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Chapter Text

I / THE RIVER

At the creation, Fate sat at the head of the table. This gathering of omnipotent beings, later referred to as gods by the mortals they designed, dictated the entire future ahead. And yet, with the knowledge that in all the worlds before she had been slighted by most beings, Fate had a plan for this brand new timeline. 

The being known as Conflict had tainted her image falsely. He had used her decisions only to hurt others. She was admonished by the clergy to be a cruel, heartless mistress.

So, in this creation, she bound two souls. 

Two souls which would be forever drawn to one another in times of strife.

War. Plague. Famine. They would be there.

Many times, they would die at the hands of each other. By blade, or axe, or poison.

Fate told not a divine spirit at that table what she had done, nor did she tell them the one way to break the curse. As she branded her mark upon the two, she looked fondly at Love and smiled.

The first meeting was a brief encounter.

Two boys stood at opposite ends of a running stream. Not yet men, but no longer children. One was leggy and tall, and in his white-knuckled hand carried a large spear with a sharpened end made of flint. The other, a shorter lad, whose knees were dirty from his recent foray through the marshland on a hunt. A bow was strapped to his back, and he dragged the carcass of a young, lame doe behind him.

Food was sparse, then. The wheat had died after conditions which were far too harsh for germination had gripped the land that spring. The soil had been frozen solid, no tool able to break the earth, let alone bury the seed below. Then the animals had been next; slaughtered, just to get through that even harsher winter. There was no bread in any hearth that year.

The shorter one moved first, and tried to sling that heavy carcass across his back. 

He was weak. They were all weak. His feet faltered, and he slipped into the mud of the banking with a shriek and a thud. The taller one jumped over the stream with ease, his long legs afforded him that luxury, and from the younger boy he grabbed the doe by the neck and tried to pull. But the young lad was stubborn, and when he would not release his grip, the attacker kicked at his exposed face and shoulders with heel-heavy thrusts.

The older boy was not a violent person. Not in the settlement, where he crooned and fawned over the animals and younger children. It was as if some wicked spirit had taken over his body, and he did not know what anger came over him as he leered in an ancient tongue at his downed opponent. It was as if his actions were being driven by something more than the hunger which plagued himself and his people. Malevolence incarnate.

The boy on the ground bled after a final barrage, and he released the grip he had on the carcass to bring his bruised arms in front of his bloodied nose. His people were hungry too, but he could always hunt another deer. They had praised the way his arrows always struck their mark, as they flew straight and true and with all the fire of a young warrior soul.

He tried to crawl, anywhere away from here, but the taller boy kicked hard at the exposed, fleshy part of his stomach. He only made it a few more inches before falling onto his side. 

Fear bled across his vision, and clouded it. 

He knew the boy with the spear was about to return, and wondered why. The thing they had fought over now lay discarded, held on to by neither party. The feral brutality of this wild soul had instead turned his full attention to him. 

The taller one took another step, and yelled further incomprehensible words. In defence, the shorter scrabbled for the bow which had fallen at his side. He knocked an arrow loosely.

That boy had enjoyed hunting the deer in the field. He had insisted on following in the footsteps of his father’s brother, who had taken him out to hunt from the moment he was able to walk. There was a satisfaction in watching the arrow pierce true. A pleasure in the power to tame and outwit a wild thing. Something so human about being the predator.

The predator… Not the prey.

He released the bolt so tight to his form that he felt the whiskers of his cheek snag in the string. The arrow flew, and that flint head buried itself just below the shoulder of the other boy.

The crimson that ran down his chest came thick and fast, and glistened against his pale skin. It soaked the furs he wore around his waist, to the point that he really could have been mistaken for some violent wolf poached by the hunters of this land. Shocked, he grasped at the wooden shaft of the projectile which protruded from his flesh and pulled it from his chest in anger. He discarded it alongside the body of the deer.

In hindsight, this only rushed what Fate had planned for him that day.

He took up his spear and thrust it into the chest of the grounded foe. What would have been a death near instant found itself delayed by poor aim and a weakness to his lunge. So he watched, and waited, as the light left the boy’s eyes. It was intense and frightening all at once, but he found himself unable to pull his gaze away from the blood that sputtered from his victim’s throat. One final, choked out breath, and his blue irises glossed over in a glassy, foggy grey.

It could have felt like victory, and for a moment, he celebrated his success. Too soon, and with a bitter twinge of irony, for the blow which he had incurred from the bolt had bled him near to faintness. The boy had pierced something important inside of him. The type of injury he knew people could not come back from. 

He didn’t feel the pain.

His head was foggy from the blood loss. In stubborn retaliation, he reached for the deer carcass, but his legs simply wouldn’t move. Rather, they folded underneath him, his fall broken by a large patch of slick, blood-soaked brush.

There had always been strange visions which plagued him when he closed his eyes. The spiritual one had said it was a curse he was destined to live with. But this time, he saw nothing as he drifted. Perhaps this was a cure. One he would not wake from.

They had been discovered days later by scouting parties. Two young boys who had died not for the sake of their clan, but driven by an otherworldly force which burned in their bones, and told them that to fight was the only way.

It started a conflict which nearly wiped out the clans of both.

Fate noticed the sick grin that had spread across Conflict’s face as the two young boys collapsed into the dirt. She watched as Love turned away in horror. 

Oh, how Love hated seeing these things. Tears welled in her starry eyes.

She held her tongue, ready for the others to see what exactly she had done.

And how Conflict raged when he felt those two souls slip out of his tendril-like hands, to be born anew into other vessels. Two infants, held by new mothers, with a scar on their shoulder and chest respectively.

It was only then when Love smiled. Those young souls which had not yet embraced in the company of another were being given a second chance. Or so the other divines though. For this cycle would not only be repeated once, but over, and over, and over again until the thing that bound them was finally seen through.

II / A SECOND ENCOUNTER, FOR THE HUNDREDTH TIME

Anger erupted from the table as the divines looked down onto the field below. This had been Conflict’s plan for decades, his chosen Roman leaders funnelled and flexed their armies to slowly extend the grip onto the islands that they had deemed Britannia. But, there were parts of the island which were considered untouchable, even by the leaders which Conflict had most directly channelled himself into.

So, they had walled up. The building of Hadrian’s Wall was Conflict’s way of stepping back, and instead he consolidated those lands which they had already taken into the Empire.

Fate remained silent, watching as the Caledonian people beyond the wall gathered. They were rumoured to be wild men, brash and hardy. Some of it was true. With lesser weapons and armour, they held their own. But these men were not just wild beings. They had culture, art, and stories to tell, and at the head of their ranks stood proudly a man with a prominent scar situated just below his sternum, joined now by a few faded others.

“Charge now, my men! And cut out the heart of any enemy you see!” 

The call had sounded from within the Caledonian ranks before their troops had rushed the wall that night. They cut and mercilessly slaughtered the guards who had been sleeping in the gatehouse, before advancing into the fort. In return, and too late for some of their garrisoned forces, the army stationed there had sounded the horn and signalled that they were under attack.

The bass-toned sound shook awake the young, blond soldier from his tent. He quickly donned his armour, and began to yell commands at his fellow troops to send them out into the fray. 

He was born in Britannia with noble blood, his father a Roman and his mother a native of the southern territories who had been “ emancipated ” by the Empire’s conquest. All his life, he had been trained for this, for when those wild, barbaric men in the north attacked.

Suddenly, an intense feeling of need gripped at his heart through his chest.

A horrible sense of déjà vu followed. 

It sent him deep into thought, and a memory flashed into his mind of a young boy who he was sure he had never met. His hair was dark, his eyes a piercing blue. He was dressed in furs over his skinny body, and in his hand he clutched a bow. 

He looked scared.

The scar on his shoulder burned. 

It had been there when he was born. The midwife had not been able to explain it, nor the trained medic who looked over him after that. They had determined, through lack of all other explanation, that the baby was chosen by Mars to fight for the good of the Roman people.

He made his way out of the tent, and yanked the cloth far back as he crouched to shuffle underneath. His height and stature were foreboding to any who crossed him. But with that being so, there were certain difficulties, such as the lack of ability to wear a chest plate which wouldn’t constrict his breathing entirely.

Unfortunately, neither his stature nor height would ward off those from beyond the wall. They were fierce foes, and braver than most.

The older soldiers in the platoon had told him stories about the horrors of those men. If they could be called men at all, he had thought, for they had been seen acting feral like beasts. Some said that the cries and howls that erupted in the wilderness came from those folk, with others stipulating that they mated with wolves and had mutant children which were born hybrid creatures that had fang-like teeth and shaggy fur.

Of course, he hadn’t believed all of that tripe, for these were just war stories told to entertain and scare the newest in their ranks. But even so, he would not underestimate these men.

He hadn’t realised yet that some strange attraction had coaxed him to the middle of the battlefield.

Shouts came from his fellow officers. They urged him to retreat, to stand behind the frontline as he should, and to dictate to those around him to throw their lives into the skirmish rather than his own.

But with pure efficiency he sliced his way through the foray, hardly a cut on him nor a dent in his armour. Their men outnumbered the attackers, which left no concern if this all culminated into a battle of attrition. That is, if they weren’t completely wiped out by the surprise assault.

He could sense that their leader was close. 

An inexplicable premonition, but seemingly true. As he rounded a small copse of trees, where the battle was more hushed save for a few of his own men who swung swords with heavy grunts and cries, he saw a man crouched next to a wounded companion. The man spoke in some low, foreign tongue.

“You! Do you lead these men?” He called, and pointed his sword in the short man’s direction. A glance was taken over the man’s shoulder, but the words had gone over his head.

The blond general grunted, and shook his shoulders. The plates of his armour clicked and clashed, and the sound alerted the other once again.

That crouched man stood, and with it the muscles on his bare chest glistened with a thinned concoction of sweat and blood. That was half the reason they were feared; so emboldened to come to a battle with no armour save for the furs covering their groin, and the leather wraps on their feet which blocked only unwanted thorns and stones.

The man threw his head back in something like a laugh. It was manic and intense all at once.

He had braids which ran down the centre of his head, lying flat against his back where they were tied off with metal trinkets and beads. The hair was matted with dirt and grime, and the same red warpaint which coated his face and shoulders.

The soldier was not taken aback by the cry, but rather the knife which the Caledonian pulled swiftly from a hilt hidden in his furs. No armour, no helm, and a measly knife.

Either the man was stupid, or crazy. Perhaps both.

Like a lightning bolt, an intense wave of energy rushed between them. Memories flooded both minds, of their first encounter, and the dozens of encounters that followed which had since gone forgotten.

“It... Is you,” the Caledonian spoke in broken Vulgar Latin. The words weren’t perfect in their elocution, but it gave him just enough to know that he wasn’t going mad in thinking the two of them had met many times before.

An anger surged over him. 

Inescapable. Powerful.

His feet charged forward before his brain could react.

That same image returned; the young boy pinned to the ground. He remembered now what he did. How his spear had pierced the boy’s chest over the promise of a meal. How he had won in the tussle for the carcass but had stopped to beat the boy anyways. How it had gotten him killed.

He had died before, at the hands of this man.

The feeling sickened him. It wasn’t meant to happen that way. He had always believed that when we die, we rot in the dirt. Even if there was an afterlife, it was supposed to happen in a place other than here. Elysium, or Hades, or wherever he would end up if that much was true and he perished tomorrow.

So why had he driven his blade in the direction of that man once again?

There was no time to think about such things this time around. The Caledonian had easily sidestepped his weighty sword, and the armour he wore created an unnatural sluggishness against the speed of his opponent. The tribal one, in return, offered a swift flick of the dagger, which bounced straight off the metallic fittings welded into the cuirass. 

It appeared that they were locked in a stalemate.

He didn’t remember how many times he had killed that man. How many times he had been killed by him. Although he remembered that after some of the victories, he had gone on to live life beyond their conflict, only then to die later to a much younger fool who still reminded him of the boy by the stream.

His blade swung and missed. The knife clashed again with the ribbed metal of his segmented cuirass. It had been five long minutes of well-timed circles, with eyes locked and breath heavy. If they were perfectly matched, then something would have to be done to break the cycle.

He had watched intently the position of that injured soldier who had crawled away from the scene of their battle. Watched, as his opponent’s vision darted in his direction. The only time he could read fear in the man’s eyes was when the wounded one had slipped out of his view.

It was cruel and brutal what he planned to do.

He switched his sword to the left hand, which caused his opponent to leer. He must have thought it was a joke or a challenge, as there was a confident swagger about the way he continued to circle. Then, with his right hand, he pulled a small knife from his own hilt.

Only one step back was needed, before the injured companion was in view.

He threw the knife with force, and pierced the wounded man’s eye. Practised, precise. Exactly what they had trained him for. It was surely a fatal injury, as the soldier’s body thudded against the ground. The blood began to pool underneath him, and then started to trickle down a small gully in the mud towards the Caledonian leader’s feet.

The swagger in him was all but gone now. 

In fact, he was sure it was as if a light had been snuffed out in his very being.

He dropped to one knee, and the Roman watched, as his long fingers probed at the stream of warm scarlet which ran between them as if he was searching for something. And when he was done, he took those ensanguined fingers, pulled them down his face, and screamed bloody murder in a final, brutal charge.

There was no time for the blond General to switch the hands of his sword before he was knocked back off his feet into the muddy ground below. Only after the impact, he had felt the weight of a body crash against the hilt of his weapon, and squirmed under the tight, constricted feeling of someone sitting on his chest.

He opened his eyes, slowly.

His foe bled now, heavily, the outstretched sword having penetrated his stomach. His blood gushed freely, and mingled into the stream which had diverted its course from the body of his companion. And yet, he was somehow still lucid, as he clutched the dagger in both hands above his head. The blade gleaned with a reflection of flame from a nearby torch. That fire would avenge his loss.

It sliced down into the blond’s neck with a guttural expulsion of blood.

