyebrows, balling up her hands into fists.

“Uncle, she’s right.” Albion interjects. “While there’s certainly more to be done, that doesn’t give you liberty to dismiss the possibility outright. I’ve seen enough to know not to underestimate the abilities of women.” Gawain raspberries, shaking his head in dismay.

“But women today lack the kind of literacy for these positions, not to mention their prior obligations with their families. I just don’t see how it would be manageable.” He chuckles in disbelief, crossing his hands over his knee.

“Then that literacy needs to be expanded, sir,” Rosemary says coldly. “And as for any obligations, I would think it would be up to her to decide which responsibilities to take on for herself. Your opinion is due to a lack of information, and the same goes for our position. Information literacy is imperative towards our goals, otherwise we cannot succeed.” Gawain rises from the table, irritated at her indignance. Albion glares at Gawain furiously, and holds up his hands in alarm to ease the situation. Gawain settles down and paints a mask of calm over his face, composing himself.

“I’m sorry, but I just remembered I have an appointment this afternoon with the town magistrate.” He states. “Unfortunately, I think our little meeting has to come to an end.”

“Oh, but Raymond! Why so soon? We still haven’t had time to go over the bill yet.” Sir George protests. Gawain scowls in annoyance, desperate to get them moving.

“I know that George, but it’s imperative business, zoning for new housing and that sort. It can’t wait. I’ll have your cab called for.” He says, striding out of the drawing room. Sir George chases after him while Albion and Rosemary stay back for a moment.

“Is he always like this?” Rosemary whispers. Albion winces in sympathy.

“For as long as I’ve known him, he hasn’t said a tactful thing since he could talk,” He replies. “I apologize. Hopefully we’ll have a better chance of knowing each other another time, away from the danger of old men’s moods.”

“Ms. Healy! Your father is at the door! I suggest you join him, otherwise you won’t be ready for the carriage!” Gawain shouts from the hall. Albion looks in his direction and groans. He then takes Rosemary’s hand and gives it a pat.

“Until we meet again, Ms. Healy, and here,” He says, grabbing the Noh mask from the coffee table. “You can have this; we have twelve more.”

“Thank you, Mr. Huckle.” Says Rosemary, taking the mask and heading for the door.

“You can call me Louis.” Albion calls to her after some hesitation.

The door slams behind them, stunning them into the cold air once again. Sir George, shocked beyond a degree, starts to huff and grumble, but has little time for thought as the carriage pulls around from the corner. Later in the drive to the estate, he finally cannot hold in his frustration any longer.

“Sakes alive, Rosemary! What the hell’s wrong with him?! He runs about like the Devil’s at his heels with the whip of Judas’s spine! Unbelievable!” He declares. Rosemary retreats to the other side of the carriage, pressing herself against the wall.

“We were there for over an hour, and we imposed on them too far.” She remarks.

“But hurrying us out the door! I know him to be curt, and his candidness is constructive, but his callousness has grown too harsh! Curry ought not to test my patience again, Rosemary, and not put you down so harshly. I know he wants my assistance on this tax bill, but if he keeps on being disagreeable, I may have to lose him as a friend. Honestly, the nerve, what goes on in his dull existence that should vex him? He has everything he wants in the palm of his hand.”

IV

“Give me your arm, now.” Gawain commands. Albion grunts and swats out his forearm at him. Gawain grabs onto it and feels a supercharge of energy flow into him. Instantaneously, his flesh hydrates and his muscles become taught. His hair regenerates and tingles his scalp, his troublesome weight melts right off, and his tailored clothes sag down against his body. Gawain steps back, running his fingers through his thick mane of dark hair, satisfied.

“Finally, some vitality within me.” He exclaims “The things I do for these silly people sometimes, I swear.” Albion massages his wrist, squinting his wrinkled face at the pain. His hair was now short and grey, and he bore a small, scruffy beard upon his chin. Albion rubs his prickly jaw, trying to relieve the tension. Gawain gives a pat to his shoulder to comfort him a little.

“Thank you, Grandfather, I hope that wasn’t too hard for you. I do have business today, both on the town and at the Cyan club this evening, so I hope this isn’t an inconvenience for you.” Gawain remarks.

“I hope I’m not an inconvenience to you, Gawain.” Albion rebukes. “That was very discourteous, what you said to the Healys.” Gawain scoffs, taking off his larger jacket and throwing it onto the coat rack.

“Listen, it’s not my fault that I’ve set prior engagements with people. Healy will have to wait his turn like all the other children. When you live three separate lives, Albion, there will be schedule conflicts, and I seek to not have those conflicts.” Gawain says as he heads for the stairs. Albion frowns and crosses his arms, furious at his brother’s behavior. What right does he have to be so tactless?

“Not unless you show them the same courtesy, Gawain,” Says Albion, stopping him in his tracks. “You can’t be so flippant about their feelings.” Gawain’s neck seizes up, and he lazily turns around to face his old brother, throwing up his hands in frustration.

“I have to go change. We’ll have this conversation later.” He says sharply, turning his back to Albion again.

“Oh goody, when should I put that on the schedule?” Albion quips, walking off to the drawing room. Gawain clenches his jaw, burying his nails in the wooden railing.

“The little pratt.” He mutters under his breath. Gawain then stomps up the stairs, shaking off his foul mood; he was going to visit the girls and boys at the club, and he didn’t want to bring his troubles along with him. Gawain, as he’s changing into his playboy attire, admires himself in the mirror.

“If only things could stay like this,” He thought, breathing out a heavy sigh. He smooths back his hair into a fine black coif, fits on a bright red ascot, straightens out his dinner jacket, and becomes the man he sees himself as: John Drayer, the wandering rogue. Drayer’s reputation in central London grew far beyond the scope Albion had wished it had, for their own privacy, but Gawain doesn’t care. He is loved by everyone — fun to be with, fun to talk about, and dangerous to know. There was the brawl on Dover street in 1880, outside of the Arts club; the splendor of Jupiter’s ball at White’s in 1882, and the Catacomb Waltz underneath the Thames in 1879, all the glorious fault of Mr. John Drayer. Tonight, he would raise such delicious hell once more.

Later on, that evening, as he walks down the cold London streets, Gawain’s thoughts begin to spin in his head again, maddened at the barriers in his progress.

“It’s not fair to his temperament, but I wish my brother shared my enthusiasm. Of course, I will not dismiss that I share his trauma in what we’ve witnessed, but I’ve learned the virtues of time’s progression, I can move past it — he cannot. I grow almost to the point of agitation at his melancholy, for I’ve tried and failed to help him heal. He refuses any consolation! It’s not any fault of mine that his depressive condition ails him, and I will not allow any hinderance to my pursuits.” The glow of the diamond and gold chandeliers and the strawberry champagne soon erase his troubles. The Cyan Club: Gawain’s latest little pocket of heaven and sin, all under one roof. He waltzes right through the stone cut, enameled archways and over to his loose connection of fops and rakes.

“John! There you are, get over here you pillock!” exclaims Thomas McKinnon, a puppet of his posse. He stumbles over in a stupor, grabbing onto Gawain’s shoulder giving it a good shake. Gawain smiles in amusement at the gullible, sandy-haired sap. They’ve given him a bit too much to drink now, haven’t they?

“Tom, you have more than four shots of brandy in your glass there, do you think you’ll be fit for the office tomorrow?” Gawain asks.

“Ah, old Baxter can hang himself for all I care!” Thomas blurts. “Come, I’ve godt some g-, I’ve god, I’vf got some girls I want you to meet!” Says Thomas, dragging him over to a corner through the crowd of gussied up party goers — the rest of Gawain’s crew tags along behind him. The music is fast and lively, much too lively for Gawain’s antiquated taste, and the people shout and bray. The noise starts to needle in Gawain’s ears, like a fly hitting up against a windowsill, but he ignores his doubts and slips into his wickedness like a glove. Thomas brings him over to an array of colorful women in gaudy dresses, towering hair, and painted faces, but he finds only one that piques his interest. She has pretty dark eyes, raven black hair, and the same supple figure and demeanor of the women he’s seen for over the past thousand years. She’s not any different than a girl he knew in Florence, in 1457; Julietta Bianchi was a fine woman, the daughter of a scholar in Medici’s court, but for Gawain’s curiosity, she bears a striking resemblance to the woman before him.

“John, this is Ms. Cordelia Egbert. She’s in town for the week and needs to be shown a good time. Ms. Egbert, this is good old John Drayer, one of the most bravado gents in town!” Thomas slurs.

“It’s a pleasure to have your acquaintance,” she says softly, giving him her hand. “I’ve heard you know your way quite well, and that you’re a romantic at heart.” Gawain takes it slowly, in the usual routine, and kisses it. He looks up at her with a devilish grin, which she returns with her own.

“I’ll do as old Tom asks, Ms. Egbert, please follow me.” He beckons, leading her to the ballroom. Gawain takes Ms. Egbert and they spin about the floor, revolving around the other pairs of giggling peacocks and game quails. She laughs and swings around in his arms, while he paints on his enthusiasm like a clown. For the next seven hours they dance, they drink, they gamble, love, and lust, taking part in all common debauchery. But at the end of it, Gawain finds himself hollow on the inside of his Easter eggshell. Bored with her partner, the tipsy Ms. Egbert slips on her dignity and bids Gawain adieu, departing with his false promises of love, receding into the cover of night to hide in the shadows. Thomas and his crew are nowhere to be found, but Gawain recalls seeing them running towards the Thames in search of mermaids. Feeling a headache coming on, Gawain calls for his cab and waits outside of the club, as he’s done a million times before. Neither the liquor in his belly nor the adrenaline in his veins fill his empty desires, but he’ll sleep it off anyhow.

The burnt aftertaste follows him into the morning on his way to work. He wishes that he didn’t have to manage the bank — Albion could’ve done it all on his own. Gawain whips open the carriage door and steps out to the fresh smell of soot and poor sanitation in the air, the bright grey glare burns his eyes. Carefully, Gawain hops onto the pavement and heads for the Barclays entrance, when suddenly he hears Albion fussing and grumbling behind him. Gawain turns and see him vigorously wiping his spectacles with the edge of his coat, much to his chagrin.

“Oh, do stop fiddling with your glasses, Albion! Get out of that carriage!” Gawain shouts. Albion looks up at him, indifferent to Gawain’s irritability.

“I have to keep up appearances, you know, to not be recognized. You’ve barely made that attempt, from the looks of you this morning.” He says, looking up and down at Gawain’s shabby appearance; he hasn’t even bothered to comb back his bald spots. Gawain sulks.

“I’m wearing a beard, am I not?” He taunts.

“That style went out of fashion two hundred years ago, try again.” Says Albion, walking past him to the door. Gawain stumbles after him, thankful for the shadows indoors to ease his eyesight. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Thomas McKinnon over at the teller’s booths, looking absolutely abysmal from the night before. Gawain grins, seeing an opportunity.

“Oh Mr. McKinnon!” He calls to him. “You know, I don’t think I hired you to be a tosher, so unless you attend to your appearance, I’ll have to make some arrangements!” Thomas straightens his back like an arrow, swinging a hand over his hair to brush it back and tightening his tie, to no avail.

“Yes, Mr. Richard. I mean, of course, Mr. Baxter. Right away, Mr. Baxter.” Thomas sputters, scurrying away to the men’s room, accidently knocking into Albion.

