Chapter 11

“Did she like the books, then?”

Clang.

Brendan grits his teeth and just barely manages to bring his sword up in time to avoid an untimely and particularly grisly death at the edge of Lincoln's blade.

Lincoln - as per usual - is in irritatingly top form, as he whirls elegantly in circles around Brendan.

Brendan's a skilled swordsman, and easily one of the most talented even among Lincoln's army’s ranks, but Lincoln himself has always been in a league of his own.

On most days, it’s the reason why Brendan chooses Lincoln to be his sparring partner, to keep his skills sharp.

On days like today, however, all it does is irritate his nerves at the beaming smile the Commander wears while they spar as if it takes no effort at all to strike Brendan to the ground.

“I would think so, yes,” Brendan huffs, more out of breath than he cares to admit.

He ducks, just a second before Lincoln's blade goes flying right where his head used to be, and frowns. “Are you truly trying to kill me?”

Lincoln laughs brightly. Brendan finds it wholly bothersome in the most sinful of ways.

“Of course not, My Lord,” Lincoln giggles, and Brendan briefly contemplates having him brought up for disrespecting the crown. “That would be treason, wouldn’t it now?”

As he says this, however, the damnable man leaps into the air, hurtling straight downwards with the point of his sword fixed at the location of Brendan's fucking head.

With a grunt, Brendan rolls away, just as Lincoln's sword lodges itself firmly into the ground, right where Brendan's eye had been.

Brendan eyes him with horror. “You wicked little s*it,” he mutters. “You are trying to kill me-”

He ducks. Lincoln's sword sliced through the air with terrifyingly deadly speed.

“Don’t be so paranoid, my Lord,” Lincoln sings, wielding his sword with a cheer like the two of them are having a run around on a playground, rather than a spar.

“You’ll never improve unless you truly fear danger, you know. I’m doing you a favor-”

Here, with a truly horrifyingly cheerful grin, Lincoln thrusts his sword forward and just narrowly manages to avoid staking Brendan through the stomach.

Brendan bites his tongue to avoid a shout of alarm. 

Doing him a favor, he says, as he continues to nearly kill Brendan with every swipe of his weapon.

“Besides,” Lincoln laughs.

“If I were truly trying to kill you, you’d have been long dead.”

Brendan eyes him flatly.

Lincoln laughs, straight in his face, like Brendan's irritation is his greatest source of joy. Brendan hates this man.

“Maybe you should take her out somewhere,” Lincoln suggests, finally, finally, calling their session to a blissful end.

He clads his sword, and Brendan barely holds back a sigh of relief. 

Brendan ignores the suggestion entirely.

“She must be going out of her mind with boredom, Brendan,” Lincoln insists, and Brendan regrets the day he ever befriended the fool enough to allow him the familiarity of his name without his title.

“Brendan,” Lincoln says, and Brendan whirls around with a grave and deadly chill in his eye.

Lincoln rolls his eyes. “You do realize that your death stares have no effect on me anymore, My Lord,” Lincoln has the absolute worst tendency to manage to make My Lord sound like the worst insult.

“I much preferred when you used to sneak around, too terrified to even look me in the eye,” Brendan mutters irritably.

Lincoln laughs as if he’s told a particularly funny joke, and goes as far as to toss an arm around Brendan's neck, that reckless scoundrel.

“Why not take Lady Alcina to the night market? I am sure she would find it enjoyable.”

“I hardly think,” Brendan says stiffly.

“That to risk going somewhere, anywhere in the darkness of the night, with the lord they call shadows and nightmares incarnate, would be an enjoyable experience-”

Lincoln sighs, as though Brendan were being particularly slow-witted. “Brendan-”

“I’m quite finished with our conversation, I think,” Brendan interrupts.

Lincoln purses his lips.

“She is alone, traded off by her own House, in a castle with no friends besides the books in her room,” Lincoln says.

“I imagine she might be at a point where she’d take even a nightmare over boredom, by now.”

Lincoln strides ahead of him, giving Brendan no opportunity to respond.

“Besides,” he says elevated, amusement lingering in his smile. “She does not seem as easily frightened as one might expect.”

* * * * * * * * * *

It takes three days for Brendan to reach the envious conclusion that, perhaps, Alcina has been living a bit like a trapped prisoner in their House.