This time around, his eyes stayed open for long enough that he watched that barbaric man fall from his perch, and crawl in the mud, and blood, and guts to lay at the side of the other man. He died, with his companion’s body clutched in his arms.

The soldier died too, but he did so alone.

 III / THE WALLS ARE CLOSING IN

One-hundred and sixteen days.

Or at least that’s what he thought he had counted, for his numeracy was not the greatest as he advanced in years, and the tally against the limestone wall was becoming awfully crowded.

He still felt it there. That awful sensation which thrummed and radiated from behind his brow bone. It had started the day those ships blockaded the port. Sometimes it dulled to a mere throb, and sometimes it flared into a raging tempest which blurred his vision and buckled his body in two.

On those days, he would lay down in a dark room and pray for an end.

His watch of the fort of Dunbarton had come at a poor time. In normal circumstances, a young man of the surrounding area would be sent there under his command, as an introductory role of sorts, before joining the wider garrison. 

Usually, the men came and went with ease, for the only fools brave enough to leave the port in the harsh conditions of winter were small fishing vessels with their spears and nets. So, when the Viking fleet had crested the horizon, barely spotted through the low cloud cover and the rough seas, the horn had sounded ready for combat.

But this was not like the raids that they had heard the rumours of. 

No. 

For the Vikings were smart, and knew the walls of the fort were near impenetrable by any army with no siege equipment. So, they had waited until the men inside were surely starved, and the water in the well had run dry.

“The report, Sir!” A young soldier called, if you could call him a soldier, as he was scrawny and weak even before the rationing had begun.

John stood. 

His legs ached from the hunger gnawing at the meaty parts of him. He was nothing but sinew now, clad in a tunic and nothing else just like the others, for the weight of the metal plated armour strained them excessively.

“Go ahead,” he responded, voice surly.

“The well is dry for the second day. We expect no rain. We were able to catch three gulls but the fishing rock was submerged by the ocean again. We lost another two me-”

He had heard enough, and he waved the boy away.

Three measly gulls were not enough to feed the thirty men garrisoned there. Or how many was it now? Not thirty any longer. His right-hand man Samuel had passed first, after falling ill on the fiftieth night. They could not call for the doctor, for the river mouth had been blockaded along with the port. Then the rest, slowly perishing from starvation… He thought, after he had counted again, there could not have been more than twenty men remaining.

They had to take their stand, though, to hold out until the King’s army could arrive. For as soon as they surrendered, he knew that the Vikings were to sail straight down the river Clyde into the city, and then he knew those rumours would come to pass.

The creeping feeling clawed its way into his head again. When the aches were at their worst, he would see horrible visions. He could not discern whether they were real.

They felt real.

Another knock at his door, gently this time.

He called his man inside.

“They are here, to negotiate,” the soldier said in a hushed tone, a forlorn look plastered across his face.

John donned his armour again. The breastplate barely had enough body to cling to, and slipped from his shoulders down into an unsettled rest on his hip bones. He took up his sword and affixed it to the hilt at his side. 

He knew he wouldn’t get a chance to use it.

His head spun as he crossed the threshold of the fortress onto the grassy outcrop at the front of the castle. It had been almost four months since he had found himself outside. Something felt amiss. Perhaps it was dehydration, or possibly hunger, or maybe the cold of the wind which whipped in from the ocean and put a chill into his bones.

But then it hit him.

A storm rolled in as he made the steps towards that oh so familiar foe. 

This time, locked eyes were the trigger that released the rest of the memories. The pain made it hard to even stay upright. It would only cease when that man was dead and buried.

He had the lives of his men on his shoulders, and to negotiate would mean that even if they were put into shackles and carted away aboard a ship, they would at least live.

His foe stood, skin as white as the sea foam which lashed upon the rock, body hale and strong. They clearly had been eating well aboard the ships, for the man’s muscles bulged evidently even below the chainmail tunic that he adorned himself with. His hair, fair in colour, sat in wonderful curls down to his chest.

John was prepared for whichever barbaric tongue was to leave his mouth, the same language perhaps as he was speaking with the men beside him in. But he was shocked when his foe raised his head to laugh, and pointed the axe in his right hand  in his direction.

“They are calling you weak,” he bellowed, a translation offered for the words of his companions. “And they ask whether you were always so scrawny.”

He watched as the dreadful Viking’s eyes trailed over his body. Without his usual brawn, he felt nude.  It sent a sickening shudder down his spine.

“Last time we met, you were strong.”

John stood assertive, or, as assertive as one could be in his position. 

“An amusing statement from a man who I knew to be dead!” He replied with venom.

The man chuckled. In this life he was young, foolhardy. That smug look on his face was not like the ones he had seen before. This man had always been serious, calculated and cold. The change was interesting, if nothing else.

“I am surprised you are not yet at my throat,” John started, voice being carried along by the wind.

Two strides closer, the younger man stepped. “I want to know the name of my foe,” he started. “Whilst he is in poor shape to commit any violence against me.”

John would not relent his name just yet. Not that it mattered, for the man seemed insistent on more talk of himself. 

“You can call me Draugr,” the man continued, as if bile had settled on his tongue as he wrapped it around the word of foreign origin. It didn’t come entirely naturally to him.

For a moment, John looked puzzled. “Surely, not your birth name?”

Draugr , as he had identified himself, took another step as he slung his axe over his shoulder now. His men bristled, and took their own axes into their hands, but a casual waft of his wrist settled them down once again.

“A term for one who is undead,” he said, as if he had just spoken a common fact. His voice had quietened now, for he was in close enough proximity to not have to combat the wind. “But walking the land still.”

A strange story to be sure, as strange as the rest of these Nordic folk. But nothing was that strange to him anymore, after experiencing this phenomenon of rebirth that had affected what seemed like  just the two of them. In a way, he thought, the name was a decent explanation of what had happened to them both.

Draugr continued to speak. “I was born here, but my father came back for me when I was old enough to swing an axe. I was raised on Norse soil as a-”.

John stepped forward, and almost butted heads with him mid monologue. His finger pressed into the scar which he knew lay below the knotted mail rivets, the one that sat just south of his shoulder. Pain mulled in his own scar as he did.

If he was going to waffle like this every time, he’d much rather go back to when they both spoke in foreign tongues.

“You will release my men,” he began, although he knew the argument was futile.

The Viking seemed displeased about the disruption to the story but listened to the offer, nonetheless. There was something to be said about John’s authority, a man of advanced age who had spent many years in service to his King.

“And I will offer my own life in return”.

A strange look flashed across Draugr’s face. He removed the axe from its resting place on his shoulder and held the sharpened bit steady against John’s neck.

“What is stopping me from killing you now, and then taking your men?”

“Honour,” John replied sternly.

Draugr laughed again. His eyes were unreadable for a moment as the mania of Conflict washed over him as it so often did in these early lives. 

He called out to his companions, who walked towards the two of them.

“So what is your name, old man?” He asked, with the axe keened slightly closer. “Speak now, or not at all.”

“John,” he replied curtly. He didn’t know why he answered - his own honour perhaps to give his name after Draugr had oh so kindly offered his own. 

“Well, John,” Draugr replied, “I have other plans for you that require you alive”.

The two men rushed forward and grabbed him by both shoulders. Try as he might, he had no power left in his body to fight, and his legs gave way underneath him as they shackled his arms and marched him back to the ship.

The capture of his men followed, most of them carried or dragged out. Many of them could not stand without support.  John could only watch.

As the last of the men were onboarded, Draugr came to him. He knelt down, all intention to meet his eyeline, and oozed an aura of mockery. John had seen him in many lights. In every life he was confident, deservedly so, for he had never seen finer weapon mastery. But he was never like this. 

Imprudently smug. 

The bastard was about to speak again when John leapt forward and collided his head against the man’s nose. There was an audible crunch.

“You fucker!” He shrieked, and grabbed John by what little hair he had left on his head. His knee swung wildly into John’s face, again and again and again. 

And that was that, like something had snapped inside of him, as it had done so many times before. His temper spiralled wildly, brutally, until the shackled man was doubled over and barely conscious at his feet.

Draugr took his axe and swung so hard that they had to plug the hole in the deck of the boat.

“Tell me how to end this foolishness!” Conflict yelled.

He had grown weary of the cat and mouse game that the two were forced participants of, and how they would worm their way into every battle he had planned.

Fate smiled.

“Don’t worry,” she cooed, “I see it in their future that it will work out eventually.”

Chapter Text

I / SCOTLAND FOREVER

Two men postured at two war tables, on opposite ends of the chosen battlefield. One, in a pitched tent full of officers, who yielded to his every command. The other, huddled in the living space of some local dwelling with just four others, the admiration of his spirit clear in each of those men’s eyes. Both foamed at the mouth with venom in the insults they hurled. 

“He’s a filthy English swine!”

“He’s a pig-headed, rotten Scot!”

“ But John, how do we defeat him? We’re outmatched five to one !”

“ Surely, we can defeat them. They barely have an army at all. ”

“We should ambush, in the dead of night…”

“We must keep watch; he will be planning an ambush tonight.”

“But he’ll expect that. He will keep his men up throughout the night waiting”.

“We stay awake tonight. We catch them in the act”.

“And then, when the men are tired out by morning, we strike”.

“ And how do you know ?”

“ How can you be so sure? ”

“I’ve met this bastard plenty of times before”.

“I’ve met this bastard plenty of times before”.

As dawn painted the horizon with an orange hue, a stark contrast presented itself between the two sides. No ambush to be seen, but rather six thousand Scottish troops split-off into four divisions, who held fast upon the hillock overlooking the field. 

A missive had been sent with a young squire, to summon the English to battle.

The English had trudged then from their site, with faces weary from the lack of sleep, and stomachs empty with no time for a proper breakfast. The Scots took note of every forlorn face and stubborn grumble. When the English divisions did assemble, their attempt at a formation was poor. Uncoordinated. The weaknesses in this line were eagerly spotted by John’s expert eye, and cheered by those he had under his banner.

Four thousand years of war will do that to a man.

But his foe was smart, even after he had found himself on the back foot. He ordered half the army into the tents to rest, and instead lined up with only twelve thousand of their men. Double that of the Scottish forces, with guaranteed reinforcements who would be fresh from rest and a hearty meal.

On the first day, the two did not meet. 

They could feel each other there, of course, which only ensured further tension and caused blood to boil and hairs to stand on end. The memories rattled unpleasantly through both of these men’s skulls, and the longer they waited, the worse the sensation was. Neither man slept a wink as the second night fell over the field, whether through fear of assassination, or simply in bitter anger at the space the other had taken up in their mind.

Perhaps the surly blond should have been on the field that day, for the first batch of English forces had dwindled rapidly in the knowledge that they were the sacrificial goat in this scene. His presence might have turned tides, but he knew as much as anybody that he couldn’t be caught up with the common folk in case the general of the opposing side took a step onto the field.

Defectors had crawled through the brush into the Scottish camp. Strong men in body, who sought to join the winning side, but weak of mind and full of cowardice. John did not think much of those who abandoned their post in times of hardship. He elected not to keep them in the front lines, no matter how good it looked to return to the second day of fighting with more men than the first. 

Then there were the men who had been asleep in the tent-line. They had indeed woken physically rejuvenated, but with no direction. The leaders had been captured or slain during the fight of the prior day. Morale was low. They could not afford to lose more soldiers.

So, he took to the field himself. 

Clad tight in armour which bore the symbolic lion of the English king to whom he had sworn his allegiance. A helm atop his head, which covered his entire face. Then his weapon of choice, a short sword, clutched tight in his gloved palm. He had learned the hard way what a lack of mobility can do, and even if the sword is shorter, it can still pierce a man’s rib cage clean through if thrust forth by the right set of hands.

It must not have been more than an hour before the rumour had spread as far as the Scottish camp about the man leading the charge on the English side. That brutish, hulk of a figure who stood two heads higher at least than those surrounding him. Some claimed he was a giant, born from myth. Others mocked him, although more likely it was jealousy. Then there was his infamous name, one which frightened mere men more than his size, or his width, or his weaponry, for his real name was unknown and had remained that way for all the time he was in the King’s service.

They called him “The Ghost”.

The Scots, although a scary bunch in their own regard, were as superstitious as they come. So with the presence of that so-called phantom, which walked among them and fought alongside their enemies, there was an air of unnerved, discouraged energy. Energy, which was accompanied by folk tales that spread like wildfire in an unstoppable wave until every man in formation had their own story to tell about the brute.

John sighed as he took up his own blade. 

He couldn’t be angry, really. If the men knew the real truth, it would send their heads into a spin. Perhaps the epithet was closer to life than it seemed, as he and his English foe had been bound to stubborn rebirth together for all eternity. If a ghost was a man that had unfinished business here on the Earth, then he supposed that made two of them. He felt he would not stop until he never had to see that all-too-familiar stranger ever again.

The men of the central-most division parted as he made his way to the front of the platoon. What John lacked in height, he made up for in sheer muscle tone. He truly had a warrior’s stature, and was not afraid to show it in the heat of battle.

“Let us gut that spectre,” he shouted, his voice affirming. It calmed a few of the men looking nervous around him. His words and stance seemed to put a fire back under them.

They charged.

The two only had eyes for each other. 

Through much accidental experimentation, they knew that they could only die to one another’s hand. Any other injury which seemed surely fatal, or even a near-death experience, would be miraculously overcome until they had found each other. And to add to this complexity, they would sometimes feel their bodies being flung or forced into action, with dodges or swings or blocks that their own muscles hadn’t caused.

A cacophonous roar erupted as the two sides clashed, and the Scots tore through the disheartened English forces with ease. It was not long before the two came together, and clashed swords in a way which insinuated the other had predicted at least three moves ahead.

“You disgrace your mother, still not using your birth name,” John yelled, as he struck out his sword low. He aimed for the knee.

The Ghost clicked his tongue against his teeth, audibly. “My mother was not alive to name me”.