“Excuse me, sorry Mr. Ritter!” He cries as he rushes off down the hall.

“And you haven’t forgotten my coffee, have you?”

“No sir! It’s there!” The young man yelps.

Albion and Gawain exchange looks, sharing a small, yet subdued laugh. As they shuffle down to their office, Albion rubs the circles under his eyes, muttering something like “damn old fool” under his breath. Gawain knits his eyebrows in suspicion, but lets it pass. After fiddling with the keys to the door, with several good turns and yanks, Gawain manages to bust the door free, sauntering over to his desk. Albion trails behind, hanging his hat limply upon the coat rack.

“My, has the morning stretched far,” Gawain remarks, taking in a yawn. “Ne’er I’ve felt so crapulous since Coleshill’s siege, damn Normans and all.” He shakes his body in some attempt to dispel his sleepiness, and pours out the coffee set by McKinnon, lazily stirring in the cream. Albion scoffs at Gawain’s biased account.

“Firstly, it’s only nine o’clock?” Albion retorts. “And secondly, it was I, who on that field who bared a beating and drove them back East; you sat pretty in Gruffydd’s castle, laying waste to his ale.”

“He needed a political advisor, and that’s my area of expertise, brother.” Gawain replies, settling comfortably into his chair and flipping open the day’s paper.

“Well, don’t make it a habit to cover your fudgeling, Gawain.” Albion exhales. Their peace is interrupted once again by McKinnon, stumbling through their door with the sugar missing from the breakfast tray. He gingerly places it on Gawain’s desk without a word, and retreats out of the door, leaving the brothers dumbstruck. Albion settles down at his desk, observing his brother with a scrutinous grin. Gawian feels his gaze on his neck and turns to face him, cocking his eyebrow high.

“Now what did I do this time?” He probes. Albion lets out a hearty laugh.

“Honestly, Mr. Baxter, you torture that young man,” He exclaims finally. “You knew McKinnon would come in hungover.” Albion reproofs. Gawain rolls his eyes, smug about his fruitful gag.

“Well, Oscar, you know how it is when you train your hounds. If you want them to obey you, you have to rub their nose in their mistakes.”

IV

“Unlike what father thinks, a spaniel bites back if provoked enough. I’m tired of being chauffeured out to breed with these fops, but I suppose it’s the only way to give my family some relief from the stress of having an unmarried widow live in their house. They act as if I were a specter, or some poltergeist they need to evict, and sure enough a rich man with a lot money is just the gospel they want to hear.” Rosemary complains bitterly. Her friend, Caroline Madigan, puts her hand in hers to console her.

“Ms. Rosemary, I’m certain they don’t resent you that harshly, and I’m sure they want the best for you, but I do understand your feelings. I’m sorry I can’t be more of a help to you.”

“What you can help me with is organizing our union, Caroline. We need to have more advocates, more credibility, but it seems as if I face resentment at every turn. Mother either keeps me locked up to prevent any ‘embarrassment’ on her part or sends me out to bother dandies and old men. I haven’t left the house in weeks.”

“Now that, I don’t care for. I wish Lady Healy would let you loose again, you need the air. I would never do the same to my children, nor does my Patrick agree on keeping me locked up either. We have to support ourselves.”

“Madigan! These linens are all out of order! Could you please come down and rearrange them!” Lady Healy called from downstairs. Caroline sighs, but places a loving hand on Rosemary’s shoulder.

“It’ll get easier somehow, Ms. Rosemary. Someday we’ll find the answer.” She says. With that, Caroline leaves to go fulfill her duties, leaving Rosemary alone in her drafty room

“Not if you can’t leave.” She mutters quietly to herself. Rosemary stares at the bruisy blue wallpaper, floating in her apathy and frustration. She then catches notice of the Japanese Noh mask she acquired from Mr. Huckle hanging near her bedpost, and she remembers the mail left at the door. Her father said a letter came to her in the post that morning. Rosemary hops out of her plum wing chair and skips out of her room to the stairs. She slides down the spiral mahogany bannister down to the foyer, grabbing the mail and shuffling through it. There, she sees a classily embellished envelope — a letter addressed from none other than Louis Huckle. She carefully tears it open with the edge of her nail and pulls out an immaculate little card. It’s a heavy parchment, with a deep red wax outlining the edges, and the script is elaborate and stark, as if an Elizabethan bard bared a pretty sonnet for her affection.

— — // — —

Ms. Rosemary, I’m having a small convention with some university chaps over at Hyde park this Thursday, and I was wondering if you and your family would care to join me. Sir Curry can’t make it due to an ulcer he aggravated the night before, and he’d have been disagreeable as usual. I apologize, and I hope we are still friends. Correspond with me as soon as you can. Sincerely, Louis Huckle.

— — // — —

Rosemary grins and breathes a sigh of relief. Finally, another chance to get out of the house again. Much to her delight, her family make vain and busy excuses as to why they can’t go, but Lady Healy concedes and allows for her to attend, but not so long as an hour and a half, and that Caroline stays with her.

“She sounds nice.” Albion remarks as they stroll down to the tents.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Rosemary sighs.

“Ms. Rosemary, you don’t know even know the tail of it.” Caroline chimes in. They laugh, strolling underneath the overgrowth and growing lost in the sprinkling of the forest green. Rosemary walks ahead of them, gazing around in wonder at the new spring beauty. Albion catches up to her a bit, leaving Caroline to smartly stay behind and mind her business (at Rosemary’s request).

“The centifolias are beginning to bloom, but they’re shy I see.” Rosemary observes, brushing her fingers past the timid bushes. Albion bends down and plucks one from a branch, carefully handing it over to her.

“Yes, but sometimes the less revealed can entail more to be admired.”

During the ceremony, several old professors gave monotonous speeches about Hyde park’s preservation, history, and recent discoveries made by their student teams. During one speech in particular, while a Professor Graham was reading out the ancient cultural customs of the people that had lived near there, Rosemary notices Albion holding back a laugh, mumbling to himself, “That’s wrong, and that’s wrong. . . and that’s definitely wrong.” She raises an eyebrow, slightly amused at his behavior. He caught her eye, and quickly composed himself for the rest of the ceremony. Later, as lunch was served, their little party sat in white wicker chairs underneath an oak tree. Rosemary leans back in her chair, taking in the scenery and sipping on her fresh cup of tea, once again drawing Albion’s attention.

“Enjoying the view?” He inquires. Stretching out further, Rosemary closes her eyes in gladness, nodding her head.

“Even if it’s only three miles away from home, there’s just something so freeing out here, Louis. Something that puts my heart at ease, these little affairs. When the weather allows it and the air is calm. It’s peace — a thing I need more of in my life.” She says with a wilting sigh.

“Just wait until the first week of August,” Albion remarks. “There’s more fun to be had out of doors at the Eisteddfod. It’s much more entertaining than this dull little archaeological fair.” He says, gesturing over to the party. Rosemary raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

“The. . .” She frowns, trying to figure out how to say it. “The Esteth, the Estethfad?”

“The Eisteddfodau,” Albion chuckles “It’s a Welsh festival. We celebrate our literature, poetry, music, and theater. It came about in the 12th century. Rhys ap Gruffyd held the first at his court in Cardigan, in 1176. He was good man, and it was a fine and joyous display indeed. . . so I’ve read. The current presentation, however, owes much to the 18th-century revival.” Rosemary nods, pointing her finger at him.

“Right. I remember you said you’re a Welshman.” She affirms. “Your admiration clearly shines through.”

‘Then, would you like to come and visit our family’s estate there? In Gwynedd?” Albion blurts out. “I could show you around, and. I think you. . . I mean your father would enjoy it.” He stops, realizing he’s gotten ahead of himself.

“Oh yes, you think he would, of course. That’s what you meant to say.” She grins, taking another sip of her tea. Albion shifts nervously in his seat and rubs the back of his neck, hot under the collar; he hadn’t meant to lead her on. Caroline leans back in her chair across from the two in quiet amusement.

“Well, I mean, I was only suggesting. I didn’t mean to presume anything.”

“Weren’t you?” Rosemary asks coyly. Albion waves his hand.

“Well. . . if you would like to come, you’re welcome, yes, but with your family. I-I wasn’t implying anything, “Albion clarifies, shaking his head. “And you’d have to travel with them anyways. It’s dodgy to travel alone, as a woman with frailties, you know what it’s like.” Rosemary’s eyes narrow, gazing at him with increasing scrutiny.

“As a woman with frailties?” She scoffs, almost with a laugh.

“Y-you would need someone in your family with you. Yes. It would be improper if you didn’t. I-I can say that I’m your friend, but they would protest that you stay home. You lived in South Africa with your husband, he had to take care of you, you should know. . .” Albion retreats in his words, and from the apparent discomfort on Rosemary’s face; he sees he’s crossed a line. She sets down her cup decisively and looks him hard in the eye.

“I prefer keeping close to home now, where I can do the most good. I’ve spent too much time being dragged around by other people, especially my family, and especially my late husband. Just because I lived there, it doesn’t mean I was happy.” Rosemary nips. She recoils, breaking her gaze from his, staring off at the oaks crowned with leaves. Albion retreats in his chair, looking down on his shoes; he sees he’s crossed a line.

“I see. I-I’m sorry,” He stammers quickly. Albion stands up, straightening out his jacket. “Um, my offer still stands, if you’ll take it.”

“I’ll have to talk to my family about that, I guess. Excuse me for my thankless frailties.” Rosemary replies, staring off into the distance. Albion nods, gesturing over to the buffet to get some more appetizers. He trudges off, shaking the grass off his white loafers, irritated at his own buffoonery. Rosemary sighs, rubbing her forehead in frustration. Caroline gives her an empathetic grimace.

“And I thought he was one of the better ones, Ms. Rosemary. What an ass! I’m sorry you had to go through that, do you want to get going?” Caroline asks. Rosemary rises out of her chair and motions for Caroline to come along. They cross a few paces away from the party when Albion comes striding after them, almost slipping in the grass.

“Rosemary, wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” He falters, but Rosemary holds up her hand, silencing him, clenching her jaw.

“I got the message, Louis. You didn’t want to lead me on, except the fact that you did. Inviting me here, joking with me, sending me letters. What kind of a fool do you think I am? Now I won’t lead you any further. I’m going home. Good day.” She snaps, leaving him there like a puppet without strings. She takes Caroline’s arm, and they tread away from the picnic towards the street. On the carriage ride home, Caroline can see the apparent disappointment on Rosemary’s face, knitting her eyebrows with worry.

“Are you quite well? Do you need me to do anything for you when we get home?”

“Nothing. I have everything I need at home, apparently.” Rosemary snaps bitterly. She continues the rest of her angry thoughts in silence, rapping her knuckles on her knee.

“I can’t go anywhere without my family trailing behind me. I can’t go anywhere without a man to take care of me. I can’t go anywhere without someone tearing into me. Apparently, staying home is all a woman is fit for.”

V

“How is it that you always manage to bungle things?” Albion asks himself, waiting outside the Lords chamber room for Sir George. “What are you doing?!” Albion, unlike his brother, had always been hesitant to engage with women, considering the circumstances. He had fouled things up in 505, he had fouled things up in 1152, in 1584, and he had extremely fouled things up ninety years ago. There was no charity from the fates, there was no grace for his feelings; he had seen them all die. It just wasn’t possible. Yet again, he was risking that pain, forgetting what he is, and not knowing who he was.