And, he supposes, he ought to try to be a little kinder, given that the other party, Lady Alcina had gone through such eager lengths to thank him for the insignificant books.

* * * * * * * * * *

Alcina is out in the orchard, reading (again).

It has proven to be her most frequent activity, here, though the weather has certainly become cold enough to warrant an extra blanket on her tours out.

In fact, she’s taken to bringing two extra blankets - one for herself, and one for Fluffy, the name she’s affectionately given to the wolf she’d met the week before.

Every day, without fail, the wolf comes back once more to revisit her, much to Alcina's delight.

Alcina's been requesting Mary to pack some extra food so that she could share it with the wolf, who seems only all too happy to partake in the picnic.

Alcina wishes she could coax the wolf into returning to the castle with her, but the creature seems content with the life it has, as it always parts ways with Alcina whenever it’s time for the girl to head back in.

Alcina doesn’t know where the wolf disappears after departing from her, but she supposes that the wolf must have a comfortable enough place to stay and things to eat, given that it appears to be in healthy condition each time they meet.

As it is, she’s had to content herself with simply offering a warm blanket and some food once each afternoon, though nothing would make her happier than if she could provide the wolf a warm, indoor home.

Fluffy is curled into a ball beside her at the moment, his head resting in Alcina's lap beside the open book.

But then, all of a sudden, the wolf leaps to its feet and goes hopping off, howling enthusiastically with its whole body.

Alcina gapes, as she watches Fluffy go dancing and leaping up to Lord Brendan, of all people.

Lord Brendan, who pauses in his approach, to bend down and pat the wolf warmly along its back, receives the wolf's overwhelming affections like it’s something unremarkable and everyday activity. 

When Brendan finally strolls up to Alcina, she’s staring openly, lips parted in surprise and eyes round.

“Fluffy is your wolf?” Alcina breathes.

Brendan pauses. Stiffens. “Fluffy?”

Alcina freezes. “Um.”

Brendan eyes her disbelievingly. “Did you just call him Fluffy?”

Alcina curls in on herself a bit, cheeks pinking. She doesn’t even defend herself.

“You named the black hunting wolf,” Brendan tones flatly. “-as Fluffy.”

Alcina pouts. “Because he is as soft as a feathery,” she mumbles grumpily.

Brendan bites the inside of his cheek so hard he nearly draws blood.

“Well, then what is his name?” Alcina demands, all intelligible traces of fear evaporated in the face of her aggrieved discovery that the wolf she’d affectionately grown attached to as Fluffy, apparently already had a different owner and name.

Brendan, not for the first time, does not quite know what to make of this lass.

“His name is Ghost,” he says. 

Ghost, at his name, barks once, before settling into a sharp sitting position right at Brendan's heel.

Alcina's pout deepens.

She’d known Ghost had had some other life, somewhere, but she hadn’t known she already had an owner. 

She can’t help but feel a bit betrayed. She’d thought the two of them were akin spirits, in a way - two companion outsiders, in House Warner.

Brendan's lips twitch.

“Though I am sure he would not mind if you felt eager about calling him Fluffy,” he says graciously.

“It’s alright,” Alcina mumbles sourly.

Brendan coughs to cover up a chuckle.

Alcina, however, looks so unhappily upon Ghost, that Brendan feels forced to add something more. 

Biting back a sigh, he swoops elegantly to the ground, allowing the wolf to nuzzle closer.

“He was one of the wolves used as part of the hunting party for the castle,” he explains quietly, stroking a hand along the wolf's back.

“His eye got injured in a hunt when he was still young, and he was to be put down because he could no longer be employed for his primary purpose.”

Alcina gasps.

She looks anew at the disfigured, silvery scar on the wolf's eye, and feels a pang in her heart for it.

Brendan's lips curve into a small, amused smile at the insatiable reaction.

“Well, he is well and alive now,” he murmurs pointedly, and Alcina scowls.

That is until she realizes the unsaid portion of the plot - the middle of it all, wherein somehow, the wolf attacked to be put down is now standing happily beside Brendan, wagging its very happy tail.

Did Lord Brendan rescue the wolf, then?

But Alcina doesn’t get a chance to ask, for Lord Brendan is standing right back up in the next moment, his expression back into the cool, blank facade he usually wears.

“I was wondering if you would like to visit the night market in town tonight.”

Alcina stares.