In return, he knocked John’s sword back and swung high, which forced the smaller man to block with both hands on the hilt above his head. Then, a swift boot to his stomach whilst his arms were indisposed, and John was sent back several steps in a flailing manner. Thankfully, he caught himself before he fell onto his arse, which saved him at least some embarrassment.

“You still play dirty,” he quipped.

The Ghost did not respond, but stood fast, and braced for the next attack.

One thing they had noticed through their all-too-frequent meetings was the buzz of energy that erupted when they clashed. It was as if a storm cloud had fallen from the sky to inhabit their swords, only to release itself in violent flashes every time metal clawed at metal or blades bit at armour.

This time was no different as John plunged, and disguised his movement in a well-executed sidestep which he swivelled out of at the possible last moment. The tip of his blade caught a gap in the man’s cuirass. It had not pierced deeply, but nicked the skin close enough for a crimson trail to trickle down his right leg.

The plunge had left him unstable though, and he was unable to defend from a counterattack which clipped his chin. He tasted iron on his tongue, and promptly spat the blood which welled in his mouth onto the boot guard of the other man.

They were trapped there, like rutting deer, for any one move was perfectly countered by the other. Slowly, they wore each other down, light knocks on armour and cuts on exposed flesh. Nobody dared enter the fray there were tangled in, and a space larger than most had cleared around them.

But one man had a motive to win, more than just the desire to beat the foe standing before him.

His home. For most of his lives, he was a Scot. Or a Celt, or a Pict, or a Caledonian. All the same in his eyes, all deserved to be released from the clutches of the English.

So in this battle of many hours, after they were left breathless and sweat had gathered in great pools around their necks like vile creatures, John won out with one last-ditch shoulder barge, which knocked The Ghost onto the ground.

“Say your last words, English brute,” he commanded, sword pointed firmly under the lidded neck where the helm met his shoulders.

The Ghost said nothing once again, but met eyes with John. There was hatred in the way his pupils dilated, but something about his grace in defeat left John to wonder whether he spent those last moments reflecting on the thrilling fight they had endured.

He ended him swiftly.

II / CHIVALRY AND CHANCE

Love danced to the music which rose up from the world below, for the revival of the Chivalric Code was one of her creations. The mortals, no longer aggressively primal in nature, had created song, and art, and great festivities dedicated to culture and passion and romance .

The joust was her favourite. 

Ladies of court in their fine dresses circled the grounds. Men with rowdy and rambunctious fervours bellowed, their egos swollen further with the consumption of too much ale. Lords of the lands gloated over their fine horses and finer knights.

It was all one big show, but really, it was nice to see something other than men being slain and civilians raided.

Conflict enjoyed the joust too. 

He had a penchant for all mortal sports, and the world was often quieter when some activity or other caught his eye. Of course, there were often accidents, when the knights and lords ran their horses down the lists. Death was not common, but present. Brawls often broke out too, when the inebriation of the revellers riled up an anger in them, and they piled into a fight of fists and mugs and stools.

Fate watched her, as she spun in time to the charm of the lute.

She hoped her fated pair would charm her just the same.

The lords stood and shook hands, the clean and crisp air of the Scottish Lowlands thankfully on its best behaviour today with no rain in sight. A beautiful blue sky instead cradled the sun as it beamed down, not too harshly as to sear those who stood below and basked in its warmth. 

Even so, it had become awfully warm in his armour, as he stood and glared at the other knight who loped about the place with a foolish grin plastered across his mug. The knight was none other than Sir Johnathan, as he was known in this life. His voice was proud he accepted compliments from both nobles with an air of charm.

He only took his stare down as his own lord turned to face him.

“My knight today is Sir S-” the lord paused, and cleared his throat to cover up the near slip of the man’s true name. “The Ghost of the Moors.”

Laughter erupted from the courtiers.

“What sort of a name is that?” Lord MacDonald bellowed heartily, and walked forward in approach. He was short and fat, with no hair on his head, but a twee moustache which crawled along in a fiery ginger prickle above his thin, top lip.

The Ghost didn’t like it when people touched him, and the clap of this man’s hammy fist against his breastplate was no different. But he could not retaliate, so he bit at the inside of his cheek until the lord’s examination was done.

“Good god, man, what do they feed you?” MacDonald had joked, as he craned his neck to try and peer into the eye-slit of The Ghost’s helm.

Silence in reply. A common occurrence.

He was a man of few words, for he would rather his actions precede him.

In his time in the service of Lord Elwin, he had received two swift promotions.

He started out as a simple footman, where the lord had taken notice of the expert way he held his pike, and how he daintily floated around the battlefield despite his abnormal size. So, he was made commander of a unit, which he had whipped into shape within weeks in both their efficiency and behaviour.

As a reward, then, he had been made Lord Elwin’s personal knight. Not once had he ever lost a joust.

He was undefeated.

As the short lord finally backed away, Elwin had given him the nod to stand at ease and go to look over his horse. At once, he turned his back on the group, and was about to proceed to the stables when a muffled clunk of metal sounded out, and a small stone skipped off the back of his armour.

He turned, his face awash with fury, to witness Sir Jonathan nod in his direction with a sly, mischievous smile.

His horse nickered in the stables as he approached. Her deep black coat shone marvellously in the sunlight, a real testament to his care and attention for the beast. Although he didn’t welcome the company of humans, he did delight in the companionship of animals. Horses especially. 

He appreciated their loyalty, strength, and intuition.

The joust was not to be held for another day, but The Ghost was not one for all of the glitz and glamour of royal courts and their festivities. Instead, he intended to spend the time in the stables until the sun began to set, where he would then retreat to his given room until morning’s birdsong broke his slumber.

He took up a brush in his hand and began combing through the wiry hairs of the horse’s coat. The bristles flicked away the mud which had been picked up on the long journey through the Scottish border. As he worked, he took off his helm. No lord or noble would dare find their way into the muddy, dirty part of the lands. He was sure he could stay here for hours without disturbance from another soul, perhaps if he barred the servants and stablefolk from that assumption. Underneath the helm, he wore a cowl which covered the bottom half of his face.

It didn’t occur to him for some time that he had begun to gently hum along to the tune of a distant lute, as he often did in the company of horses. The sound seemed to steady them, and allow him to examine their hooves without fear of being kicked.

“Lovely mare,” a voice called out, accent thick with the native resonance of this part of the country.

He stopped his melodic song, and quickly drew the knife which he kept strapped to his thigh.

“Woah!” The voice sounded again, before its owner stepped into view with hands raised. Unarmed.

Sir Jonathan. Although, his voice had already given him away.

He lowered the knife against his base instinct.

“What do you want?” He asked, voice gruff and eyes cautious as they followed the man who approached his horse with such emblazoned confidence. The mare nipped at his fingers as they rose to pet her mane.

As Jonathan assessed the damage to his hand with a frown, he replied. “Do I have to want something to talk to you?” 

The Ghost was silent again. 

There was the usual resonance of the pain from the scar on his chest, that always strung up whenever the two were close. But, he had noticed distinctly that the memories of their past lives had not yet assaulted him with their presence as they usually do. Rather, he could distinguish exactly what happened in the most memorable of their lives, and the others were just a gentle simmer in which bubbles would occasionally rise to the surface.

His curiosity got a hold of him.

“Do you still remember…?”

An open question, but Jonathan knew what he meant.

He replied with a small laugh. “Everything.”

A servant had brought Jonathan’s own horse through to the stable, and at the intrusion The Ghost had turned away instinctively as not to show his face. He didn’t question why Jonathan’s presence hadn’t made him do the same. Perhaps it was because he’d seen him in too many lives already to care. Or, perhaps the deep scars which Jonathan had left on his features were not embarrassing in front of their maker. He knew that cuts in skin and gashes which cleft lips in twain would not scare the man who delivered them so dutifully upon his face. The canvas of an artist - many lifetimes, many mediums.

The mare was pure white, save for a small patch of brown over its left eye. She walked with a cockiness that matched her rider perfectly.

“Thank you, Gelis,” Jonathan thanked with kindness, as he took the leading rope from the man and tied it around the post in the stall beside that of The Ghost’s darker mare.

They worked in silence, mostly. But the Scot couldn’t help but engage in conversation any time he was finished with a task.

“Still not using your birth name, then?” He chuckled, as he spat on a rag to polish the final sheen onto the leather of his saddle. The tone of his voice was light and playful, but the cautious look in his eye had a hint of bite to it.

It was as if he was testing his temper. Their dispute was clearly not forgotten. 

The Ghost chose not to answer, and offered instead an affirming hum whilst he finalised a braid in the mare’s sleek mane.

“I do like you better when you don’t talk,” Jonathan laughed again, and rounded the small fence between them. His final step placed him but inches away.

The closeness was uncomfortable. 

This man being the only one who could ever do him harm. No matter how charming or charismatic he acted, that energy still thrummed between them, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the tension snapped like a rope pulled too tight.

Jonathan’s fist balled up, and he gently tapped at the scar on The Ghost’s shoulder before taking his leave. A small shock, but the pain faded as quickly as it had come.

The stables were quiet after he was gone, save for the rustle of the two horses’ mouths in their fresh buckets of straw. In stark contrast, the whoops and hollers of patrons and revellers alike as Sir Jonathan made his way into the gatehouse could be heard even from inside the sturdy wooden stable.

Sir Jonathan was a popular man. A well-loved man, even.

Yet, The Ghost could see him for what he really was. A man with the blood of so many lives soaked deep into the pores of his skin. Blood which welled in his mouth with the bitterness of iron, and stained his fingertips so that any beautiful thing he touched was marred with its indignity. 

Even in this life, The Ghost would not forgive.

The morning haze was bleak. A direct juxtaposition of yesterday’s beautiful sunshine, perhaps a sign of things to come.

Early risers had already made it to the lists, where they took their seats in the stands nursing sore feet from dancing and sorer heads from the ale. The Ghost had paced the sand, and checked thoroughly time and time over for any tampering, any rock or stone which could throw his horse, or any dip which would misalign his lance.

Lord Elwin watched him as he meticulously counted the steps, counted his strides, and imagined the long legs of the mare at their full extension. Although Elwin had also boozed and revelled, he had made sure to accompany The Ghost, for fear of his short fuse being blown over some indecent comment or another.

It had not gone amiss to either of them that Lord MacDonald and his young knight had not yet made an appearance that morning.

The stands were crammed by the time the lord showed his sorry rear, followed by a gaggle of courtiers who looked just as rough as he did. His face was flushed red, and the moustache which had been impeccably styled yesterday, drooped sadly today.

“Where is he?” The Ghost asked Lord Elwin in a hushed tone, who was now perched on a barrel by his side.

Elwin scoffed. “From the rumours I heard around the hall last night, he is probably still chasing ladies out from his chambers.”

The Ghost raised an eyebrow, although the gesture went unseen under his helm.

“He was drunk?” 

“Most certainly… The lad kept going on and on about it being his ‘last night’. MacDonald put his sorry arse to bed after he caused a stir kissing one of the serving wenches”. 

And as Fate would go, to speak of the devil will make him appear.

Not exactly a formal appearance, but one which The Ghost had caught out of the corner of his eye. He watched, as the man servant from yesterday damn near dragged him down the path to the stables, and stopped only once to allow him to vomit into a dead shrub.

A quiet confidence arose in The Ghost.

Clearly, word had spread to Lord MacDonald that his rider would need… more time.

An urgency spread through the servants, and an impromptu stage of musicians was formed to try and appease the expectant crowd. Their tunes were drab and off key, and a large proportion of the performers were clearly still hungover.

Before his ears began to ring, he excused himself from the crowd.

The trek to the stable wasn’t far, but the foolishly bulky theatrical riding armour was cumbersome to walk in. He took the path slowly, with the knowledge that he had plenty of time, and he would rather not bump into his rival anyways.

As he was about to round the corner, he heard voices from the stable’s stall. He hid behind a large haystack, and listened intently.

“What do you think he’s like, under that helmet?” The voice slurred.

Through a broken slat in the wood, The Ghost could just about make out the sprawled-out body of his opponent, leant up against a pile of sacks. He was barely even dressed, never mind in his joust armour. A brush of brunette hair peeked out from the undone buttons of his undershirt.

The manservant prepared his things, anger plain on his face.

“I mean… Is he disfigured? Ugly? Cannae grow a beard?” A snort followed, as the Scot laughed at his own joke. 

“Hush now,” the other man said, seemingly done with his mockery.

“He wasn’t ugly when I met him last,” the voice trailed off, before a horrible sound followed. “Foul! These apples are spoiled.”

“There’s no time, Sir. Come, let us get to the armoury for your breastplate.”

A great huff from the knight, before he allowed himself to be hauled to his feet once again.

The Ghost dipped further behind the hay, which he practically sunk into with the heft of the armour. He hadn’t needed to be so cautious, as the good knight was still entirely inebriated, and his servant was fixated only on getting him along the path without incident.

The horses whinnied in the stable as he entered.

Sir Jonathan’s white mare tugged painfully at the reins around her neck, and The Ghost could not help himself but go to her aid. 

She strained towards a green object in the corner of the pen, which upon closer inspection, was the ruined apple with a bite taken from it that Jonathan had left moments ago. The scent was horrifically pungent, the apples clearly having fermented in the recent sunny weather. Only Sir Jonathan probably hadn’t taken notice since he was still as drunk as a leper.

“No, no, you don’t want that,” The Ghost said in a hushed tone, as he kicked the apple away and gently held her face.

The horse continued to retaliate.

She was a stubborn old thing, much like her owner, he supposed.

One apple couldn’t hurt…

He picked it up, the stench of fermentation making his stomach turn. Within seconds of the apple being placed beneath her muzzle, she had chomped the whole thing down and whinnied excitedly.

An idea came to mind. 

But no, he shouldn’t…

Then he remembered the comments he had walked in on, and how John had taunted him. Analysed the way that Jonathan clearly wasn’t bothered all that much in this life, to be so lazy and slovenly that he postpones his own Lord’s joust. And the silliness in his head to get so brazenly drunk the night before, and the rumours of the women in his room, and-

Before he could rationalise his actions, he kicked over the sack with the rest of the apples, which spilled across the stall floor into the reach of the snowy mare.