“Where the devil is Curry?” Sir George exclaims, striding over to Albion. His footsteps echo in the stony hallway outside of the House of Lords chamber, just as the daily session ended.

. “Bligh, you said you saw him last night, do you know what’s become of him? He wasn’t here for today’s session when we needed him! And you! When will you invite my family and I to your grandson’s charity ball? You’ve just about invited every other family within a five-mile radius except ours!” He says, pointing an accusing finger in Albion’s face

“Now, Sir Healy,” Albion begins. “Even if I disagree with the man personally, I cannot account for Curry’s illnesses. Secondly, I’m sure your invitation is on its way, but my grandson, Mr. Drayer, isn’t a character of accountability. He’s been rather tactless as of late.”

“John Drayer? Why he’s one the most agreeable young men I’ve met, very good chap indeed! You should ever be so proud of his accomplishments,” Sir George bumbles. “He should’ve certainly sent something through to us by now, better sooner than Curry’s boy.” After further pressing, Albion concedes to Sir George’s demands and promises to follow up the invitation. In reality, after conferring with Gawain once he returned home, during one of his letter tearing sessions, it turned out he hadn’t sent an invitation to the Healys on the account that “they annoy me.” Begrudgingly, Albion sends the invitation to them the very night of Gawain’s Faustian Waltz, irritated both at his awkwardness and at Gawain’s flippant negligence. As it turned out, his invitation gave credence for the entire Healy lineage to pour in through the doors of the ballroom at White’s. To Gawain’s benefit, Sir George taken the liberty of inviting his brother-in-law, Sir Powell, and his family. He had long waited to apprehend Sir Powell’s attention, as well as his influence for the passage of his tax bill.

Gawain eagerly awaits near the door, greeting friends and enemies alike, while Albion sits nearby, massaging his old knees.

“Why must you be so impertinent? It’s not as if Queen Saxe-Coburg decided to pay us a visit.” Albion inquires, bunching up his crinkled face in disbelief. Gawain keeps his eyes on the arriving carriages, hugging close to the door in anticipation.

“It’s Powell, thank your galling graces for having invited those pigeons, I had forgotten Powell was even related to them,” Gawain gushes, his emerald eyes darting about excitedly. He joyously embraces another set of friends, exchanging a snickering jest with a once again inebriated Thomas McKinnon, who stumbles off to the bar. Albion shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his suit bunching at the creases and ascot taught around his neck. He was afraid to meet Rosemary in this state, wary of hiding his true emotions, and with that thought, Sir George, Sir Powell, and their families bumble through the door. Gawain immediately leaps in front of them, jubilated at their arrival.

“Dear Sir George!” Gawain cheers. “Welcome! Your contribution for this charity is most gracious! And Sir Powell, I do admire your journals indeed!” He grabs Sir Powell hand and gives it a good shake, delighting the old man. Albion groans under his breath but is startled when Rosemary and her mother step out of the carriage outside. Another girl, a maid of one and twenty, slips out of the carriage behind them, bunching up the lavender ruffles of her gown off of the street and straightening her auburn hair back into place. Gawain stares over Sir Powell’s shoulder, cocking his eyebrow with intense curiosity, while Powell gives him a good slap on the shoulder.

“Drayer, old George has told me much of your excursions. Your grandfather should take much pride in the gentleman you’ve become over the years, eh Sir Bligh?”

“He makes many friends,” Albion grunts as he rises to greet them. “I’ve tried to teach him well.” Gawain gives him a quick look but moves aside to greet the young lady ascending the steps. Powell motions for her and his in-laws to join them.

“There comes my love, my joy. Violet, may I introduce you to Mr. John Drayer, Sir Bligh’s grandson.” He says, taking her hand and bringing her to Gawain.

“And how do you do, madam?” He asks in a fruity fashion. He takes Violet’s hand and kisses it, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Violet, charmed by his chivalry, touches her hand to her heart.

“Fine, for my comfort, sir. It’s gracious for you to invite us to your dance, and I’ve heard much of your endeavors here and abroad.” She says. Gawain smiles, letting out a hearty laugh.

“Good things, I hope.”

“Oh of course, Father’s told me much about you, especially your apprenticeship with Sir Curry. He says you’ll make a fine politician someday, and I’m very invested in politics.” Violet says, batting her eyes at Gawain. He smirks, holding out his arm to her.

“Come, shall we dance? I should like to know you more, and I must have the next three dances with you, if you’ll entreat me.” Violet locks her arm in his, and they depart to the ballroom. Sir Powell beams proudly of having introduced her to a seemingly “fine young man,” while old Albion rubs the circles under his eyes in annoyance. Rosemary, dragged along by her mother, join Sir George at his side.

“George, I’m going to go join Matilda and the girls over there,” States Lady Healy, pointing over at her friends. “I think it would be in your best interest to find a suitable partner for Rosemary to dance with. The other young ladies have already done so.” Rosemary grimaces, breaking free from Lady Healy and folding her arms.

“Mother, I’m perfectly capable of finding my own company. I don’t need father’s help.”

“And what company would an unmarried widow be? You’ll have to be introduced.” Lady Healy retorts, holding her nose high. Sir George gives her a gentle swat, trying to dissuade her.

“Dear, I have business to discuss with Carter and Seward, so go join your friends. I don’t have time to match-make right now.” Says Sir George, waving at her to go away. Lady Healy huffs in annoyance and saunters off to meet the other mother hens. Rosemary gives her father a pat on the back, thankful for his charity. Albion chuckles in incredulity.

“You had hoped to introduce her to my grandson, George. You told me so last night.” Albion says, pointing a finger at him. Rosemary’s arm immediately retracts from Sir George, meeting Albion’s eyes. A hint of shame blossoms in his throat, looking into her dark brown eyes.

“Thank you, Sir Bligh, for letting me know.” She sighs in appreciation, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Albion gives her a subtle nod, though has trouble meeting her gaze.

“Anything I can do for you, Rosemary.” He says quickly, prompting a confused look from her as she departs to the buffet. Sir George then leads him and Sir Powell off to a corner of the ballroom to discuss trivialities and tribulations, both at home and with the country, but Albion’s muddled mind leads him to retreat into his thoughts. He gazes aimlessly around the ballroom, observing Gawain and Violet jump about to the spirited strings of the band, the other young souls following suit, and he finds himself replete with melancholy once again. The world washes around him in a blur of light and sound, and he sees the scene melt into a million half-remembered visions of his past.

How in old Bangor, he had been dragged along by the children to the center of the dance and thrown to the bardic chair, springing to the lively flutes as the assemblies of rhymers sang their tune. How in the Frankish court he met hands with many maids under the watchful eye of old Otto, the reaper of the Magyars. How he saw King Richard at dinner, just before Bosworth field, and the sad smile he shared with poor Anne Neville as the news of the Lancastrian advance met their ears. How he had laughed along with his brother and Lorenzo de Medici, as they toured the fair and once prosperous Florence. And in 1791, how he had seen Mozart’s last delight at the Theater auf der Wieden, and the large crowds that gathered to see it.

“So, what do you think of it?” He hears someone ask in the distance.

“Yfel âðollan n¯ænig pro oncnâwan,” Albion replies aimlessly. “Man weorðung lîflêas.”

“What? What is that? What did you say?” Sir George asks, confused. Albion doesn’t respond.

“Bligh, I asked you a question!” Implores Sir George, interrupting his thoughts. Realizing his mistake, Albion shakes his head and whips it around to meet him, falling back into reality.

“Damn! I mean, yes, yes George? What did you say?” Albion blurts. Suddenly, his eye draw to a lone figure, huddled against one of the columns surrounding the dancefloor, arms wrapped up against her chest and eyes laden soft with sadness. Rosemary, in her snowy chiffon gown, and chestnut hair trussed fair, she bares a ghostly resemblance to that white enchantress he’d encountered so long ago. It shakes him to his core. Albion abruptly rises from the table, startling Sir George and Sir Powell.

“Excuse me, gentleman, I’m sorry. I need to go address something for a moment.” He stammers quickly striding over to Gawain. He hears Sir George scoff and slap the table behind him.

“But Carter! You haven’t answered my question about this tax bill!” Sir George cries after him to no avail. Albion maneuvers through the crowd, nearly tripping over some poor girl’s gown, and wedges his arm past them to Gawain’s collar, pulling himself through.

“Gawai-I mean, John. I need your help, please. Can we talk? Alone?” He implores. Gawain groans, gesturing over to Violet hanging on his arm.

“Can’t you see that I’m busy, Grandfather?” He gripes.

“It’s important, now come on.” Albion demands. Gawain begins to protest, but Albion drags him away from Violet and the other girls and down the hallway to the manager’s office. Albion gingerly closes the door and locks it, flicking on the gaslamp to Gawain’s much annoyed face. He crosses his arms, tapping his foot impatiently.

“What is it you want now, Albion? I’m in the middle of planting my garden in gaining the Powell’s good favor. I told you not to interrupt me when I’m working!” Gawain snaps. Albion sighs, rubbing the sweat off of his forehead.

“Gawain, I’ve been a damn fool. I insulted Rosemary, Healy’s daughter, and I must make amends with her. Please.” Gawain rolls his eyes, groaning in disgust.

“You may do that another time, brother. Right now, I have business I need to attend to.” He says, motioning to the door. Albion steps in front of it, blocking Gawain’s path.

“She’s being passed over by everyone else here and embarrassed enough as it is! I have to do something at least. Please, let me be Huckle for thirty minutes at least!” He pleads.

“She’s an unmarried widow of six and twenty, Albion, poppy-cocking about politics and female medical practitioners. No wonder!” Says Gawain, throwing up his hands. Albion clenches his jaw, growing a bit more desperate by the second. He’ll have to use his trump card now.

“Don’t make me say it.” Albion declares.

“Say what?”

“Your old name. I know you hate it.”

“I don’t care about that, Albion!”

“You know you do.”

“No, no I don’t! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some seeds to plant.” He states matter-of-factly, shoving past Albion and turning to the door. Albion recoils his nose in disgust, and he grasps Gawain’s wrist hard, digging his nails into his coat.

“Gwalchmei ap Cynan!” Albion growls under his gritted teeth. “For the charity of this earthly night, please! I implore you!” Gawain jerks his arm away, fuming. He bangs his fist against the wall, stirring in his ire. Finally, he regains his composure and throws up his hands, pulling back his sleeve and holding out his wrist to Albion. They lock arms, and Albion’s youth is returned to him, leaving Gawain bitter with disappointment.

“If it’s any merit, I can take Powell’s ear for the evening for our card game, though I’ll have to find some way to excuse Drayer’s absence,” He grumbles. Gawain stops in the doorway, gives Albion one last look, and shakes his head.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Albion.” Gawain then shuffles off to the cloak room to pinch a larger set of clothes for his corpulent body. Albion closes the door and quickly readjusts his tie, trying to present himself in his younger state.

“These are an old man’s clothes,” He thinks resentfully. “Damn your fool heart.” He steps out of the office and hurries back over to the ballroom, just in time to see Rosemary walking towards the front door to call a cab home. Albion quickens his pace, maneuvering around the other party goers towards the front entrance.