If Sir Jonathan was so happy as to present himself as a drunkard, then what a fitting choice for his horse to match.

He perched atop his sleek, black mount and pondered the scene. The clouds above had rolled in thick now, and there was a threat of rain at any moment. A poet would say it was beautiful, and that the fog provided an excellent backdrop for the darkness of his mare. He however thought otherwise. Fog limited visibility, plainly put.

The band had grown breathless, their fingers in great agony from extended playing. Finally, and after a long time coming, they were at last called upon to cease their tune before they quickly rushed away from their impromptu stage.

A lady shrieked, her seat in a prime location right behind the fence. It would make for a grand view, but also a dangerous one, as the large white mare of Sir Jonathan finally lumbered into the posted area. Its legs fumbled, and the young Knight faltered in his saddle before a last minute save.

“What the bloody hell is up with that horse?” A murmur from Lord Elwin to one of their courtiers.

This now was when the stands would usually erupt with cheers, whoops and hollers. Not this time, however. There was a split, with half of the crowd in a state of panic and confusion, and the other half not able to contain their laughter.

Sir Jonathan pulled down the visor on his helmet to hide the blush of embarrassed rouge which spread across his face like fire. But even then, the plume of blue and white which adorned the top of the helm seemed to make a mockery of him.

They walked the horses to the centre of the track to shake hands. But when The Ghost offered his gloved palm, Sir Jonathan did not take it.

The crowd was now awash with hisses and boos, which were shot down with haste by the furious glance of Lord MacDonald.

Johnathan took up his lance from Gelis, the servant. The Ghost’s lance was handed to him by Lord Elwin himself.

On their first run, thunderous hooves crashed from the black mare, who reached the central post in excess of three lengths before its drunken compatriot. A call of no lances echoed out due to the poor difference in timing, and the men yanked back the heavy tools as they passed one another.

Even without an exchange of blows, the shock which travelled between them felt electric.

A second run now, also called off, for the tip of Jonathan’s lance had drunkenly swayed and pierced through a large barrel of ale, which seeped out into the grass and sand below.

With the tension in the air, the hushed disappointment of the punters, and the anger of the Scottish lord, nobody had thought to question how this dulled lance was able to penetrate the heavy wood of the barrel. Nor did anyone query the way the tip glinted as a ray of sunlight clawed its way through a cloud as it passed. It was as if there were some divine being, who wanted only to warn the unaware rider of the pitch black mare.

Before the third pass, both horses hoofed the ground anxiously at their posts. The sand of the list was brushed back into place, now sodden from the gallons of ale which soaked the ground through.

Thunder cried above, and spots of rain fell for the first time that bleak morning.

The horses spooked at the sound, and before the joust master could officially call the start of the run, both mares were already off at full pelt. It took only one look between both riders, who readied their lances. This time, with the frightened mares running equally as fast, they were to clash in the very centre.

The crowd remained stunned into a hushed silence at first, but that lasted only a meagre few seconds. It was as if a match had alighted, and now they started to make the ruckus that had been expected for the entire affair. This was now, or never.

The Ghost’s lance connected first, and bounced forcefully without penetration away from the Scot’s armoured chest. 

Only, the impact had knocked Sir Jonathan’s lance astray, and instead of colliding with The Ghost’s heavy breastplate, it had instead buried itself through both The Ghost’s muscular thigh and into the flank of the black mare.

The sound the mare made chilled him to the bone, but no sound proved more excruciating than the cry of The Ghost himself, who felt his thigh crack as his horse bounded and kicked in pain. This caused the lance to grind deeper, and move against his femur. He could not calm her before she took off down the remainder of the run.

Sir Jonathan fared no better, as the crowd’s screams sent his own horse into a panicked flurry not aided by the drenched ground which slipped out from beneath her feet. She bucked wildly, and leapt the low fence which separated the two runs with ease. The knight struggled to reign her in, his head woozy and hands still affected by the shakes he always got when he over-consumed his share at Lord MacDonald’s parties. When it seemed as if he might have stabilised her, another crack of thunder spooked her all over again.

Calls from the crowd ruptured the sky. Screams echoed. Hurried rushing of stable-hands and servants alike.

But nothing could stop the frenzied mare as she slipped again in the puddle of ale, the depth of which was added to by rain and blood. Sir Jonathan toppled from her back, and she trampled him mercilessly under her wild hooves.

The Ghost had managed to pull the lance from his leg, and released himself from where he had been pinned against the small of the mare’s back. He had no strength left in him, though. The pain of the wound, and his cracked broken femur meant he could only slip ungracefully from the saddle. He hit the ground with a tremendous thud.

Thankfully, the mare was soon after wrangled and led to one side to be looked over.

He crawled to that cocky knight, his leg bloodied. Too much blood. He felt faint, as his head began to spin and the world looked a little duller than he last remembered.

He just needed to see whether that drunken fool was dead.

“Oi, do you hear me?” The Ghost called out.

There was no response. If he wasn’t dead already, he was at least knocked out cold.

Thunder again. But this time… 

No.

He looked up to see the white mare, furiously pounding hooves to sand as she thundered back down the track. She was followed by a gaggle of people, who tried desperately to grasp at her reins, but in turn only frightened the poor beast more.

He tried to roll away, but could not muster the strength.

The mare went over again in a glorious flurry where every one of her limbs gave out all at once. Her body crashed and contorted into the ground, and rolled right over the ambiguously still body of Sir Jonathan before her neck twisted around the centre post and she fell still.

A pang of guilt for the poor thing followed, which stuck heavy in The Ghost’s chest.

Not for long though, as at this point, the corners of his vision were already dark. He knew if he were lucid, the pain in his leg would be agonising. He welcomed the onset of tiredness.

Someone shouted his name. His real name. Then, someone else had yelled that Sir Jonathan’s spear had been tampered with. Men tried to lift the heavy horse from atop Jonathan’s body, but her slip had caused legs and hooves to dig deep into the sand, right down to the dirt layer below. It would likely take another two horses to pull the carcass away.

The medics came, and touched The Ghost. It perturbed him to no end, and he cursed them in his mind as he tried to fall back to sleep. They insisted that the local priest come and say some final words for him. Not that it mattered at all, because he would not make it to Heaven nor Hell, but rather would wake up as a babe a few hours from now. 

By the time the pastor was brought from the chapel, they found no sign of life.

III / WHITE ROSE, RED ROSE

It annoyed Johnathan to no end to feel that recognisable sensation again so soon. It had been only thirty-five years since his last untimely demise, and this one had been yet another memorable one.

He mused over how it was more common now for him to remember the entire affair, with all the gruesome details. His hands moved quickly as he made the final checks of his armour. If only he had checked that lance... If only the joust had been against some other fool…

In this life, he had not chased fame or glory, and hoped that he could make at least fifty years of age without contention. He had served in the land army of some small, Scottish noble, and steered well away from England or any English folk for that matter. In fact, he found he had become all the more prejudiced against the bastards. How dare they accuse him of weapon tampering? He had done no such thing, and he knew that for certain, as he’d hardly been able to put his undergarments on by himself that day. There was no way in that state he could have sharpened that tip to such a lethal point.

He had heard it all in a half-out haze, before he suffocated beneath the body of his mare.

So why then when he had worked so hard to stay small and unimportant, was he lined up next to the Lancastrians at the Battle of Bosworth? He was here, about to make history in the war between York and Lancaster.

The charge came quickly, and thirty-five years flashed before his eyes.

His mind wandered to other things, in a half-hearted attempt at self-distraction. If he won here today, he would retire from the army and devout himself into the service of the Catholic church. Make a life out of something other than war. Do some good for the world, and perhaps atone for some of his more… sinful episodes.

Of course, The Ghost had sensed him there, and headed right towards him. He looked incredibly miffed.

If the account was to be retold with brevity in mind, as once again they clashed for almost an hour, an on-looker needed only to know that the battle was close and fierce and filled with passion.

“You bastard!” The Ghost yelled. “You injured my mare!” 

He seemed genuinely more upset by that than his own death.

“Look! I didn’t know about the lance!” An exchange of swords followed, perhaps a sign of The Ghost’s disbelief. “It was my servant; it must have been. He wanted to avoid me… disgracing myself.”  

Blades clashed and slung, before a crack appeared in the Ghost’s defence. 

Jonathan took the opportunity.

Conflict rapped his fingers upon the table, and huffed.

“Why is he even involved?” He cried out, as they watched the man deliver the final blow. “I thought this was a war between Englishmen?”

Fate rolled her eyes. “As I have already told you, where one is, the other is. It doesn’t matter which rules are bent or if the picture doesn’t make much sense – that is just the way it works”.

Love chimed in. “I preferred it when they were friends”.

The two other divines looked at her in confusion.

“When were they ever friends, Love?”

Love rested her head on her palms, and her fair white hair curled around her fingers. She admired the way the Scot wiped the blood from his blade, and how he slipped away unnoticed through the back lines.

“Well, they didn’t go for each other’s throats straight away when they were knights!”

Fate sighed wistfully. She didn’t see it herself, but Love had a good eye for these things. She often wondered whether it was as the folktales of the mortals deemed, and there was a tangible red thread wrapped around each of their fingers that only Love’s starry eyes could see.

“Horseshit!” Conflict cried out, which caused both Love and Fate to swivel their heads around to where he stood,  beetroot red in the corner. “Clearly these two are fated enemies, they were just bound to behave by their work is all”.

As a quarrel ensued between the others, Fate took the opportunity to peer through the cloud cover as years soared by down below.

To the divines, time was a strange old thing. They could pass a mortal year in a second, or slow down a mortal second to the length of a year. It meant nothing to them, for they did not age, and were bound to create, maintain, and destroy forever.

She watched as the young Scot did as he swore, joined the Church, and worshipped in its clergy. 

To the divines, religion too was strange. Their mortal-given names amalgamated and changed as the years went by. Where there were once many names and many faces, like Mars as the God of War, and dear Venus as the Goddess of Love… Now they were often considered just one being. God.

That young priest grew old. And as he aged, the world changed around him.

They slowed everything down for the next encounter.

Chapter Text

I / GODS AND KINGS

His cold and tired bones creaked as their carriage rumbled down the highway in the direction of London. The pony’s spent legs struggled to keep time as the roads morphed from dirt track, to cobble, to stone and back to dirt. It had been particularly bad as they ventured through the forested areas in the north, where tree branches had scraped the roof of the wagon, and torn a hole clean through the sheet which kept out the rain.

Thankfully, they had made it to the outskirts of the lands of Windsor Castle without incidents caused by any ne’er-do-wells.

It was a day of protest, for Henry VIII had disavowed the Catholic Church, and marked himself instead the monarch leader of The Church of England in a self-serving twist of Fate. Worse still, his men had taken everything from their monastery’s coffers, and claimed the blessed gold to be a sin to God. Of course, the gold was not sacred to him, either - he only used it to pay off his war debts.

If there was one thing Jonathan could not abide, it was war.

He had grown into a peaceful man in this life. 

Now senior in years, he vowed that he would never touch a sword nor wield a dagger again. And even if he hadn’t sworn, he was sure that the frailty of his body wouldn’t withstand the weight of the iron anyways.

Plenty of priests, monks, religious folk of all kinds were gathered in a sort of muted mumbling in front of the heavy doors of the castle. There was no violence, not here, not with these men who follow the teachings of the lord. 

But even so, rows upon rows of guardsmen lined the walls, patrolled the steps, and perched in the watchtowers in wait for that one man to look a little too rowdy or yelled a tad too loud. Then, they could pounce with just cause.

A strange, sickly feeling bloomed in his stomach as they sent the coachman to park up the carriage.

There were eyes on him. They watched, with intensity. A gaze which sunk in through his pores and burrowed under his skin like some vile tick. Eyes which tried to read his character via possession of his very soul.

A funny thing is life.

His fellow brothers of the fold caused a wicked jealousy in him which he knew did not befit of a man of his position. But even so, they would live their lives in good conscience and when death greeted them, they would be taken in that chariot of winged angels to meet the Lord whom they dedicated their wordly services to.

Only for him, it was not to be, for his winged angel was dark, and cold, and wicked as they came.

A beast sent by Lucifer himself to drag him back into the life he knew before.

His head rose to the blurred outline of the castle wall, where he vaguely identified a man shrouded in a dark black cape. He was clad in some sort of armour, although he could not make out any specifics. He also was not able to read his face, for the distance was too large, and his vision had now all but abandoned him except for the occasional forms and fractals of light he could still picture if he squinted hard enough.

He didn’t need to see the man to feel the rage which emanated from him. This was wrath, moulded into a human form. 

There had been a murmur, which increased in volume from the crowd as people anxiously turned to each other in hurried whispers.

Jonathan questioned a man who seemed to be in the know. “What is happening?”

“He is returning to the castle shortly. Surely, he will see this gathering and change his mind?”

Jonathan shrugged at the man’s delusion. 

He had witnessed for too many years that when a man such as Henry has his mind set on something, it would never change. Not through his own conscience, or the wants of others. And with a man seemingly so unafraid of the wrath of God, this was even more potent.

The guards from the guardhouse rallied, and forced a path through the gathered men with bellows of their own and threats of violence. Jonathan found himself caught up in the fray, bashed about by the bustle and pushed toward the very front of the group where he ended up trapped, his body pressed against the wall of the front steps.

With haste, the King’s carriage rumbled down the parted sea of people. A roar of voices quickly became a wave. People pushed forward in surges, desperate for the King to hear them, for their opinions to matter. 

It caused a crush, and Jonathan’s position was now perilous. His back was still pressed firmly against the stone walls, his eyesight spoiled further by the shadow that the castle cast above him. A jostle of elbows and knees crashed into him, and he could only bring his arms around his body more tightly, hoping that the collisions wouldn’t break his brittle, eroding self.