“Rosemary!” He cries after her. Rosemary stops in her tracks, turning to face him with a little surprise, then turn to a solid resentment. She crosses her arms and averts her gaze to the floor.

“I wasn’t aware you would be here, Louis.” She mutters quietly.

“I know and listen. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was a blundering fool and said those awful things. You don’t deserve that, and I should have treated you with more dignity.” Albion says, his eyes deep and mournful. Rosemary steps back, puffing out her chest.

“Your fumble was quite a display. I would say prevaricating isn’t a very attractive quality in a man, and for that you’ve revoked any correspondence between us for some time. Now, I’m going home.” She grumbles, walking back to the door.

“Wait!” He cries, clutching at the air as she moved away from him. Rosemary stops in her gate, turning to face him, and meets his pale blue eyes with scrutinous repose. After a small hesitation, he composes himself

“I . . . I wasn’t sure of myself, and it was wrong of me to expose old wounds. I merely sought for thy, I mean . . . your friendship. Never have I met a more gentle, compassionate friend, nor as invested in the world as I. I wish to keep you, and your family as allies, for I think in our conduct, my uncle and I, we’ve cut ourselves off from good society. I would appreciate if we could keep your kindness. Let me at least atone for my sins.” He pleads. She pauses, giving it some consideration. Albion’s heart bangs like a trashcan in his ears as he waits for her answer. Finally, she breathes a sigh and melts her stony gaze.

“For your atonement.” Rosemary replies, holding out her lilywhite glove. Albion gives her a little smile, bowing low like a prince, and eliciting a little laugh from her at last. He takes her hand gently, yet with cautious with approach, and they take their lead to the floor. The strings stir once again, humming and sighing, until finally with all the players on the board, the orchestra slides into their symphony. Through several revolutions around the other pairs, the pair become locked in orbit with one another, almost by nature. Rosemary can still sense uneasiness in his motions, and despite his measured precision, she can feel his hand tremor at the small of her back.

“Nervous?” Rosemary whispers into his ear as they turn. Albion huffs, unsettled by the bustling music and the aching lump in his throat. He can’t quite get the timing right.

“The waltz, I’m not familiar with this one,” He breaths. “I should be, I should know this.” He tries to make deliberate steps to correct himself but ends up brushing against another partner.

“It’s by a Russian fellow, I think. It premiered only recently.” Rosemary says with a giggle. He turns her a little heavily and sways her back into his arm to regain his balance. Rosemary props herself up again and directs Albion on the proper course.

“Is something the matter?” She asks.

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite myself tonight.” He sighs. Rosemary then adjusts her arm and supports his back, leaning closer to him, much to his anxiety.

“Then here,” She says, “Follow my steps.” And she carefully leads him back into the waltz. There’s more grace in their movements now, a general ease, and Albion finally relaxes. Rosemary smiles as the music picks up, increasing in tambour and vivacity. Finally finding the courage, Albion lifts her along with the other men and returns her graciously back to earth. They catch breath, and the partners bow as the strings strike their last note. Albion exhales, nervous, but finally allowing to enjoy himself. Rosemary looks up at him, tilting her head back and clasping her hands.

“So, I take it your invitation still stands?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. Albion smiles in relief, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, as you wish,” He replies. They spend the rest of the evening confiding and joking with one another, much to the delight of Lady Healy’s coy observation from across the room. Rosemary later gains a whole-hearted approval from Sir George to travel to Gwynedd that summer, with the exception that Caroline go with her. To Albion’s benefit, Gawain allows him to go home without him, being in the thick of an intense card game down the hall. Gawain had made his excuses for Drayer known to Powell and George but managed to get in their good graces. He endorsed his “apprentice,” John Drayer, for a match with Violet, and in return gained their favor for passing his tax bill in the House of Lords. With that, the old gentlemen break out the champagne, and Powell tops it off with a wide grin hidden behind his bristly mustache.

“By God’s will, shall our kingdom flourish. We sons of Britain must keep that heritage, even in this new age and beyond our time. Cheers to that!” Sir Powell beams as they clink their glasses. Gawain chuckles to himself, amused at Sir Powell’s witlessness. To claim that the birthright of any man was beholden to God was ludicrous.

“Oh England, I was here before your kings” He thought smugly.” I saw your kingdom set to cyclically destroy itself in some perverse notion of glory. You ate your filth, and when the poisons of the plague came for you, you said you didn’t know better, whereas I have had to reinvent myself in a karmic cycle to stay alive.” Though based on his history, Gawain adroitly moves the game in his favor, per usual. Snickering at his cards, Gawain looks up at the old lame ducks, grinning from ear to ear.

“I have some lovely bad news for you, gentlemen. The kings are on my side tonight!” He cheers, showing off his winning hand. The old gents brayed and grumbled, but eventually conceded to results with affable sportsmanship. The card game wrapped up, with Sir George at his wit’s end and Gawain all the richer. They part amicably and depart with their families, while Gawain settles the nights affairs with the club manager, making empty promises to pay the necessary fees and dues for the party at the end of the week. As he steps outside, Gawain notices a drizzle trickling down from the skies, as the night grew darker and bathed the streets with black. Gawain hugs his cloak close to his body as the rain begins to pour and starts to head down Oxford street towards home. However, out of the corner of his eye, a crouching, ragged woman shuffles from behind a column on the steps of the club as he descends to the streets.

“Sir? Can you help me sir?” The woman cries from the steps. She shambles over to him in her shabby shawl and indigo dress littered with soot and stains. Gawain recoils his nose in disgust but stops in his tracks to address her.

“Yes ma’am, what is it? Do you need money or something?” He replies in a rather blasé manner. The woman has ratty black hair, sunken dark eyes from hunger, and paper-white skin; a common beggar woman from the looks of it. Gawain begins to reach for his wallet when she gently grabs onto his arm, her eyes boring into his.

“Do you know if Mr. John Drayer is still inside?” She asks timidly. “I need him, I’ve been looking everywhere for him, but he won’t return my letters. He’s left me undone.” Gawain frowns, stepping back and puffing out his chest.

“I tried to get in, but the staff wouldn’t let me. Please, I need your help.” She implores with rising desperation. Gawain runs his hand over the back of his neck, biting his lip in shame.

“Not another one,” He thinks bitterly to himself. “Please, dear god, not another one.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, I can’t help you. I think Mr. Drayer already left.” He blurts, looking away from her and trying to get past. The woman presses on, jumping in front of Gawain’s path.

“Please! I need to see Mr. Drayer! I know he’s here! Please sir!” She cries, clutching onto his sleeve. There it hits him, right between the eyes, and he realizes who she was; a little ghost from earlier that year. In a fast and frenzied motion, Gawain strikes and tries to shake the beggarwoman off of him. He shoves the woman aside, and she falls to the ground and crashes against the iron gate, letting out a loud wail.

“It’s no business of mine, madam, now good evening!” Gawain snaps. He storms off down the street, desperate to evade her and for his shadows to catch up to him. She cries after Gawain, but he ducks into an alley and waits for her to leave. He huffs and growls, shaken by the fact that she even found him, another one of his paramours. He peers out from the alley, watching her wander despondently out of view, and steps out to head back home. How far she had fallen since they had last met, or barely met. He shoves the thought to the back of his mind, shivering against the icy rain that sticks to his skin and seeps into his clothes. Finally, he arrives at home, letting his arms hang loosely at his sides as he stomps through the door.

“I need a drink, damn it.” Gawain grumbles to himself.

“Oh, is that you?” Albion calls from the parlor. He hesitantly strolls into the foyer, looking Gawain up and down in scrutiny. Gawain talks off his hat and tosses it on to the coat rack, staring Albion frostily in the eyes. He sighs, smoothing out his thinning hair in exhaustion.

“Well, I hope that was worth it for you, Sir ‘God save thy ladies,’” Gawain groans. “Though, I don’t recall o’er the past years doing you such favor in a while. I thought you’d renounced the fine tulle of maidens fair, go on off to your cave back in Gwynedd, shave your head and gibber with Jesus.” He says, taking off the coat he stole and throwing his spectacles onto the hall table.

“I’ll return the favor, give me your arm,” Albion replies, taking hold of Gawain’s forearm. He slouches into Sir Carter’s stance as Gawain rises as Drayer, and Albion saunters off to the parlor to nurse his wrist and his mood. Gawain regains his equanimity and lets out a sigh of relief, taking off his tie.

“Aye, thank you.” Gawain credits, nodding at Albion. He stares after him, curious about his demeanor, and circles round to the liquor cabinet near the window, pulling out his decanter and a bottle of bourbon. Albion settles in on the couch, breathing a heavy sigh. He opens up a copy of Bel-Ami, flicking the pages to the spot where he left off, muttering some anxieties under his breath. Gawain observes him carefully, cognizant of his recently peculiar behavior.

“Do you recall that one summer in Swansea, when we lodged with Ceredig’s family?” He asks, as if it had only happened within recent memory. Albion frowns, surprised Gawain could remember that far back. He scratches the back of his head, thinking.

“I . . . I think so,” He struggles. “Was it after Badon?” Gawain nods, narrowing his eyes to try and remember.

“Yes, and his father, old Maelgwn, set us up for the night on our journey home from Wiltshire. He had three daughters, but the youngest . . . what was her name?” He said, squinting his eyes and pointing at the air. Albion shifts awkwardly in his seat, unnerved at the question.

“Ainsleigh.” He replies. Gawain claps his hands, pointing an accusing finger at his brother

“Right! Yes, and thou beheld his daughter, you saw her there at the spinning wheel when we came through the door, blackened with mud, and I ne’er hath seen such possession over you until this night!”

“Your point being?”

“There’s no shame in having a little fun, Albion. I’ve seen the way you look at her, Ms. Healy. Enjoy yourself! Brighten that dour complexion she paints herself and rouse your senses. If you need any advice, I have plenty to spare, and to keep Sir George’s happiness, I would think it would be in your best interest to see it through.” Gawain says with a nod. Albion rolls his eyes and stares back at his book, disappointed as his brother’s conclusion.

“Typical. My brother, the arch-seducer, blackmailer and social climber. Where love is only a means to end” He thinks, staring listlessly at the pages in front of him. “What friends does he know of? The sleazy colleagues, the credulous mistresses, and the shrewd financiers. All means to an end, all for his own desires.” Albion shrugs his shoulders, brushing off his brother’s observation. He then hears Gawain hum a happy little tune, seemingly smug with himself over something or other.

“So how did your innocuous little card game play out?” Albion asks from behind his book.

“Oh, that bill with Powell?” He chuckles. “Well, thanks to his daughter, we don’t have to worry about it anymore. It will pass Tuesday morning; the lords will plant the pit, the workers will bear fruit, and the owners will reap the juices. Our little queen will be happy indeed,” Gawain beams as he collects his bourbon from the decanter. He giddily drizzles it into his glass, dribbling some onto the table, and hops over to his ruddy wingback chair. He kicks off his black dress shoes and ladles the spirits down his throat, letting out a pleasured sigh. Albion narrows his eyes at his brother’s dizzy display, running his thumb over his fingernail in contemplation.

“Well, I think all it does is solidify a contract of bad incentives. You won’t have any approbation on my part if you carry it through, but I see there’s no stopping you so, who am I to judge?” Albion remarks, stirring his tea in a half-vital motion. Unbothered, Gawain shrugs his shoulders and sinks back into his chair, staring off into the distance at the rain drizzling against the windowpane. The air is stiff and still, softly charged with tepid feeling, with only the knells of the rain and Albion’s stirs of the spoon to disturb it. Gawain turns his attention back on his brother, staring at his weathered profile with wary observance.

“Virtues are kind but bear their own offenses. They’re meant to rear upstanding citizens and good neighbors yet have failed to impress upon human sense. Nothing has changed.” He remarks to the air.

“Then why are they still here? Why do we still believe in them?” Albion asks his cup. Gawain sighs, taking in a long yawn.

“It’s so we don’t eat each other.”

VI

The day called for a feast. It was quite a delight at the local Eisteddfod in Llanfairfechan, not only to Rosemary’s curiosity but to Caroline’s as well, who gladly took part in the festivities that fair August morning, nearly spraining her ankle. There were words that were butchered, songs that were sung, and tales of mystery and heroism, from The Girl from Lyn y Fan Fach to the legend of Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. The crowing of the bard was met with great acclaim, and for his victory, there was to be an outdoor feast near the Upland Walk. Albion lead the way, though Caroline kept a safe distance from the two to allow them to each other.

“It’s a shame that your uncle couldn’t join us in the festivities.” Rosemary says in a sarcastic tone. Albion nods in agreement, kicking about the pebbles in their path as they walk along to the stony cliffs. He rubs the back of his neck, looking at the ground.

“He’s a politician. They can’t bear to leave old Britain’s side when there’s money to be made,” He says with a chuckle. “But I hope you have enjoyed yourself today.” Albion points over to the fair in the distance, with the sounds of harps and flutes floating upon the wind.

“The Welsh language has certainly given my head a spin, but I’ve enjoyed it all the same. The ancient Britons seem to still live through these people. It feels very grounded, very ancient, yet alive and thriving.” Rosemary observes, folding her hands behind her back.

“Well, technically, at least from the research I’ve found, we’re all Germanic, or Austrians, really. The Welsh derive many of their traditions from the mainland.” Albion explains. Rosemary raises an eyebrow, slightly bemused.

“Austria? Really, I would think that they would have little to do with one another,” Rosemary grins as they stroll through the fair. “Tell me more of what you know, Professor.” Albion chuckles, squinting as the bright sun settled in the west.

“The Hallstats, our ancestors, came here from Austria, and resided in Gwynedd, back when it was its own kingdom. The Anglo-Saxons, however, sought to raze us after we had settled in. They dipped their red and savage tongue in the western sea, but at Mount Badon we held them back, the last great slaughter inflicted upon our rascally crew,” Albion describes, smiling with subtle passion. “The Welsh greatly recovered, and we lived very orderly in a long peace. Well, until the Normans came.”

“You mean William the Conqueror? From France? I know he set up a lot of castles around here. I visited Cardiff Castle for a wedding when I was a little girl.” Rosemary chimes in. Albion nods slowly, but with a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“Yes, but it was his son, Edward, who really upended things in the beginning. Owain Glyndwr tried to hold our independence for a while, but the Tudors eventually stamped us out. They held a feudal choke upon our land and gave privy to their aristocrats for their own pleasure. Our language, our customs, all of this,” He says, motioning to the world around him. “Could have been lost if we hadn’t fought back.” Rosemary looks around, observing the indigo sky, the rolling mossy hills, the quaint little houses that were peppered along the landscape, and the air was swept with petrichor from the evening dew. Rosemary hugs her arms, taking it all in.

“I could lose myself here.” She says wistfully. Albion glances over his shoulder at her, her eyes beaming with contentment. He smiles, then turns his gaze back towards the path

“It’s as easy as sin.” He replies.

“Come on then, you two, let’s get a move on! I don’t want to get there, and the food be cold!” Cries Caroline behind them as she the maneuvers around the rocks. Finally, at the top of the hill, they join the other towns people at the banquet and enjoy a good meal as the sun goes down. The dying light dances upon the rolling waves, crashing into the foam against the rocks. Breaking off from the party, Rosemary wanders over near the edge of the cliff, and steadies herself as she looks out to the fading horizon. She then kneels down the ground and sits upon one of the rocks, her eyes growing lost in the sound. Albion joins her, while Caroline wanders off to the buffet nearby. He sits on one of the other nearby rocks, looking out at the roaring sea.

“Enjoying the view?” He asks timidly. Rosemary nods her head.

“Not since I saw the Pennines, have I ever been somewhere so beautiful.”

“I’m glad you enjoy it. I knew you would like it here.”

“I wish I could stay here,” She stresses, turning to Albion. “Away from everything, anything that would remind me of the life I’ve left behind.”

“What would you leave behind?” He asks cautiously. Rosemary turns away from him again, looking back at the horizon, pressing her lips together.

“The stigma of a dead man’s name. The expectations of a world of feckless fashion.”

“You mean. . . your husband.”

“Yes, my husband.” Rosemary sighs. “An arrogant man in whose arms I was shoved into, who dragged me alongside him into a war with people who didn’t deserve it. People who deserve better.” She hits her knee in frustration, balling her hand into a fist.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to marry Henry, I knew I had to, and that I liked him well enough to find refuge away from London,” She pauses, looking back towards the sea. “But even when I tried, even when I attempted to make a life for myself and help those wonderful people, everyone else, my family, Henry, they all tried to put me down and never tried to understand. It was never what I wanted. Never what I wished for.”

“Then would you wish for?” Albion asks. Rosemary hesitates for a moment, her hair floating along the gentle wind from the sea. She squints at the amber sun, then turns back to face him with a look of gentle remorse.

“I wish I’d have k­­­nown not to be a fool. Some self-awareness to save my soul, save all the scorn and vicarious embarrassment. I wish I’d at least have the sense to look for it. Even now, there’s this morose, shameful veneer that coats that part of my life — as if I’m not allowed to enjoy even parts of it. That part of my mind won’t let me.” They grow silent again, letting the wind fill the space between them. Albions thoughts circle in his head, anxious on what to do

“Maybe she would understand.” He muses to himself. Albion hesitates, but finally reaches across and takes Rosemary’s hand, slightly startling her.

“I need to show you something.” He says quietly. He motions for her to follow him and they break away from the banquet. He leads her to the sprawling gold meadow adjacent to the cliffs, catching the pooling sunlight upon the hills and christening the Black Alder trees that skirted the boundaries. Albion takes Rosemary’s hand and helps her down the rocky path, careful to keep their balance. The breeze picks up, rolling across the hills and whipping Rosemary’s curly brown hair in every direction. Their clothes ripple in the wind as they tread carefully down to the field, and finally, they stop at an assortment of stones jutting out of the ground, weatherworn and moss eaten. They’re marked with strange runes, familiar yet foreign; Rosemary steps forward towards one of them, running her hand along the grooves in the rock. Albion stands frozen behind her, boring a hole into another. She turns to face him, but he does not avert his gaze from the rocks, as if they were going to disappear if he stopped. The weight from Rosemary’s eyes finally prompt Albion to speak.

“My parents . . . my parents and I would come here, every now and then. We’d have parties for Alban Eilir in the Spring and for Calan Awst in the fall, or for any festive occasions, really,” He pauses, shoving his hands into his pockets, looking down at the earth. “This place, for me. . . it bears both serenity. . . and pain. I haven’t been here in years.” Rosemary sees a well of sadness fall onto his face, and gingerly places her hand upon his shoulder, looking up at him.

“Louis, why did you bring me here?” She asks. Albion hesitates, then lets out a shaky breath.

“I . . . I brought you here because I trust you. I haven’t given anyone that trust in a long time.” He stops himself; he can’t bring himself to go through with it, to tell her. He then looks up at the top of the hill, with the sun fading into a civil twilight.

“The daylight has almost gone,” He says. “We had better head home.”

VII

Nestled in the rolling hills of Aber, deep in a brush of twisting trees, laid Albion’s towering estate. Ivy and ferns grew through the crevices of the winding stone path, leading directly to the colossal structure. The mansion loomed proudly, flanked by rows of bushy trees crowned in shades of sage, swaying gently to the warm summer wind as it resonated in the surrounding silence. Rosemary awoke the next morning to find a breakfast already prepared at the foot of her bed, with the Nightjars and Starlings fluttering about her window outside.

She had been given the liberty of free range around the estate while Albion attended to the staff and farmers that kept it running, and almost became lost among those twisting halls. Deep mahogany crowned the walls and etched itself in all corners, adorned with every item of historical significance that one could think of, almost like a great museum of welsh ephemerae. Down every hall, Rosemary found something new and exciting, until she found a little staircase sequestered in what appeared to be a broom closet. Looking around carefully, Rosemary gingerly ascends the dark stairwell and brushes her hand against a door, leading into a large, drafty attic that was decorated with memorabilia.

Stepping into the room, she is drawn toward a particularly large painting leaning against one of the back walls; a portrait of a young man, with beautiful long mousy brown hair draped to his shoulders. He looks to be a Jacobian, staring back at her from the canvas with pale blue eyes. To her right, she notices a series of dusty photographs on a table, and gently picks one up. To her surprise, it’s of Sir Bligh and his grandson, John Drayer, but she notices the photograph is dated 1854, and that the people in the photograph are identified as Sir Reginald and Harry Pembroke. Rosemary knits her brows, picking up another photograph, this time of Louis, but he’s dressed as if he’s a Union soldier from America, leaning against a tree with Sir Curry standing uncomfortably beside him. She looks back to the portrait, and just as it strikes her who it is, she hears a pair of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs behind her. She whips around to find Albion immobile, staring agape at the scene.

“I found it all open, I didn’t touch anything.” She sputters. Albion remains frozen in place, his eyes widening, as if she had found the scene of a crime. Her heart hesitates for a moment, and then remembers to beat again.

“This can’t be serious. . .” She whispers in disbelief. Rosemary holds up a hesitant finger, trying to keep her hand steady.

“Y-you’ve been hiding something from me.” She accuses. Rosemary sees something shift in his gaze, as it dawns on him that she knows his secret. She sees truth that her own reason had disavowed; it was as if his eyes could see forever. There is both relief and pain in those eyes, but there’s something still holding him back.

“So, you do know now, don’t you?” He sighs coolly, shifting his weight and placing his hands on his hips. Rosemary takes a breath, swallowing back the hint of shame in her throat.

“Y-yes, but this doesn’t change things. I’m not afraid.” Rosemary replies. Albion shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair, holding back a grimace.

“I have no reason to rebuke you. I’m only disappointed I was not more careful. You know more of me than I had hoped to reveal.”

“You mean when I saw you as Sir Bligh, at your brother’s ball.” Says Rosemary. Albion is taken aback a little; he didn’t know she had figured out that part. Thinking back to that encounter, his face flushes in embarrassment.

“Well, yes.” Albion says with a nervous chuckle. Rosemary paces a little bit, careful in her thoughts, but fidgeting her fingers with anxiety.

“I have some questions then.” She manages to ask.

“They always do.”

“Just four,” She says, holding up her fingers. “Firstly, what is your real name?”

“Albion, after old Britain itself.”

“And you’re originally from Wales.”

“Yes, but I’ve never stayed in the same place for too long, at risk of seeing friends and lovers grow up and die.”

“Do you know when you were born?”