A space opened, and he gulped air in desperation as his lungs were momentarily unconstricted. But the wave returned, and he would have to move lest he be consumed by it again.

He could not act upon his plans to escape, for out of nowhere, they were acted upon.

A gloved hand against his robe pulled him up the castle steps. He was yanked away from another crush, just in time. His own hand rushed to meet the foreign one which grasped at the fabric around his neck.

“Careful father! Ye was almost crushed!”

He heard the voice before he could make out any features. Soft, kind and compassionate in tone. Then, when his vision did slowly pan back into view, he saw the blurry outline of what appeared to be a young lad. A soldier, barely taller than he was. That’s all he could make out with those milky eyes.

His heart settled.

He knew what he had feared when that boy’s hand had accidentally clasped his throat. Who he had feared.

“Thank you, son,” he replied breathlessly, as his hand grasped his windpipe to massage some air back inside. 

The boy was too polite for the nature of the role, and insisted on bringing him inside the palace’s walls to be assessed by the matron. His colleagues had chastised him, but upon seeing the brittle frame of one rescued priest, with those pale moons settled in his eye sockets, they knew he would be no trouble and let him pass.

He was led through the halls, and seated on a gilded bench which he imagined cost more in gold than all the pieces in their monastery combined.

“Wait here, I shall fetch for her – you have a nasty wound on your head.”

Jonathan’s hand raised to his temple, where he felt the familiar trickle of warmth seep into his cloak. It must have been split by a flying elbow or shoulder knocked astray. An annoyance, but nothing he couldn’t handle after the many wounds of his former life.

It felt as if at least an hour had passed, as he sat on that grand bench and pondered how he had ended up here. The others, probably in some sort of argument outside, had all vyed and whined on their way over in the cart about this very opportunity. But John knew the only reason he was presented with such luck at this time surely meant that divine intervention was involved once again.

Never a good thing, for him.

His eyes had adjusted to the length of the corridor ahead. He saw not the room as a whole, as all that was left in his vision was a pinhole of light in his left eye, and a small, blurred slit in his right. When he squeezed his left eye shut, he had seen two large vases, a long carpet runner, and various paintings hung on the walls which he could not make out the images of.

There had been a shadow in the distance a few moments prior, which had crossed the space at the corridor's end and presumably had vanished in some other direction. Then more silence, and a longer, lonelier wait as more minutes passed.

It was only the slight scuff of a shoe in the altogether silent space that alerted him to another presence. Then a shape in front of him, which halted momentarily. Something in his chest burned, but it had done ever since he crossed the threshold of the castle, so he could not use that as guidance.

Perhaps this was the matron. He could only hope.

The figure took him by the hand wordlessly. A cold, leather glove held his bare hand tight, and led him into the infirmary to be checked over. A strange way to handle a blind man, without any sort of verbal announcement, but he passed it off as crossed wires. Perhaps they had thought he was deaf, or maybe they were not in the mood for chatter with the stress of a potential invasion.

The horrid feeling in his stomach worsened.

A cold chill overcame him as the hand reached down again, and dabbed a rough cloth onto the wound to soak up the blood. Only now, no gloves separated the contact of skin on skin, and he felt the undeniable callouses of a man who had trained with a sword until mastery.

“Awfully rough hands for a matron,” he quipped.

He was hoping his intuition was wrong, but that signature chuckle was unmistakable.

“The matron will not be coming,” The Ghost had said plainly. His voice surprisingly lacked its usual malice.

That was somehow more frightening.

“If you are going to kill me, why are you fixing my head?”

The sting of some sort of tincture seared as the liquid dripped down over the open wound, which caused him to wince audibly. After it had settled, there was a noticeable absence of further pain.

The man paused.

He was deep in thought, as if he didn’t know himself why he hadn’t slit the poor old fool’s throat the very second he had caught him alone.

“I have some things I want to ask you first.”

He didn’t know whether he should engage with this. The openness. Not like the last time they had fought, where their entire time in each other’s company had lasted only a couple of meagre hours. But perhaps he owed him this. After all, he had killed him once in this lifetime already.

The thought of that pinched tightly at his conscience. He would have to repent twice as much as usual in his nightly prayer.

“Go ahead,” Jonathan replied staunchly, as he mustered the frayed shreds of his quivering confidence.

“Why did you turn your back to the army?” The question came, and then lingered for a moment. In the silence were sounds of quiet mutters and fumbles of masculine fingers over thin, finickity bandages.

Jonathan ruminated.

He supposed, really, that The Ghost’s blood spilling on the field that day was the final straw.

To leave guaranteed peace, comfort, and something to rely on. One thing to ground himself, to set his moral compass, and to write his own set of guidelines to keep him on the good path and not the violent one.

“I wanted to stop… The killing. The senseless loss. To become a better person without all that nastiness following me.”

He couldn’t see it, but The Ghost frowned.

“This isn’t you, Jonathan.”

Odd words. Oddly close. 

Too familiar…

But they were true. Nearly 3,000 years of the same, repeated lives. Birth, conflict, death. 

“I can change – I did change!”

“For the worse!” The statement bit, and was projected around the room rather too loudly for polite conversation. The Ghost toned down the next sentence, as to not attract unwanted guards. “Surely, you cannot believe in this religious nonsense after… What happens to us.”

“I take the Lord as my shepherd; may he guide me through the rest of this sorry life of mine and unto the next.” 

The statement was practically a prayer. A defence of his soul from whatever the demon before him would try to take.

He felt heavy hands clasp either of his shoulders. Not the same tender press of the rag against his skull, or the careful bandages that followed. This was the violence he had feared.

“I will change you back before I kill you,” The Ghost sneered. “I will strip away this falseness from you.”

Then he was gone. In a flurry of fabric and armour and rage.

Jonathan’s hand grazed his freshly patched wound, which was tied off masterfully. It baffled him to no end, that he would heal him as such. Gentle hands did not correlate with his previous experience. And not with his current one either, who in the very same conversation had dug dark bruises into his shoulders which would flurry up black and blue after he awoke the next day.

He collected his thoughts, and noticed that as he had stood in front of that man, he had no desire to kill. No pull of violence which usually overcame him in his presence. He wondered whether through fear, or the support of his God, or whether he was simply too old to even try when he knew he would be bested by younger, stronger blood.

A curious thing, indeed.

Life in the walls of the castle didn’t come without issue.

He should have left the moment his head was fixed, but he was called forward to meet Henry’s council due to his passion and years of wisdom. There were not many who lived to his ripe age, eighty-three years as one of God’s children, forty-seven of which were spent living by his book in a small monastery at the edge of Lancashire. He never did get back to Scotland - it would have been too risky. Instead, he had laid low in the first religious building he had stumbled across.

The council had let him pray in the chapel, at least. It was there that he stayed for hours each day, and begged the Lord for safety, freedom, and the end to this languishing cycle of rebirth he found himself trapped in with the man who wanted him dead.

His foe had not made himself known since his arrival, but he could feel the burn of a fiery gaze into the back of his neck as he accepted broth and bread for dinner in the grand hall. The worst time of all was when he took his daily stroll in the gardens, for one did not reach his age by remaining sedentary, and he needed the fresh air to invigorate his elderly bones. There were so many corners unseen, especially to a man who could barely see the path ahead, where that bastard could jump from at any moment and scare him silly. Or worse, of course. But that hadn’t happened, not for the many days he was there. It seemed The Ghost was just fine, as he watched in bitter contemplation.

It was a cold night, when Jonathan had taken extra interest in a passage he had spied earlier that morning. As he entered the space of the chapel, he noticed the chill which caused his body to seize up into itself. It was less the cold of a breezy day, and more alike the cold of a grand, old room where the heat of the hearth doesn’t quite reach the edges.

He took not to a pew, but a small desk in the far corner of the grand room where texts and manuscripts were rolled into ornate scrolls on rich paper. The contents were old, but his soul was older. It had left him wise well beyond his years, with a knack for language and inscriptions.

The first paper was illegible, the letters far too small to see, and the ink too flat on the page for him to read with his fingers.

He sighed.

It was as if the lord didn’t want him to learn.

But the next text was better, the inscription embossed in such a way that he could make out the words he could not read through his right eye by tracing them with his thumb. The candle by his side burnt low, and sputtered puffs of smoke into the air that he could not see, but could smell. 

He worried that the smoke could damage the paper.

The candelabra sat only a spot to his left, so he took it up in firm hands and moved it away from the parchment. The wax dripped hot onto his wrist and seared his skin. But he did not dare drop it, for it was clad in gold, and he had no money in his coffers to replace such a thing.

A small table rested a few feet away. He had bumped it unceremoniously with his knee as he walked in, as he did with many things below waist height. So, there he set the candle down where its flame continued to putter away softly, before being extinguished by a sudden gust.

Strange, for there had not been a draft there earlier, and the air in the room was otherwise still.

No matter, he mused as he returned to his station. The lack of light did not disturb him, as he had worked most of the parchment by touch anyways, and there was still enough moonlight which entered wistfully through the stained glass and cast a rainbow of glimmers over the difficult letters.

He found himself lost in an elaborate version of the Confiteor now. It was a challenge. Some of the translations had not been completed in full, and the Latin text was fraught with words and concepts which were tricky in nature. His hand traced and retraced a sentence in frustration. He could not grasp the meaning of the words which traversed beneath the pad of his thumb.

mea culpa peccavi
per superbiam in multa mea mala iniqua et pessima cogitatione,
locutione, pollutione, sugestione, delectatione, consensu, verbo et opere,
in periurio, in adulterio, in sacrilegio, omicidio, furtu, falso testimonio,
peccavi visu, auditu, gustu, odoratu et tactu,
et moribus, vitiis meis malis.

Ten minutes passed before he eventually broke the back of the phrase, with only one word left untranslated that had escaped his vocabulary. It frustrated him to no end, as he knew the inscription of the letters, as if he had seen it before. But alas, he had given it his best go, and found a slightly sinful pride in the rest of the translation.

through my fault I have sinned

by pride in my abundant evil iniquitous and heinous thought,

speech, pollution, suggestion, delectation, consent, word and deed,

in perjury, adultery, sacrilege, _____, theft, false witness,

I have sinned by sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch,

and in my behaviour, my evil vices.

That final word irked him still. He feared his weary finger had traced the expression so many times that the ink must have rubbed off, and as he sat back defeated he felt that same chill down the back of his neck.

“Murder.”

He froze.

The word loomed heavy in his ear, as if it was spoken through the mouth of God himself, whilst a hot, soft breath at the back of his neck made his skin crawl. But even in his fear, his finger traced the page and found that word again, the light from the window now bathed it in full illumination.

Murder . How fitting.

“You are correct,” he said plainly, in an attempt to not let his fear leak through into his vocal chords. “How long have you been here?”

The man finally took a step back, although his footsteps were silent even against the marbled church floor. Johnathan had expected that in the corridor when he had come disguised as the matron, he had only scuffed his toe against the carpet to seem like any other person. Only he could walk so silently - it would have been an instant giveaway.

“Long enough,” The Ghost replied, and seemed reluctant to speak any further on how long he had really found himself affixed in a glare at the back of Johnathan’s bandaged head. 

Jonathan wondered whether this was it. 

Whether he would bleed out here in the seat of God, murdered as he atoned for murder himself. Killed with wrath, as he repented for the wrath he brought upon others. Which he had brought upon this very man forty-seven long years ago.

The fear and the irony must have shown on his face, for the man laughed. 

The sound echoed coldly through the rafters of the chapel, as if the noise itself had ascended to the heavens. It was a haunting, eerie sound.

“Not yet, old man,” he joked, and leafed through the pile of papers that had gathered by Jonathan’s side. “I have full use of my eyes, and I do not see the appeal of such things.”

“They help me to repent for what I did,” Jonathan replied. He lacked the posture of his former self, and had adopted a timid stance.

The Ghost tutted, tongue clicking against teeth. He reached out as if he were going to push the man, but stopped just shy.

“Look at you, frightened like a lamb.” He rasped, voice low and angry. “This is not the John I knew, he would have risen to this.”

Jonathan stood firm, but the stutter in his voice gave him away. “You do not frighten me, Ghost.”

Neither seemed to notice the shortened iterations of one another’s names.

The hairs on Jonathan’s neck stood violently on edge, and his feet had angled themselves towards the door without thought. The Ghost’s figure did not move in turn with his. Did this mean he was free to go? There was no way he wouldn’t take the chance. He bumped violently into the corner of that same bloody table, the bruise left the morning after another sign of his peril here in this castle.

Before The Ghost could say another word, he fled.

The cat and mouse game continued for a while, until it was by far the longest time they had spent in each other’s presence. The Ghost would appear to him at night as he studied. Often to question him, or taunt him, all in effort to reverse the work which he had devoted so many years to. In return, Jonathan would stay resolute in his faith, and studied harder the texts which spoke of repentance and forgiveness. 

But it could not stay that way forever.

The man’s temper was growing short. It was clear that there was a part of him that missed the tension between them. Missed when the other man was able to stand up for himself with a sword or an axe or a bow.

He had grown tired of the fear that only his shadow cast.

So on the chosen night, when the tension finally snapped the chord of his patience, The Ghost had approached Jonathan not lightly or silently, nor under the cover of the moonlight with the candles blown out.

He clad himself in all black, his heavy cloak and leather gloves masked any sign of a human left below that hard exterior. The devil would be calling tonight.

And Jonathan wept for repentance in front of the altar, the moonlight through the stained glass a promise that there was a Heaven. It taunted him as those rainbow reflections danced across his saggy skin, and hid in the deep crevices of his wrinkled brow.

He would never make it there.

Heavy footsteps approached as he mumbled Latin tongues under his breath. He called the names of the Saints to watch over him and protect him. He called upon God to accept him into his angelic flock, and to not make him do this all again.