“I assume it was. . . 471.” He answers with a squint. “I was almost 30 when my brother and I made our deal.” Rosemary catches her breath for a moment, looking down at her feet. She then looks up at him nervously, her neck perspiring with anxious anticipation

“Do you love me?” She asks. Albion’s eyes widen in alarm, and he steps back into the wall. His eyes dart about the attic floor and he rubs his hands tightly. They are silent for a few moments, but then Albion clears his throat, and meets her brown eyes again with fear.

“Rosemary, in earnest, you have my trust, and I consider you a kind friend, but I wanted to impart that I had not, nor presently have, the intention to manipulate you.” He says quietly.

“I could see that, from how you’ve conducted yourself. Your standoffishness I can forgive, but you’ve been hiding your true intentions. I feel that under the surface.”

“I’ve hid them before, and I’ll do it again to save unnecessary pain.”

“I’m not afraid of pain.”

“Not this pain, not this pyrrhic pain I’ve lived a thousand times over! It’s not worth it, Rosemary!”

“But you need not shut yourself off from the living, to punish yourself with failing courage. You don’t need to hide from me.” She presses. Albion waves her hand dismissively, circling around the room.

“Why, why must you continue to torment me? What is it that you think I need, Rosemary?” He exclaims, stumbling over his words. He reaches out a desperate hand and lets it fall, watching her quiet face staring intently back.

“A love that wants to be released.” She says. This twists in his gut. He doesn’t like the way she’s so gently brutal in her honesty. The way it tears into his heart.

“No.” Albion says quietly.

“It’s true and you won’t admit it. This feeling that life’s incomplete, like a hole punched in the stars that something needs to fill. I won’t get in your head, but this is a breed of illness I’m all too familiar with. Don’t you feel that? Do you want what I want?”

“I do! But there will come the day I’ll see you in your grave, and I cannot bear that exercise again!” He cries, turning his back to her. “I will not entice you.”

“Why? Because you’re afraid of hurting me? Like all the others you’ve denied affections to?” Rosemary counters. “I don’t care. I’m already finished. I’m already condemned. I don’t care how many times the world rejects me, I’ll do it again and again and again, and it will not move me. I’ve been denied affection in every corner I turn, for my assumed precedents are well known. I, too, have a curse in this life and I will not hide myself from you. Don’t hide from me.” Her words slice through the air, sinking into the drafty room. Shaking, Albion winces and gives her a solemn glance.

“I admire your bravery,” He says, shaking his head. “And as for your strife I could not sympathize more. But, for the sake of our happiness, I must deny my affection. Your empathy will be lost to time, my dear.”

“Then may we remain friends, for the time being?” She asks. Albion pauses, looking down at the dusty floor, and letting out a little sigh.

“We may.”

VIII

The ride home on the train remained quiet. Albion and Rosemary didn’t speak much with one another, but Caroline at least was able to engage them in trivial small talk. This did not satisfy Rosemary’s mind, riddled with questions and concern for the truth she had uncovered, but Albion would not hear of it. She resigned to the silence once again. At King’s Cross, Rosemary offered to drop Albion off at his home in her carriage, but the ride remained silent still. When they pulled up to the tower of white bricks and iron gates, Rosemary finally decided to prompt Albion again with one more question.

“Are you afraid of death?” She asks as they step out of the carriage. Albion furrows his brow, thinking for a moment.

“A violent death, yes, but I would resign to a quiet one, if I were mortal.” He replies. “I’ve given the matter some good deal of thought. But, considering the circumstance, Gawain would never allow for it.” Rosemary’s chestnut eyes widen with alarm.

“So, you would be willing to die, become mortal? Even after everything you’ve been through, you would be willing to let that go?”

“It’s a wrath I would endure gladly. For many years have I scribed my sorrows, held out against earthly tempests, and bared the reign of darker days. It would be comfort to know I could live out my days quietly and find that there’s a peace at the end of it.”

“But what would you do if you could live a normal life?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” He chuckles, shaking his head. Rosemary cocks her eyebrow, getting an idea. Flashing a small grin, in a quick and easy motion, Rosemary pulls Albion down to her lips, holding him in a kiss. She caresses the back of his neck and folds into his body, erasing anything he was about to say. Without much resistance, he lets himself sink into it. His thoughts cut short, his iron melts down to gold, and his arms pull her in a tighter embrace.

“God, it’s been forever.” Albion thinks. Rosemary then pulls away from him gently, giving me a little smirk

“It’s as easy as sin.” She whispers. Rosemary then hops back in the carriage and tells the driver to head home, pulling away from Albion’s townhouse. She turns and looks out the window at him, staring after the carriage with a look mixed with shock and joy. Albion stands there, watching the carriage as it recedes from view, in a stunned stupor. Finally, he lets out a laugh, allowing a soft smile to appear on his lips.

“What heaven grace has given you.” He remarks to himself. Albion makes a heal-faced turn and heads towards the door, letting happiness fall into his heart at last. Maybe he could be happy again. Maybe Gawain would concede at last. He sighed, creaking open the gate and up the path to the house.

“Sir? Please Sir, could you help me?” Albion hears someone call behind him. Looking back behind him, he sees a poor, disheveled young woman hiding from behind one of the brick pillars near the gate. Cautiously, Albion approaches her shivering form, holding a small bundle of threadbare cloth against her chest. The woman looks to be three and twenty, has tangled black hair, paper-white skin, and dark sunken eyes, boring desperately into Albion’s.

“Is this the residence of John Drayer? I saw him go in here two weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure. Please, I need to speak with him.” She says, almost crying. Albion takes her arm gently, his face lined with worry.

“Yes, yes ma’am,” He says. “Whatever do you need? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, thank god.” She exclaims, beginning to cry. “You’re the first damn soul who’s bothered to listen to me.”

“Yes, please, tell me everything.” Albion implores, a knot growing in his stomach.

“What has Gawain done now?” He thinks, his mind racing. “What has he done to distress this poor woman?” The woman breathes hard, struggling to get the words out.

“What’s your name?” Albion asks.

“Cordelia,” She struggles. “Cordelia Egbert.”

“And . . . what has John done to you?” He asks tentatively. The woman lets out a heavy sigh, looking down at the pavement. Finally, she meets his gaze again.

“He. . . h-he hasn’t returned any of my postage. He’s avoided me all year.” She stumbles.

“When did you meet him? Albion asks. The woman doesn’t respond and averts his gaze, pressing the bundle of cloth tightly to her chest.

“When did you meet him?” Albion asks again.

“I-I met John at a party, at the Cyan back in January.” Cordelia stammers. “We were together for a while. I-I thought, I thought he loved me, he said he did. I didn’t know what to think of it, being as shy as I am, but I thought he would marry me. And then. . . and then I find out what I hoped wouldn’t happen. I thought when I told him, he would understand, that he would help me, but. . . he just disappeared.” She looks down at her feet, her eyes welling up with tears. Her tears drip onto the bundle of cloth in her arm, now wriggling in her grasp. Albion’s heart sinks. He pulls back the cloth, revealing the small, tender face of a babe, baring Gawain’s green eyes. Albion steps back in shock, taking in a large breath.

“You’re sure?” He asks quickly. “You’re most absolutely sure?” He grabs onto her arm and looks her intently in the eyes. The woman sobs, nodding her head vigorously.

“On my life, If I’m lying, may God strike me down and kill me.” Cordelia weeps. Albion looks down at the child, small and squirming in his mother’s grasp, and he sees the same eyes of the poor children that came before him. Gawain had been hiding, going behind his back yet again. A man whose love was only a means to an end. A man who never picked up the pieces, who always got what he wanted.

“This has to end.” Albion thinks with resolve, balling up his fist.

“I will do everything that I can,” He promises, giving Cordelia’s hand a squeeze. “Go, go home and come back tomorrow when the storms part. I will put an end to this.” Cordelia nods, stepping away with a look of relief.

“God bless you, sir.” She says, retreating back towards the street. Albion watches her down the path until she fades from view, and then turns his attention back to the house. The clouded sky began to turn above, the wind blowing hard. It looked as if it were about to storm, but the clouds didn’t stir from their circling. His veins charged with anger, Albion strides towards the door, stiff with anger. He steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him, hanging his coat upon the rack. He peers out of the foyer to parlor, and then to the drawing room, looking for Gawain. An uncertainty gnaws in his gut, his anxiety rippling through his body. This was really happening. He was going to see this through. After much hesitation, he lets his anger blow.

“GAWAIN!” Albion yells, echoing through the house. It rings in his ears, slicing into the silence. After a few moments of listening to his heart bang in his ears like a trash can, he hears his brother tromping down the stairs.

“Goodness! What did I do now?” He jokes, peeking his head out from the top of the stairwell. “Just a moment, I’ll be right down.” Old Gawain descends the stairs, humming a little tune in his same self-absorbed manner. Albion stares at him coldly as he hops down to meet him. He gives Albion a slap on the back, much to his apparent repugnance.

“Thank god you’re back, old boy! I hope you had a good time to relax, and I hope you take a break from romancing your new paramour for a while. It’s my turn on the schedule, and I’m going to meet Ms. Violet at the Cyan club this evening.” He exclaims. Gawain grabs his arm roughly, beginning to change back, but half-way through Albion rips his arm away in disgust, startling his brother.

“Christ! What was that for? I can’t go to the club as Baxter!” Gawain exclaims. He winces and clutches his wrist tightly, turning his ire back to his brother.

“Must we always engage with splenetic displays?! What did I do this time?!” he gripes. Albion shifts his weight to his hip, narrowing his brows, and crosses his arms, trying to hold his rage.

“Gawain,” He says coldly. “I met a woman outside of our house.” Incredulous to his story, Gawain raspberries, throwing up his hands.

“Well good for you! I’m happy you’re out meeting people — “

“LET ME FINISH.” Albion snaps. Gawain, taken aback, purses his lips and motions for him to continue. Albion clears his throat, breathing in a measured sigh.

“This woman, her name is Cordelia Egbert, and she says that about eight months prior, she had met you at a party at the Cyan club.” He pauses, holding in his shaking frustration. “She is the mother of your child.”

“Oh.” Gawain manages. Pacing around the foyer, Albion runs his hands through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. He turns and looks at Gawain again, throwing up his hands.

“So, you’ve gone and done it again, haven’t you? Another. Another child you’ve abandoned, like poor James, twenty years ago. Another woman you’ve ruined, Gawain, left voiceless. She was the woman outside at your charity ball that you complained about! The reason why you always went and got your mail first thing in the morning to rip it up! And you thought you could hide this from me! You have rebuffed every letter, every request, every plea for you to help her!” He shouts in Gawain’s face. Gawain steps back, glowering, and turns away to head up the stairs. Albion follows after him and forcefully turns him back around, holding him by the shoulders.

“Your reckless abandon has cost people their lives, Gawain! We have not only a responsibility to ourselves but the people we choose to involve with!” Albion protests. Gawain shoves him away, his face burning with embarrassment and anger.

“What does it matter. . . if they’ll all be dead, Albion? What does it matter?!” He yells, shoving Albion against the wall. “I’ll see her rotting in her grave and I’ll see her child! I will not allow my happiness to come to ruin!”

“And what happiness do you find within yourself? What purpose?!”