The Ghost walked past him, and ascended the steps to the grand wooden stand, where he kicked the lectern forward. Like rain, the papers fell, twisted and folded and ended up muddled out of order. Jonathan broke from his prayer in shock, and rushed to pick up the pages before they were tarnished on the dirty floor.

So many years of history, to be ruined by dirt and dust.

He hadn’t heard The Ghost come down from his vantage. When he just about made out that change of light in his vision as The Ghost’s shadow loomed over him, it was too late for him to react.

A stubborn boot crashed down onto the back of his palm, and crushed it. Jonathan yelped in pain. He tried to pull back his arm, but was stuck firm.

His voice raised much higher than he would like in this place of worship. “Get off!”

He hoped that the Lord would not feel disrespected.

Something in The Ghost had clearly ignited as he grabbed him by his collar, yanked him clean off the ground, and threw him back onto one of the pews. He did not reach for the sword strapped at his side with the skull carved into its hilt, but rather balled his hand tightly into a fist and struck the older man across the jaw.

The pain seared.  No matter his past, it had been four decades since anyone had laid a hand on him with such violence.

“ Why don’t you understand?” The Ghost cried out, before he stepped back as if he was contemplating his actions.

Understand? What was there that he did not already know? That the man in front of him hated his guts? That he wanted him dead from the moment he set eyes on him?

No.

“Forty-eight fucking years I spent looking for you, only to find you holed yourself up in some dingy church?”

Jonathan failed to see the point. “I… Why were you looking for me?” 

Another blow landed, which this time caused his left ear to ring angrily.

“Do you know how utterly boring it was? Not losing a single fight, no sense of danger…”

Jonathan paused momentarily. “Sounds more like a blessing to me,” he quipped.

The look on The Ghost’s face confirmed that he did not reciprocate the sentiment. Rather, it riled up his ferocity once again. He beat him, repeatedly, until his face was more bruise than skin. Despite the pain, Jonathan did not relent, and smiled up at him in forgiveness.

That ticked him off more than anything.

“Fight back,” he growled, low and heady.

It hurt just to speak. His lips were cracked and bloody, and he was certain he had lost a couple of teeth. But even so, he would not fall foul of that deadly sin again. 

Instead he clasped his hands together in prayer, glassy eyes shut tightly with puffy, swollen lids.

What exactly did he pray for? For forgiveness from his wrongdoings? For The Ghost’s bitter soul to be forgiven, too?

No… It was something more selfish than that. All he wanted was for this to be his final life here. To not have to repeat this same cycle again, feel the cold fists on his face again, nor the knife in his gut again.

He wanted to be free.

So, when The Ghost dragged his body up once more, and threw him so far that his back crashed heavily against the hard wood of the altar, he allowed it. He lay a damaged man, surrounded by the texts he had worshipped to the letter. And when The Ghost finally drove his sword through his chest, as the blood flowed into the channels of the marbled stone and rippled like a waterfall down the steps where it starched those holy papers in crimson, he uttered but three words.

“I forgive you.”

II / LAVENDER

Love was sickened, the blood of their flock spilled on holy ground.

Although Fate knew he was to die, she hadn’t predicted exactly that. In fact, she had foreseen another narrow escape by the old priest. The shift in her vision was cause for concern, but also delight, the first indication that something had begun to gnaw at the bindings in place between the two.

Time on the mortal plane hastened in their eyes, and they watched the soldier’s progression. His retirement from military service at around fifty-five, due to joints which could no longer perform as well as they used to. Then, the movement into the medical bay, where although he was efficient, he was at times ruthless.

So much so that, after a treatment that caused even the stomachs of the divines to turn, he was thrown out of the castle and instead sought employment in London. He was in luck, for Sickness had worked his magic over the land, causing a great plague to spread that infected thousands.

A crack of energy caused them to slow the world down.

The streets were barren, with the exception of beggars, drunkards, and carts full of the dead.

He made his way back to his clinic, if that was what you could call it. Before the outbreak, it was more well known as a drunk tank for sloshed revellers than it was a hospital, and only half of those drunkards were guaranteed safe exit without the loss of an organ or two. Around one corner, and down a squirrely pathway that took him under the large, swinging sign of the tavern next door - his main source of customers before all this. The alley was dark, and he would have tripped if not for a violent shock that flashed through his body, and alerted him of the presence of the man reclined in his threshold.

The clothes on his body were ragged and torn, and his limbs looked too spindly for the cut of his frame. His eyes were sallow and glassy, not like the moons of before which seemed to reflect some passion beneath the milky whiteness. This was a darker mood entirely.

He was unwell.

“Jonathan?”

The man coughed; the sound was horrific as it echoed through the bricks of the alley. Bile exploded in crackling waves from his lungs, and spattered onto the ground in front of him in a pathetic, loose spittle.

“Just John,” he choked breathlessly, before his head lolled down again.

Ghost, as he was going by nowadays after losing the titular aspect of his moniker, crouched next to him. The position exhausted his old knees, but if this was what he thought it was, he had an excellent test subject for the foreseeable future.

He lifted one of just John’s arms, which revealed those grotesque purple sores underneath. The tell-tale sign, and two steps further than he would have liked to have found him.

“Let’s get you inside,” he muttered, not necessarily to the man at his step, but to himself.

It took his whole strength to drag him from the ground as he cursed his overripe body. He hated when they grew old, more so from boredom than anything else. But it was never a good fight, when either of them were too frail to pick up a weapon. He was frail now. Still, as he looked down at the slumped body barely supported by his weakened shoulder, he knew he could still kill him on the spot.

Where would be the fun in that?

He unlocked the semi-rotted wooden door and shuffled inside, before he sat John down on a wooden bench in the entranceway. Even if this was the most excited he had been in the past twenty years, he still followed his routine. First, he lit the candles, then washed his hands, polished the leather of his gloves, and finally chased away the rats that had made their nest in the medicinal store.

Then, as he did with any patient, he took fresh lavender from his satchel and replaced that which was hung in the window and draped across the mantle of the fireplace. He tucked some into his mask too, for good measure.

It was uncommon for him to bring the infected here . He had leased a small property for that very purpose, just a stone’s throw down the road. Cheap enough, for everything was cheap due to lack of buyers who could claim they still had a pulse. This case was different though. This subject, he would be pliant. Easily manipulated, and drawn to his cause due to his brash attitude and good-willed nature. That is, if he lasted that long.

He looked awfully pallid, and although he was sure that sickness couldn’t kill the two of them, they had now met. And, if they had met, only god could know what they had yet to come.

“John?” He whispered, and shook the man’s limp shoulder.

No response. Not only that, but his eyes had started to roll back into his head, and the fever which emanated from the man’s mottled skin was so high that it heated even the extremities of the room.

That bench would have to do for now, for he could not carry the man to the examination table with his dead weight. He tore the fabric that made up the rags of his shirt with a scalpel, and remained careful not to probe at the scar which rested below his clavicle. Not yet at least, for he could not lose this opportunity to his patient going into premature shock. There was no known cure for this horrible plight, but he could at least stave off the fever. A cloth, and water in a bucket, and he had procured the items he needed to cool John’s body and head. Then he rubbed his feet, to expel the heat southward. He changed the cloth several times over the course of two hours, until finally, it seemed as if he had fought back the worst.

His limbs tired quickly, but he would not rest. Not when he knew how close he was to John being stable. And, although he didn’t notice it, it had become less about saving his test subject and more about saving John.

He slept in the clinic that night, to tend to John when he heard him hack up bile, and to give him medicines and salves every few hours. By morning, he’d gotten a less than optimal amount of sleep, but he still awoke early to make a gruel which would be easy to digest.

Someone knocked on the clinic door. He ignored it.

The noise had stirred John, though, who sat up on the bench. He looked dreadful, but at least the riddance of fever had returned some strength to his body.

Clearly, he had only stumbled across Ghost’s doorstep by the usual hand of Fate, mixed with a state of pure delirium from the excessively high temperature that had raged on in his skull. When he felt the connection between them, he jumped clean off the slats of the bench and backed away, the poker from the fire brandished in his hand like a weapon.

“Stay back!” He attempted to yell, but the dryness of his throat made it more of an old toad’s croak.

Ghost had expected something like this. The man had walked through his door all too willingly for someone who he had brutally murdered some thirty years ago. Even so, he did wish he would put the tool down, for the embers under his pot had begun to fizzle out and could do with a little prod of encouragement.

“Stop that,” he muttered as he walked forward, and dodged a prod from the poker quite well for his advanced age. He lifted the tool gently out of John’s hand. “I need you in one piece, thank you.”

As John came a little more to his senses, he recognised the bird-like mask Ghost was wearing. Ghost watched as a flash of understanding washed across his features, shortly followed by one of concern. It interested him to watch his emotions up close like this. An exotic bird locked in a golden cage, who had realised that the man with the key is the only chance he will get at freedom.

“You’re a doctor now?” John asked. That concern was audible.

Ghost simply grunted as he returned to the stove.

“And you aren’t going to kill me this time?”

He stirred the oats impatiently. “I will, if you get on my nerves.”

“Are you… still capable of killing me? You’ve got to be what, 70? At least -”

“Closer to 80. I lost count a few years back. And yes, I could probably kill you cleaner this time.”

“But… you have no plans to do so?”

Silence.

The pan steamed and filled the air with a sweet, stodgy scent. He scooped out two bowlfuls, and handed one to John before retreating to the other half of the room.

“The plague?” The sickly man asked as he stuffed the gruel into his mouth, and burnt the roof of it.

Ghost replied bluntly. “Yes.” 

He washed his hands before he grasped the second bowl from the table. To eat, he removed the bird-beaked mask and set it down on the mantelpiece beside the bunch of lavender.

John stared, and Ghost noticed. It hadn’t been the first time he had seen him old, but it was the first time in a long time he’d seen him without any face covering. Even with his skin engulfed by wrinkles and age spots, the same familiar white scar trailed from his cheek down to his chin.

Ghost traced the scar with his thumb, after noticing the man’s sky-blue eyes had settled on it.

“When was this one?” He said plainly, as if their situation was at all normal.

John laughed. “That one’s old, older than you.”

“Hmm-” Ghost started, before he shot a fiery glance in John’s direction. “You’re not as amusing as you think you are.”

They spent the rest of the meal in a comfortable silence, far enough apart from the energy to not bother them. The longer time went on, the less they felt it. Perhaps it was just familiarity, like how if one chooses to live next to a smithy, they will slowly dull to the sound of hammers on metal or the roar of the forge. That was fine, when they remained at a distance. For if they touched that first scar they left on the body of the other, the jolt still felt like a bolt of lightning which coursed through their tender tissues to reach the ground below.

Ghost fixed his mask back to his face, and replaced the lavender in the beak pouch as he did.

“Do you believe we can die of illness?” John questioned. He scratched at a nasty pustule on the crook of his elbow, which caused even Ghost’s stomach to feel queasy.

The doctor paused, and tapped his foot as he looked pensively over the man. It was true that he had managed to revive John from near death the previous night, but that could just have been dumb luck. He certainly wasn’t about to make a full, miraculous recovery. There was still a long way to go.

“I… I don’t know.”

John looked disheartened, but he could not expect Ghost to have all the answers. Not when this was so big, and new, to the both of them.

“Well, you better take good care of me then.”

Ghost stared at him, and although the mask was entirely obscuring his face, the expression underneath was smug. “And how will you be paying for this treatment?”

Although John hadn’t said anything out loud, Ghost knew he wasn’t in a good way. When he’d found him outside, his clothes were dirty and tattered, and the usual meat of him diminished far too much for his youthful age. The way his hair was overgrown was a sign, and that beard he sported was certainly not his usual style, although it did give him a strange charm.

“I’m afraid I do not have the coin…” He began, and looked down at his feet.

Ghost shook his head. “I’ll treat you without charge, on one condition.”

A glimmer of hope sparkled in the younger man’s eyes.

“You let me use your body to find the cure.”

For several days, John was prodded, poked, feasted upon by leeches, given tinctures and tonics and salves. 

Ghost liked the way the man didn’t complain. He didn’t whine as he burnt the pustules off his flesh with the hot poker from the fire, nor squirm as the suckers of the slimy black creatures attached to his skin to let the bad humours from his blood. The few times he winced, he did so with a stubborn fierceness. A reluctance to show weakness, maybe out of fear, or maybe to gain something back against Ghost, who had taken everything from him in their previous battle. There was no doubt, beyond the small quips and the taunts, that John had not forgotten, even if he had forgiven.

After many days and many treatments, his condition had not at all improved. In fact, the opposite could be said. He had started out rather hale, all things considered, but now struggled to get up to leave the small straw bed that Ghost had made for him in front of the fireplace.

By the dawn of the second week, he could barely open his eyes.

“John?” Ghost whispered, unsure whether the younger man was asleep, or simply too drained to meet his gaze.

He had lost his voice the night prior, which would in normal circumstances have been a blessed thing. However, not being able to communicate his needs had frustrated both of them for the remainder of the evening, and although Ghost wouldn’t admit it, he did miss the taunts and all the stupid words that fell from the other’s mouth.

His eyelids fluttered open momentarily, only to reveal a dull sheen over his usual sparkling irises. Ghost watched as those blue eyes scoured his face, or what little of his face there was to see underneath the mask. They looked younger, and more fearful. It was a silent plea to the uncontrollable that everything would be alright.

Ghost remained stoic. He could not promise this man, this lifelong enemy of his, that he could make him better. But heavens did he wish he could. He needed the company, which he had only realised the moment his rafters were filled with brutish curses and bray laughter. This man, hated or not, was the keystone to his bridge. The one who, without him there, left an emptiness that only left crumble and ruin to come.

His eyes scanned John’s body. The breaths in his lungs were so shallow he could hardly see his chest rise, and the sound of each exhale had a certain, scratchy quality that only those familiar with death knew well. 

Death was here to collect a debt. Ghost knew. But what he did not expect was the younger one’s hand in a sudden grip around his own, with the last of whatever strength he had left. His instinct screamed at him to let go.