“None! There’s no point to it anymore! Purpose?! The gods have given no purpose, I’ve lost hope of it years ago! People thrown and then they are lost into this world, and yet I have remained! And I wish to keep that freedom! My privilege!”

“We have the privilege of abusers, Gawain! You call it freedom? You don’t know how I see you. Every night you come home, resigning yourself from the empty parade, your eyes cold and hollow. How many parties, how many women, how many men, and how much wealth will it take to sate your gluttony?”

“It doesn’t matter. I must live for myself. I have to survive, somehow. . . I have to live in this world, as everyone dies around me. There’s too many of them to manage at once.”

“There are only two people you need to care about right now. You must live for them, and if you had any heart, you would die for them.”

“Die for them? Die for them, Albion? What does that even mean to us, that empty realm? Who would hear me then, if I cried out?! Against a terror of calm disdain who will obliterate me?! We have been made to revere it, only at the fault of our circumference. I have no power to question it! Even if I haven’t found that meaning yet, I must go on! Through sound and fury, I must go on!”

“But you’re making this about you, Gawain. This is about them. There is an infant outside, cold in his mother’s arms, several more just like them, but you, Gawain, have a responsibility to them. I am tired. After a thousand years, I’m tired of having to account for your follies, for your selfishness, and for your sins, and if I have to. . . I will put an end to it.”

“You. . . no . . . you wouldn’t. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

“You have made yourself a different man, Gawain.” Albion declares with an even tone. Gawain’s jaw clenches, and he straightens his back, mirroring his brothers determined stance.

“It seems I have.” He whispers. Without warning, Gawain lunges at Albion’s throat, throwing him to the ground. They grapple with one another, biting, swearing, striking. Albion brews a fire of untapped rage, boiling up from his stomach. Gawain roars at him like a lion growling and scratching, but behind the curses and threats, he was fidgeting, his face wild and desperate. His eyes confirm the rest; he was just as scared as Albion. Gawain knocks the wind out of him, seizing his throat once again with one hand, putting a knee to Albion’s chest and squeezing hard. Albion struggles for air, his mouth twitching with panic as he gasps for air. Gawain stares down at him coldly, grabbing Albion’s arm, and begins to drain the life out of him. Youth returns to Gawain’s face, taught with rage, and he presses even harder as Albion withers beneath him. Finally, he goes limp under Gawain’s knee, the color drained from his face. Rising up from the ground, Gawain catches his breath, wiping the blood from his nose, and stares down at the decrepit old man beneath his feet. He bends down and checks for a pulse and finds Albion’s heart still faintly beating. Gawain breathes a shaky breath, rising to his feet and falling back against the wall. His face turns cold, the love in his heart goes black.

“I will have no more this,” He resolves. “I won’t be held back any longer.” Gawain walks away from Albion’s body, walking away to make his ends meet.

— — // — —

Albion tastes iron in his mouth. Lurching up from the cold, grimy floor, He looks wildly around him, trying to piece together where he is, and discovers the darkness around him and within him. He feels something like a rat brush past his bare foot, he finally comes to his senses. Somehow, he had been thrown in jail, in Newgate Prison no less, judging from the engraving in the wall, and had been there unconscious for days. Albion’s thoughts begin to spin in his head like a mad man, racing and scratching the insides of his mind.

“He’s done it. He’s abandoned me at last, like he’s always wanted to do.” Albion stops himself. “What I’ve wanted to do, oh god.” He breaks down on the dirty floor, squeezing his wrinkled face in pain. Every move wracked him intensely, his old, decaying joints clicked and ached as he tried to move. Feeling the top of his head, he found his hair severely receded, wispy and matted, clinging all around the sides. He huddles against the wall, holding his head in his hands and weeping.

“What have I done?” He cries softly, his voice croaking with sadness. It was too late now. He knew what he had to do. Gingerly, Albion felt around the walls until he wedges his hand into a stony nook, and he pulls back on the stone as hard as he could. He cries out in pain, nursing his wrist, and then tries to pull on it again. Finally, Albion reveals a small, musty hole descending into the earth. Seeing there was no other option, he pushes himself down the hole and into the darkness. These tunnels were ancient, hidden in the walls and down into the earth, during the times when Catholics hid in hell to escape the wrath of the English crown.

“That self-satisfaction finally drove him over, and now he thinks he can get away with it,” Albion thinks to himself as he pushes through the mud, gritting his teeth as the pain seeped further into his joints. “Damn, damn I’ve done it. It’s all over, and now I have to stop him.” He growls, grunting and pushing himself, his lungs struggling and straining for air. He continues on for what feels like an hour, straining like his heart will give out at any moment. After much struggle, Albion shoves open a stone in front of him and falls onto the ground below. He is met with the smell of putrid foul-smelling water and the sound of a foghorn in the distance.

Albion stumbles to his feet, and after his sight comes back to him, he sees a ship sailing off in the distance into the dark cloudy night. Albion finds himself on the bank of the River Thames, cold and alone, but finding himself to be a different man.

IX

It is not sustainable to have your life defined by everyone else around you. However, just as Rosemary suspected, her cousin Violet was defining herself by every whim of her fiancé, Dr. J.R Raymond. They had met only four months ago, and yet they declared kismet, demanded to go to Brighton, and set their wedding date during one of the coldest Novembers in memory. Rosemary could scarcely give a damn about any of it, wrapped up in the melancholy that had been plaguing her mind for months now. Albion and Gawain had been missing, and despite her and Caroline’s efforts, there was no trace to be found of either of them. She concluded that either they up and fled town after she found out about their secret, or something dreadful must have happened.

Her thoughts are interrupted as the cab driver throws her luggage onto the back of the carriage with an astounding thump, as the last load taken off of the train.

“Sorry about that, Ms. Rosemary!” The old man exclaims, giving her a half-hearted toothy grin. Rosemary knits her brow in annoyance and confusion.

“I never told you to my first name sir. Secondly, do be careful with my things. I expected that when we paid you better, your service would meet those standards.” She snaps. The old man shrugs, scratching his beard.

“I do apologize, this is my first job doing this sort of thing ma’am. I used to be a lamplighter back in Chelsea” He says. Out of the steam clouds from the tracks, Sir George and his wife come hurrying over from the train to carriage, shivering in the cold.

“Mr. O’Brien!” Exclaims Sir George. “Is everything on the carriage, are we ready to go?”

“Pray, answer quickly! This ice is biting into my soul!” Lady Healy cries. Mr. O’Brien lets out a raspy laugh, nodding enthusiastically.

“You can call me Ulysses, Lord Healy! I’ll get ya where ya need to go! Yes! Yes! Get on in there! Get out of this cold!” He replies, ushering them into the carriage. Rosemary, however, observes the man with intense scrutiny, watching his pale eyes dart about. The old man stops, and his smile fades as he catches Rosemary’s eyes. Composing himself, he straightens out his jacket and smooths back his balding white hair.

“You had better join your parents, Miss. There’s a terrible storm brewing ahead, I would hate for anyone to get married on a day like this.” Mr. O’Brien observes, pointing to the clear blue sky. Rosemary squints her eyes at the old man, bemused, but shrugs it off, stepping into the carriage for the long road ahead. Sure enough, as the toothy seer of Chelsea had foretold, the frozen rain began to pelt against the windows, smashing on the roof, with a mocking shatter of thunder through the bones to top it all off. Rosemary hugs her shawl closely to her body as the carriage rocks her and her family about.

“This is a dreadful day to get married.” Rosemary thinks. At least to their comfort, the newlywed Raymonds had decided to get married indoors at St Nicholas’ Church. Of course, it was a lovely wedding, as lovely as they can get, yet with no taste for finery or parade. It was éclat with beautiful cheap floral arrangements and lacy little delicacies, anything you could think of. Rosemary and her family sat idly through, watching her cousin cry tears of joy and hang onto a tall, mustachioed villain with blazing green eyes. She had barely any time to meet her new cousin-in-law, Dr. Raymond, but could feel his eyes slice into her throughout the evening, prickling on the back of her neck as she drifted throughout the party. Suddenly, the doors of the venue burst open, and through them comes striding the Healy’s cab driver, Ulysses O’Brien. A rage of fire and fury burns behind his eyes. The party stops, the groom rising from the table in shock, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“GAWAIN!” The old man roars, sending a hushed silence across the room. All eyes turn on him, disgusted and shocked, all except Rosemary’s, whose heart sank in realization. Standing before them, tired, alone, and angry, was Albion. Gawain freezes, as if he were a salmon frozen in ice, and watches his brother’s ire cut him in half.

“You know, it really wasn’t quite hard finding you, as uncreative as you are with your names.” He says, his voice quavering with exhaustion. Albion can feel his muscles tensing up, his energy firing hot, and his mentality cracking as he saunters towards the middle of the room. Gawain shifts nervously, scratching the back of his neck as all eyes point towards him now.

“Well, old boy!” Gawain laughs, nervously looking around the room. “It seems you’ve hit too much taplash for the day, and it’s only a quarter past five!” Albion remains unflinching, moving closer towards the banquet table, staring his brother down.

“Someone call the police, damn it,” Gawain growls in desperation to his in-laws, “Get this bastard out of here! Call them!”

“Don’t try and pretend anymore! I’m ending this whether you like it or not!” Albion cries, shaking with anger. Gawain jumps over the table, striding up to Albion with intense fury.

“Old man, I think you had better go before,” Gawain shouts, stabbing his finger at his brother, but then Albion lunges and grabs Gawain’s outstretched arm, pulling him down to his knees. He drains the life from him, feeling a force tremble through his veins while Gawain screams in pain, gasping and choking. His head then jerks up, and now an old man scowls back at him, terrified and angry. Gawain steps back in shock, staring at his brother wildly. The attendants are silent, with a hush of fear permeating the air. Gawain runs a hand through his balding hair, realizing what Albion has done, and his face twists into rage. He begins breathing hard, balling up his fists, his veins popping along his neck and his face turning red. Albion steps forward, ready to engage with him. Gawain breathes low, eyes bloodshot with fury. There is no going back.

“I’ll. . . I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you, Albion,” He growls under his breath. He stabs his finger at him and takes a step forward.

“I’ll. . . I’ll . . . I’LL KILL YOU!” Gawain roars, lunging at his brother. They violently fall to ground, wrestling upon the stony floor as the attendants look on in horror. They grapple with one another, biting, swearing, striking, all the while their ages transfer back in forth in a grotesque and horrifying motion. There’s a young man striking an old man, an old man strangling a child. The people at the reception are too terrified to intervene in the demonic display; Sir George and Rosemary watch on in horror with the others. They scream and kick, Albion tears out Gawain’s hair while Gawain throws a punch to his eye. Suddenly, Sir George notices the bright flash of a weapon, a knife, and a struggle to grab hold of it. One man takes it from the other and strikes him in in the side, causing a shriek of pain. They separate from each other; the victor, a young man, holding a bloody knife in his hand, the loser, an old man, struggling to keep his balance. The young man’s eyes widen with horror, dropping the knife on the ground, as he realizes what he’s done.

“Oh god, oh god. Brother. . .” Albion whispers, falling back onto his knees under a wave of remorse. Gawain chokes and spits up blood, catching his breath and gripping his chest in pain. Stumbling back, he looks down at his hand, fresh with red ichor. He looks back to Albion, breathing hard. Gawain’s long hair then recedes back to a shorter style, his face fills out and beard disappears, and standing before young Albion stood young Gawain, mortal again. He falls to his knees, crashing into the table behind him, shattering the crystal and scattering blood onto his new wife and her family. Violet shrieks in horror, breaking the silence.

Several of the attendants rush to Gawain, Mr. Powell calls for a doctor and his daughter is dragged off screaming by her mother. Police run in from the street and apprehend Albion, who complies in a shocked and weeping silence. Rosemary starts to rush over to protest, but Sir George holds her back.

“No! No Rosemary!” He commands, grabbing her by the arm. “Stay back, this is their affair.” They watch as Albion is dragged away to the jail at one end of the venue and Gawain to the hospital at the other. Albion catches Rosemary’s eyes with a fateful grimace, then stares at Sir George’s icy glare. He scowls as Albion disappears into the shadows and breathes a heavy sigh.

“Their horrid affair.”

No charges are to be pressed. In the days following, there was no hope of Gawain’s recovery, due to the last remnants of his ill born magic. He was resigned, at last, to die, and called for his brother to be at his side. Albion walks into his hospital room, bearing a grave expression. The cold stuffiness in the room permeates the silence, until finally Albion breaks down and kneels at his brother’s side.

“No, don’t you cry over me, I’m not worth anyone’s pity.” Gawain snaps, wheezing hard from the pain. They remain silent for a long time, listening to Gawain’s tempered breaths, until finally Albion grasps his arm and looks at him sorrowfully.

“Please, is there anything I can say? Anything I can do?” He begs. Gawain rolls over and looks at him sadly, resigned to his fate.

“Take me to the sea.” He whispers. Tentatively, after some convincing, the staff allow Albion to take Gawain to the seaside, seeing as there was nothing more they could do for him. They drive Albion and Gawain over to the dusty gray beach and allow him to limp over to the sea with his brother at his side. They stumble over to the waves, letting themselves collapse into the water. Gawain’s eyes grow lost in the setting sun. He stares on at the blazing titan in terror as he struggles to breathe. Albion props him up to get a better look, to let him see something beautiful before he dies. He’s shaking, struggling to hold back his sorrow, and sits with Gawain for the longest time, listing to his raspy breaths. As his breathing slows, Gawain brings his hand to Albion’s face, looking at him with pale green eyes, brimming with tears. He takes in deep breaths and tries to speak.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t. . . didn’t make more of it, brother — more of my life. I’m sorry to have put that. . . that burden on you.”

“It was our burden to share, Gawain, I had no right.” Albion interjects, his eyes hot and burning, but Gawain swats his hand at him in protest, struggling to make any words. He winces and tries to sit up, to no avail, clutching his wound in pain. He grips Albion’s arm tightly, trying to hold on as hard as he can. Taking in another shaky breath, Gawain resigns to a look of defeat.

“I felt it too, Albion,” He gasped, his throat sore with pain. “I knew you loved her, and that you didn’t want this anymore, but I’ve been afraid. I’ve felt like the devils have been chasing me all this time, Albion, waiting to hand down my sins and burn my soul. I deserve it. I’ve drowned myself, I’m drowning, and I’ve drowned so many people. I can’t hold on to anything, I can’t hold on anymore, and I couldn’t hold on to you. I shouldn’t ask you of anything, but. . . but if you can. . . bury me. . . bury me. . . with mother. . . and father, Éastorhild, Roderick, and . . . Merewyn. Bury me with them. . . Albion, like it should have been.” Albion’s face twists in pain, and he squeezed the tears out of his eyes.

“Gawain, I’m sorry.” Albion whispers, crying into his brother’s hair. Gawain’s breathing grows quieter, overtaken by the soft crash of the lavender waves.

“I’m sorry. . .I’m not the brother you knew,” He sputters. “Make yourself a better man. . . let the river run its course, and I’ll meet you again in that western sea.” Gawain’s eyes widen in fear, and he grabs at Albion’s hand, clutching it as hard as he can.

“Oh god. Oh god,” he cries softly. “It’s finally. . .” Gawain’s breath tapers off and grows silent. His head falls listlessly to his side, and his body grows cold in Albion’s arms. They sit there for the longest time, the saltwater burning Albion’s sinuses as the waves spray against his skin. The sun grows cold and grey, retreating behind the sky, leaving Albion with only the icy wind, the broken clouds, and his tears. He looks down at his wrist, and then over Gawain’s, limp and pale. The mark is gone now. Holding his dead brother in his arms, a hole punches through his heart.

X

A hesitation had been building within her, trembling in her subconscious, but Rosemary had to seek him out. It had been months since the incident had occurred, and yet she found there was nothing to be heard of from Albion. Nothing in the newspapers, bulletins, it had all been hushed and lost to the wind, probably thanks to her father. Her parents had resigned to stay home, but Rosemary decided to take matters into her own hands and find him. Traveling alone, Rosemary arrived in Llanfairfechan, uneasy, but certain in her determination.

She meets the old black gates of his estate in Aber, confronting the immense structure. The trees that flank the estate trees shiver in the wind as it resounded in the surrounding silence.

At the door, Rosemary comes face to face with Ferdia, Albion’s old butler from London, who cautiously leads her inside. After scouring through the halls, she sees the little broom closet door ajar at the end of the uppermost floor. Once again, she carefully ascends the dark stairwell and brushes her hand against the doorknob, gently shifting it open. The attic is now barren and empty, all that’s left is the dust and the large, crystalline windows. Rosemary sees him sitting there, sitting alone on an old, dusty settee in the vast and empty room, and clears her throat to make herself known. Albion whips around and stares at her, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Rosemary.” He says, startled from his seat. She shifts towards him, looking around the barren walls.

“Where is everything?” She asks.

“It’s been put away,” Albion replies, shifting nervously in his place. Rosemary stops an arm’s length from him, watching his pale blue eyes with careful, worried inspection.

“I haven’t seen you in 9 months. You’ve answered none of my letters.”

“I apologize, I’ve had to. . . rearrange my life.” Albion replies, rubbing the back of his neck. Rosemary bites her lip, her face shadowed with guilt.

“I’m sorry, I understand. I just wish I was there to help you.”

“I know.” Albion says solemnly.

“So, it’s done then?” She asks. Albion nods, throwing his hand up in the air.

“I’ve rejoined the mortal world, if that’s what you’re asking,” He responds spiritlessly. “Darker days have reigned over me, but I’m coming to terms with it. I can feel myself dying. Not in the penultimate sense, but I feel a part of time again.” He then stares down at the floor staring at the cracks in the wood.

“I’ve spoken a thousand tongues and I’ve covered the earth whole. I’ve been homosexual, I’ve been straight, I’ve been everything. I have a million goddamn stories and details that sequester and rot inside my mind. I’ve had a thousand names and a thousand lives. Now, I just have one.” Albion whispers. Rosemary sits down next to him, grasping onto his arm tightly. Her mind had thrown a gossamer thread upon this man, desperate not to let go, something that longed to lay to rest.

“I’m here. What can I give you then? Please, I won’t leave you again.” Rosemary prays, her voice growing tight. Albion doesn’t respond, staring at the floor. She then notices a gentle smile grow on his face and tears fill his eyes. He turns to face her, letting out a sigh.

“I want your love,” He whispers, his voice trembling. “I want your peace. Live with me, please. Live for your own happiness, and I promise I won’t abuse your grace.” Albion then wipes his eyes, trying to compose himself.

“I expect no obligation, I only plea for your trust. You have mine.” He continues, placing his hand in hers. Rosemary, squeezes her eyes shut, holding back her tears, then letting them fall down her face. She places her hand over Albion’s wrist, where his mark had once been, and gives him a little nod.

“And you have mine, Albion.” Rosemary replies.

— — // — —

The news was taken unexpectedly well by Sir George. However, this didn’t mean that he was completely settled over the events they had experienced together. “I know you’ll give her the life she deserves,” Sir George had said. “But not the one she needs.” Everyone at the wedding, however, was none the wiser about who Albion (or Mr. Huckle) really was. Sir George had seen to that. Not even Lady Healy had had any objections; she only saw Albion’s tax returns and that was enough for her.

On their wedding night, Rosemary could sense Albion’s relative anxiety and unease, but also a touch of sadness.

“I know how you’re feeling, Albion, or at least I’m trying to. You don’t hide from me anymore.”

“Thank you. I knew you were kind, but this is a part of myself I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show again. It dies with me.”

“I understand.”

Albion and Rosemary move back to Gwynedd, and with his financial backing and her and Caroline’s collective activism, are able to open up a medical practice in the village and expand the liberties of women in the same profession. Albion, through with his stress, stays home and cares for their estate, and eventually their children, regaling them with the tales of his long history. They take Albion’s word at face value, much to the humor of his wife. He’s thankful he has a large back catalogue of tales and adventures to awe and regale them with, thinking back to the happier memories he had shared with his brother. Albion’s son, Arthur, grows up to be a wise young man; Albion’s daughter, Cynthia, grows up to be a bright young woman; and Gawain’s son, Matthew, and his mother, are given ample support to have a life for themselves. The boy excels and goes on to Oxford, unaware of whose son he truly is. Together with Rosemary, Albion sees the quiet life he had wished for, after all this time, and yet still fees a hole in his chest where Gawain had once been, never to be filled again.

Later in his years, at the behest of Rosemary, now accomplished and revered in her practice, Albion decides to chronologize his life into one final summary for all of the English to see, and for all of the Welsh to cherish. Their history through his eyes, finally revealed. He knows no one will believe him, or at least the fringes of academic society might take his mythos into some consideration. He knows he will die within the next ten years, and it would be fruitless to try and convince people, even if it bears no recognition or respect. Albion doesn’t care.

“To my children, I give you my books and all their mysteries.” He writes, penning the last prose for his manuscript. “Let their humor, hells, and happenstance delight you for as long as you may need them. For if none may take it anymore credit. I will gladly join the manifest of history’s fools.”

But even in his confidence, this ancient man struggles to condense the ichor of his life into any universal solvent. The words aren’t coming to him, but the emotions run through him like fire. The days and the years, the wars and the peace, and the burdens of the liminal ennui. Now, his epoch is finally settling into place. But what to say?

“What to say of any of it?” Albion writes. “Any summary will give no due service to those who desire any wisdom from me, but for my life’s last epitaph, they deserve something.”

Albion thinks for a moment, trying to synthesize his words into something fitting, but he knows it won’t be enough. Resigning to his limitations, he returns his pen to the document, but suddenly, his brother’s face flashes before his eyes, staring down at him like a god. Albion leans back in his chair, breathing a heavy and haunted sigh. Gawain. He had wanted so badly to stretch himself the farthest a man could, both in wisdom and in control. He could never walk behind the sky, nor turn the clouds above. That had been out of their power.

“But this life,” Albion thinks. “We chose this life.”

Slowly, a concept blooms in his head. He scratches his beard, narrowing his eyebrows at the abstraction, and then it hits him, lifting his brow in surprise. He takes out his pen, setting it down on the wrinkled page, and finishes his story.

“Every meaning and reason have been lost and found to time, as life grasps to understand itself and the fleeting place it holds. But when life finds itself again, in those moments of connection, familiarity, they flash like lightning cast on rain, glittering in the dark. To fall, to seep into the sea, and rise again into the air. This is the covenant we make with life.”