He did not. Instead, he gripped tight and squeezed the man’s palm. The man’s palm, which shortly after dropped from his own. His body, lifeless. 

Ghost did not have control over his actions. His body moved by itself. He splashed him with the water, poured tonics into the lips which had become more and more blue on his face. He shook his shoulders, too, as if John would snap out of death just because Ghost willed it. No use, for the man’s heartbeat had slowed to a pace barely sustainable for life.

Then it just stopped.

And Ghost wasn’t sure where the time went after that. Or how long he’d spent shaking John’s shoulders, all in an attempt to wake him up. Or how quickly the pustules had spread over his own body. And how he hadn’t managed to call for the cart to carry him away. How he had chased the rats away from the fleshy meal. Had kept the fire lit, as if to stop the rigour mortis as it froze over him. Watched him. Willed desperately for his return.

So, when it was his time, he lay down next to him. The skin that was stretched taut over his bones was ice cold now. As he looked over at this mortal, dreadful foe of his, he realised that if this had all happened in another life, then perhaps they may have been friends.

Chapter Text

I / ACT I

“For heaven’s sake, not this again,” the others grumbled, as Love had insisted that they watch the works of the Bard for the seventh time that moment. Even Fate, as much as she did try to enjoy Love’s hobbies, was getting bored of the foolish jokes and mediocre tragedies.

“Oh, hush now!” Love gestured wildly, as the performers danced about the stage in their garish frocks and balloon-bottom trousers.

Synchronised eye rolls from all, until Fate realised something. 

That feeling of familiarity beckoned. It seemed their viewing would suddenly become far more interesting.

Although plays were not exactly uncommon in Britain at the time, there had been a certain lack of pzazz in their execution. The crowds were uptight, insufferable old crones who looked down at all over bespectacled, powdered noses.

So Shakespeare was the scene’s breath of fresh air, so to speak. New and exciting.

One of those fresh new playgoers was John.

John, who had followed his work from the first impromptu performance, and who was now about to attend the new theatre as the plays had far outgrown their previous playhouse. He had meant to come with a friend, but had been left high and dry at the last moment.

No matter. He could concentrate on the play more if he didn’t spend the whole first act stuck in some random chatter.

He took out the pamphlet, the address printed boldly at the top of the paper. Even though he’d lived in London plenty of times in his past lives, he was unfamiliar with this street or the area that surrounded it. Besides, he had spent the first twenty-six years of his current life back in Scotland, before he moved on his twenty-seventh birthday just a few months ago. 

This must be the right place, he thought to himself, as he held up the print to the building in front of him. There seemingly wasn’t much of a congregation, not one as he had been used to at least. Two ladies in evening gowns, who he was sure he had seen before, also assessed the building.

“Are you lovely ladies here for the play?” John asked, his voice laced with sugary charm. When they affirmed, and after a few minutes of introductions, they agreed to enter together and choose seats close to the round.

The chatter came easily whilst the seats of the hall filled. It couldn’t be denied that since the past two centuries he had spent more time out of the army than he had in it, he was starting to enjoy romantic company more and more. And since he was no longer bound to celibacy after dying as a priest, he intended to make bloody good use of the time that he had. The ladies giggled, at some crude comment he had made. Emelia and Henrietta, they had introduced themselves as, or Emmy and Hetty for short.

All was going well, until a scuffle at the door of the venue startled the trio.

None of them could see what had happened, but an uproar of shouts and curses emanated from the door, until one man entered back through the doorway with bloodied knuckles wrapped in a small, white handkerchief. 

Zap .

John’s eyes shot to the face of the man, and there was no doubt. He wore a scarf pulled right up, which covered both his mouth and nose. His chest and shoulders barely squeezed into the velvety doublet he wore tightly over a white undershirt. And, as John studied closer, he noticed a nasty black eye, which John was unsure whether had just blossomed from his little punch-up.

As if he wasn’t already infatuated with his two new lady friends, his youthful virility painfully decided that Ghost looked rather handsome in that jacket.

He shook his head before one of the ladies caught his attention once more. Not for long, however, for the first actors had begun to filter out onto the stage. It was a new work of the Bard’s, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, to be precise. He had seen it in practice, but this was to be the first full performance.

Yet, even as the First Act was well underway, he could not stop the pull of his gaze, which wandered mindlessly over to a more interesting view.

He sat on a bench by the door, and manhandled a damp rag over his sore hand. He listened to the play, rather than watched it. And on occasion, he scribbled in a small bound book which was placed next to him on the wooden seat.

What was he doing here? He hadn’t seen him at the old playhouse…

The four Acts which followed were a hazy mix of the play, low heady mumbles to his companions, and when doing neither, he found that he just stared . Questions flew through his head. So much he needed to ask him. So, when the Final Act wrapped up and everyone leapt to their feet in applause, he momentarily excused himself and slipped down the steps towards the exit where he had been seated just minutes ago.

But he was gone.

A man dressed impeccably well stood in his place, with a furrow in his brow as he barked orders at a few other fellows. These must be the workers of the playhouse. So, was Ghost also working here?

“Excuse me,” John said cheerfully. He tried to come across as cool headed and open, but the sweat on his brow said otherwise.

The fancily-dressed man turned to him, clearly not pleased about the sudden intrusion, but he didn’t complain.

“Sorry. The fellow who was sitting here, does he work here?”

Both sets of eyes trailed down to the leather journal which was left, closed, on the bench.

“Yes, he does. Why do you ask? If you have a complaint, you may-”

John interrupted. “No, no, no complaint. He’s an… old friend, that's all.”

And that’s when he made a bad decision.

He waited for the man to become distracted, as he returned again to the two stagehands who awaited his orders. And when he was certain that nobody would see, he took the journal from the bench and near-sprinted back to his seat where he collected Emmy and Hetty. They walked out of the theatre together, and had agreed to meet each other again for the next play in a week’s time.

As he rounded the corner to the small cottage he had rented, he was more excited to read the pages in his hand than anything else. So, he chose to forgo drinking at their local tavern that afternoon, and instead dressed down instantly into his house clothes before he adopted a comfortable, curled up position into the armchair in the corner. He did not intend to move for the rest of the evening, save fetching a bottle of wine from the dusty store in the cellar.

Previously, he would not have penned Ghost as much of a writer. But then again, why not? In his many encounters with the man, he had no doubt that he was wickedly smart. A real cunning bastard.

He opened the book gently, as it was so thick and heavy with ink and papers that the spine was split and frayed, and the ends all dog-eared. As soon as John had begun to wonder how old it was, he noticed the date written beside the first entry.

It was a diary.

27 th April, 1581

Today is my 18th birthday, and it happened again. I remember it all. Just like last time, that’s when the haziness stops, and it all becomes clear. I had a diary before now, trying to piece together these broken memories I had, wondering why I kept seeing visions of myself in the past.

I suppose now I wait for him to show up.

Last time it was different. We both died of illness. Didn’t know that was in the rules…

John’s eyes skimmed the pages, and he read in Ghost’s voice the words written within. This entry was nine years ago, and from a quick scan of the other pages, it appeared that Ghost had been writing at least once a week for the entirety of the time he’d had the journal.

Curiously, his hands flipped the pages all the way to the latest entry.

30 th March, 1590

Working again today. Boss wants me to keep the rabble out of the building this time. Not my fault when he gets complaints from people saying they were beaten.

Got a funny feeling in my chest just now. It was itchy, but no matter how much I scratched it wouldn’t go away. Almost as if…

Only a short entry today, written hastily between orders from the pompous man no doubt. But confirmation enough that, even if he hadn’t seen him, he had felt his presence. That also raised the issue that no other fool was stupid enough to take a man of that size’s diary right from under his nose.

That would probably bite him on the backside, eventually.

John chuckled as he thumbed through the other pages, with the hopeful knowledge that he would get more from this tattered journal than he ever would in conversation with the man. He intended to use it to his advantage too, if it became necessary.

Those pages would have to wait though, as a knock on his door followed.

Strange. He had not been expecting anybody.

He pulled a long coat over his shoulders, to hide the fact that he was mostly undressed for the day at only 4pm. The shuffle to the door rerouted to the window with an ever so slightly tipsy stagger, where he peered through the frosted glass panes to see a tall figure. Skulking was probably the right word. He looked pretty pissed off…

Oh dear.

“John, open the door,” the voice called out, its tone both gruff and unforgiving.

Why now? And how had he found him?

He ran back across the room, and almost flew in his house slippers when one of them caught on the corner of that rug he’d had shipped in from Venice. A lovely old thing, that rug. He admired it for a moment, before he snapped back to the task at hand. The book… He took it and neatly slotted it into a space on his bookshelf. The real definition of hiding in plain sight.

“John? I know you’re in there,” the voice came again, with a second knock more impatient than the last.

He gave up trying to hide himself in the broom cupboard and went to answer the door, cracking it only barely open enough for him to stick his head out.

“Afternoon,” he said politely and to very little effect, for it took less than a minute for Ghost to push the door open and invite himself inside his home. He wiped his feet at least...

“Where is it?” He asked, and began to search the house.

John grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. “Where is what , exactly? And who said you could be in here?”

As John clutched his bicep, it didn’t go amiss to him that he held on for a tad longer than necessary. Ghost, whether he acknowledged that pause or not, shot him a dirty look before he pulled said arm away. It wasn’t long after that he started to uproot the furniture and the upholstery.

“I mean, twenty-seven years and not even a hello?”

The entire armchair was now being lifted from the ground without effort, as Ghost peered underneath. His brutish strength was, as always, bloody terrifying.

“Still haven’t gotten over the thing with the leeches, you know. Slimy little bastards.”

It was clear at this point that Ghost was not paying even the slightest lick of attention. He had moved all of the soft furnishings around, looked behind the shutters, and in all of the kitchen cupboards. Then, he walked up the narrow staircase, straight to John’s bedroom. John’s bedroom, with his currently unmade sheets, and his art studio which contained what one could coyly pass off as portraits of “artistic nudity”.

“Um, Ghost I wou-”

He had already stomped around the studio, no care in the world about the scandalous oils on canvas.

“Just tell me where it is, John,” he finally sighed, defeated. Not until after he had rooted over every pillow on the bed, of course.

John lied. He lied not only to save his sorry arse from a beat down, but also because he wanted to read that book more than anything else. “And as I said already, where what is? I’ve no clue what you’re on about.”

“My journal, you were there when it went missing.”

He made a face that read something between confusion and sympathy. “I’ve not seen any journal, sorry…”

A long silence between the two of them, as the awkwardness of the situation began to creep into both of their minds. There was barely enough room in there for John alone, and with Ghost’s height which meant his head grazed the low beams of the ceiling, as well as his burly, well-toned chest, they felt ever so close for a little too long.

“So…” John coughed. “Did you want to stop for a beer? Wine?”

Ghost’s eyes tracked around the nude portraiture before they settled on John’s awkward grin. John thought that perhaps Ghost hadn’t noticed until that awkward moment.

“I’ll pass. You know where to find me if you find my journal.”

With that, the tall blond had flung himself down the stairs and out of the front door with a shuttered thud. John watched from the small upstairs window as the man pulled his scarf up over his face and made off into the cool March twilight. The sigh of relief he breathed was likely audible by all around. An unexpected, and rather brief, meeting which signalled the start of their own Act One.

John wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but he did not leave the house for three days as he absorbed every juicy morsel that the diary could give him. In fact, it wasn’t just a diary. Oh no. It was so, so much more than that. For the pages had seemingly acted like a close friend to Ghost. His recollections of not only this life, but past lives. John had recounted his own stories through the text, moments of his defeats and his victories, times when they had lived under the same roof. There was a particularly long description of his time in the clergy of how he had been, in Ghost’s words, “stubborn as a damn mule”. 

Then there were a strange few chapters, which John had not expected to see. Pages, paragraphs, all where Ghost had written just how much he had suffered after John’s untimely death. When Ghost couldn’t save him from that horrid disease. And how he had spent four days and nights sat with his corpse. Broken.

At first, the thought turned his stomach. This man, this deceitful enemy of his, who had brandished him and stuck vile blood-suckers all over his skin… Perhaps the cruelty of those methods was not for his own, villainous purpose. He supposed, no matter how much they hated each other, they truly were the only constant in their long, repeated lives. 

He also supposed, as he thumbed over that page, that his lifelong foe wasn’t so bad really.

By the time he was due back at the theatre, he had quite a conundrum on his hands. He had gained all he wanted from the journal, and a part of him felt actually quite bad for taking something that clearly meant a lot to the other man. Still, when he pondered the logistics, he had no clue how to return it without being accused of having taken it in the first place…

He packed the thick, black book into the front pocket of his satchel as he stepped out onto the cobbles of the street. The walk was hardly far, and the weather was surprisingly temperate for the time of year. He had a spring in his step as he rounded the corner, where he saw those two familiar bustles of his new companions.

Only this time, someone had beaten him to it…

He ducked into the awning of a cobblers, where he hid behind a shelf containing the most beautiful, brown leather boots. Almost distracted, but still on task, he listened into the conversation.

Hetty was giggling, and Emmy was full-on belly laughing, with unladylike snorts interrupted by coy interjections of “ooh, stop it!” 

And the third voice with its oh-so-familiar, dark, velveteen tone, was flirting .

The things he whispered into the ears of the ladies made even John’s face blush a bright pink. That was more than enough, he writhed, before he revealed himself from around the corner and made his way to the group. There was no hesitation, as he kissed both ladies on the back of the hand, and bowed in an overly-chivalrous fashion.

After his little spectacle, he turned to the man. “Ghost,” he murmured, with a nod of his head.

“Where’s my kiss?” Ghost replied, and although his face was covered, he clearly had a great smirk on his chops when he said it.

Never one to back down from a challenge, John took Ghost’s gloved hand, and was equally as surprised  by Ghost's response to said challenge as the man let him raise it to his lips. He planted a kiss on the back of the scuffed leather.

“Happy now?” He leered. For one moment, there was a tension between them that a mere spoon could have cut. Not all of that tension came from anger, mind…

“Practically swooning,” Ghost had replied sarcastically, only his eyes had shifted to somewhere just below John’s jawline, as if he couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

John was pleasantly surprised that he’d managed to wrangle back control of that situation, as both women hung from his arms and dragged him inside. As he was forced through the large wooden doors, he couldn’t help but notice Ghost slump back against the wall with a deep exhale as he fiddled with the scarf over his face.

“John, it’s starting!” Emmy nudged his side, causing him to stir.

He had no idea what was wrong with his head, but clearly, he was not in the right place. His hand clutched at the edge of the bench so hard that his knuckles had turned a pallid shade of white. And as the actors took to the stage, he slid his tense fingers in-between her slender ones and clung onto her for dear life instead.

When the show closed out, and folks jumped to their feet in applause, he could only think about the journal sitting in his pouch. The knot in his stomach tightened. He could not return it today, not with the way his head churned thoughts about like a spooky witch’s cauldron, and conjured up all sorts of rude imagery that he dare not think about in public.

Hetty and Emmy had muttered amongst themselves, before they turned to face him with big smiles across both of their faces.

“Be a dear and take us somewhere,” Hetty mused.

Emmy added. “Bring your tall friend, too.” 

He blinked slowly, and drank in the sight of both ladies as they grinned up at him. In normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have hesitated at the chance, and would be halfway to the nearest tavern already. But to bring Ghost into it? To explain to the girls that the two of them weren’t exactly friends as such.

He glanced over to the stage exit, and he saw him usher off the last of the crowd as they filtered away.

“Fine, I’ll ask him,” he sighed, watching them both jump in glee, “but he might yet say no, so don’t get too excited.”

More disbelief ensued as Ghost had agreed to come with them without any convincing necessary.

“Are you sure?” John asked. He had rather hoped he could have spent the night with both ladies alone, former arguments with the man aside.

Ghost turned his upper body, and his spine cracked in a tremendous fashion as if he’d thrown around objects and probably also people all night. “Could do with a drink,” he muttered, “it's been a long week.”

They moseyed onto the street as a quartet, the girls giggled and took point to try and spot the best drinking locale for the evening.

“So…” John started, before he shut up quickly after the realisation that he had no words to say.

Ghost looked down at him in response, before his eyes returned to the road ahead.

Although they were slowly becoming acclimated to each other in small doses, it was rather hard to be pally with the man who had spent the last four millenia making mincemeat of your organs and lopping off your head.

The ladies pointed at a rather modern joint, where other members of the theatre also congregated. They piled inside, where the drunken din of revellers had already erupted into song, shrieks, yells, and off-key chants.

“You owe me,” Ghost said, as he patted John on the back and drove the ladies to a seat in the corner in an overly familiar manner. It irked John to no end.

He grumbled, but he could not deny the fact that he owed Ghost for the whole plague ordeal. And, if Ghost hadn’t seen entirely through him, he didn’t know that John had read his journal about just how much it had affected him. He threw the barman some silvers and promptly ordered some ale for himself and Ghost, and wine for the ladies.

“So, what’s your story then Ghost?” He heard Emmy coo, as she leant closer into Ghost’s space.

Ghost reciprocated and dropped his shoulder down closer as he began to speak to her in a low whisper. But not until after he had shot John a smug, dark-eyed smirk.

He was playing games.

“Ghost and I knew each other at school,” John interrupted, the man meeting his gaze with his gloomy amber irises that twinkled somewhat in suspense.

John’s stance was lax as he settled into his own seat. He pulled Hetty’s hand onto the table and intertwined fingers with her, entirely unphased by the bold-faced lie he was writing for the both of them.

“And we were into dramatics, plays, all sorts. Only, Ghost here is a wee bit shy, so he never got the main role.”

“Fidele and Fortunio , right? Our last play?” Ghost replied, and John was once again taken-aback with his willingness to play along.

“Oh aye, you’re right. Where Fortunio tries to steal Fidele’s lover right? And you took a fancy to that girl, what was her name?”

“Mary?”

“Aye, that’s her! And she was meant to be my lover in the play, we fought for days when that happened…”

“I still got the girl, if you know what I mean,” Ghost said with a smirk, as he raised an eyebrow to Emmy, who blushed a delightful hot pink across her milky cheeks.

“Dirty dog,” John said with a laugh.

The two met eyes with a sly look. Even though the story had been entirely fabricated, there was no reason such a thing might not have happened in one of their previous lives.

“Oh, go on then!” Hetty said, squeezing John’s hand, “you must give us a performance!”

This was exactly the trap he wanted to pull Ghost into. He knew he couldn’t best Ghost in combat, not in this life where the man had muscles on top of his muscles. So instead, a skirmish of words would suffice.

“What say you, Ghost? Shall we engage in a battle of silver tongues?”

He didn’t know entirely how the other man would react, but he would have bet his Venetian rug on him turning down the offer sheepishly. A long pause suggested that Ghost thought about it, but then he leant forward onto the table, and grabbed John by the chin. He levered his thumb to push open John’s jaw, and mimed looking inside his mouth.

“I wouldn’t put so much value on that slimy thing, I would say it is paltry copper at best.”

John snorted, and smacked his hand away. He ignored the flush which ran up the back of his neck, caused by the impromptu manhandling.

“I hope you don’t treat your ladies so rough, you brute,” he scoffed, and pawed at the soft flesh of his jowls where Ghost’s fingers had dug in. “That is, when you can actually get close to one.”

“I think you’ll find they like it,” he laughed, with a devilish tone, “not that you would know. Your hands are as dainty as theirs, I bet you can barely grasp a quill, never mind an arse!”

“Oh aye? Real shame that you rely on your hands to please women. Is that for a lack of manhood, or are you overcompensating for your ugly mug?”

“My mug? Have you seen yours? The way you bat your lashes like some common fucking floozy, it’s a miracle you remember your own bed, the amount of time you spend in other people’s!”

Both men had their hackles up now, the insults hurled had brought back some soreness in the old wounds between them. The ladies, who had enjoyed the dramatic little spat at first, now shushed them as the other tables around ogled in their rather loud direction.

“Boggin eejit,” John mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Ghost to catch it, but quiet enough for plausible deniability in case he leapt the space of the table to grab him by the throat. Thankfully, he did no such thing, but rather took a long gulp of ale and stared down at him with stormy eyes under his pale lashes.

More drinks were had, flirting accomplished, and tensions between the two settled more to a low simmer rather than a violent storm. In fact, they had continued some of their cracks every time one of them thought of a good one, which dragged an exasperated eye roll or tut of teeth from the other.

After a while, it was Ghost who suggested their next… activity.

“How’s about an arm wrestle instead then?” He said, placing his elbow upon the dirty tabletop.

John scoffed. “Look, I’m nae weak, but you’re a hulking oaf in size and I’d rather you didn’t snap my painting arm.” 

“Fine,” Ghost replied smugly, “I’ll use my weak arm.”

He switched his supposedly weaker arm onto the table, and gestured his hand in a “come here” motion. There was something antagonising about his brazen confidence. It lit a fire in John. He grasped Ghost’s hand firmly, and gained leverage with the rest of his body before they began. 

The ladies were full of laughter now, as they kicked off the match with squeals and excitement before placing their bets on the winner. 

And for a few moments, they were locked in a stalemate. John utilised most of his force and his better table position to combat Ghost, who in turn did not struggle for strength but rather lacked the correct grip to drive the other man’s hand down.

Ghost was about to gain leverage, when suddenly he dropped John’s hand and swung his fist in his direction. 

John flinched, and shut his eyes.

He found himself gently pushed aside, almost protectively, by a firm hand across his chest. Then, the sound of a face getting leathered. A punter, who had too much to drink, and who was seemingly about to crack the back of John’s head with a recently finished cup.

The man went down flat, and it was excessively clear to him then that had their match not been interrupted, he wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“Bleeding hell,” John cried as he steadied himself, breathless from his near injury. The girls huddled around him in stress, and held him upright. But it was Ghost that snapped him back out of it, despite blood coming from his now-again split knuckles. 

“Christ John, are you alright?” Ghost asked, his non-bloody hand settling firmly on John’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine,” he said, as his eyes flitted up to take in Ghost’s concern painted across his furrowed brow, “you’ve bust your hand up again though.”

Without thought, John took the corner of his shirt and ripped a long strip from the material. Old habits die hard, and in nearly all of his past military lives, he did the same to staunch the wounds of his fellow men. Admittedly, doing so in the middle of the local pub may have been a bit strange. He wrapped the cloth neatly around Ghost’s hand, and tied the knot in the crux of his palm so that the material was stretched taught over the reopened scabs.  

Ghost said nothing, and just watched him work.

The silence between them was comfortable. When they weren't fighting, or bickering, or messing around – it could be just like this. Two people, intertwined by something beyond their control, who had known each other for longer than had been thought even possible. And yet, even if they knew with perfect timing the way one would hold his lance, or the bawdy yells that would come out of the other's mouth before they charged, or the way that John would step right two times before a jab, or Ghost would switch to his left hand for a parry… They knew next to nothing about each other as people . 

But this was the start of an era. Something different, and new. It would change the course of their history starting on this day, and supposedly for the rest of their days. And so, as John smiled and gently bumped his fist against Ghost’s shoulder, without memory of the presence of that scar from so many years ago, they were both pleasantly surprised that it was not a feeling of burning pain which shot through them. Rather, it was a sensation akin to sitting by a campfire at sunset on a cool autumn eve, with a mug of ale, the gentle plucking of a lute, and some good company.

II / ACT II

It was the night of John’s wedding. Six years since he had found him in this life, by total chance, as the man had stumbled in through the doors of his workplace brazen as the day they met. And as usual, he'd been ever the deviant, with a lady on each arm and that brilliance to his smile that blinded those not ready to lay an eye on such beauty.

He glanced in the looking glass, only to make sure his cravat was sitting neatly on his chest, and avoided contact with his own gaze in the reflection.

John burst through the door gleefully. He practically radiated with that sickly, hopelessly romantic energy that always lingered around him like a foul smell. But, since he was finally marrying Hetty after a slightly-too-long engagement steeped in family conflict and reputation besmirching, Ghost supposed he’d allow it.

“How do I look?” John asked, as those irises of ice glistened under the dim candlelight.

Ghost paused.

The past six years had been hard.

He knew himself well, as one would after having lived more lives than feasibly countable. And he’d known from the start that he wasn’t wired up exactly the same as most. And that, when he did make time for that horrible thing called love, it wasn’t dedicated to the soft sweetness of beautiful women, but rather the hard, rough edges of the same sex.

And now, stood before him, the only man he’d really ever known as a friend. The only one who had come to know him as a human, and not just a soldier. A weapon. An unkillable force.

“Ghost?”

He realised he had stared for far too long. His eyes traversed that beautiful plateau of olive skin, taking in the freckles which came out in the summer months.

“You look… Good,” he choked out. He didn’t realise how dry his mouth had become. In retaliation, or punishment perhaps, he took a deep swig of the whisky one of John’s childhood friends had sent down from the distillery in his old town.

“Only good?” John laughed, and punched his shoulder as was tradition. 

The feeling hurt today. Not the physical sensation, which warmed both his heart and his loins, but the knowledge that after the ceremony he wouldn’t have his John anymore. Not that John was his to begin with… But he coped with the complications of his feelings by living in a world of pretend whenever they were alone.

He laughed again, humour being his second coping mechanism. 

“Well, I’d marry you,” he said, as he straightened out the lapels of John’s jacket and adjusted one of his buttons.

John smiled. His eyes presented those soft creases which Ghost only wished he could smooth out with his finger.

The ceremony went well. It was a quiet affair with close family and a few friends, but the people who were there brimmed with heartfelt tears at the arrival of the beautiful couple.

Ghost had quietly taken his place and attempted not to draw attention from them. Tried to shrink his large form into a meek one. He stared at John’s back, with a full view of Hetty’s face and blimey, did she look angelic. She cried huge, joyful tears, and he knew without seeing his face that John would be doing the same.

But fuck, did he wish John would cry for him instead.

Jealousy wasn’t particularly new to him. He had been jealous when John had better armour, better swords, when he’d gained a better rank. And then, jealous when he left the military, jealous when he joined the church, when he abandoned their ongoing quarrel to instead find something more than him. Anything really, that stopped him from seeing John, fighting John, befriending John.

Loving John?

Now his jealousy had aged like a fine wine, or perhaps like the whisky which slipped from the crystal cup between his lips. 

Whisky as a placeholder for kisses. Burned his throat as it went down. Lit a fire in his chest that no water would extinguish.

He felt himself boil over. More than anything, he didn’t want to cause a scene. Would never wish to ruin a day so special to John. So, as the guests danced to the upbeat music from the theatre's band, whom John had insisted on inviting, he slipped quietly out through the back door.

It was several hours later when he returned, and by that point, many of the guests had left. He again crept through the same door he had made his swift exit from, and had not expected to crash straight into John. Especially not when a violent fist took him by the cravat, the knotted material pressed firmly against the sides of his muscular neck, and pulled him close.

“Where have you been?” A low whisper came as a spit, as if he was trying to keep the conversation behind the large curtain that separated them from the rest of the room.

Ghost shrugged.

In hindsight, he would have considered that a bad move. The grip the Scot had on his necktie tightened. But with the intoxication of several too many glasses of that magic amber liquid, and the way the air had sent it straight to his head, he really couldn’t help himself.

“Ghost, it is my wedding! You were meant to be here for me…”

“I’m sorry,” Ghost replied, and the words stung in his throat more than the hard liquor.

John huffed and let him go, but not before he gently fixed the tie and smoothed out the crinkles he had pressed into his shirt. He looked sheepish, as if that wasn’t all he had to say.

“John?” Ghost prodded, not really wanting an answer.

The man shifted nervously on his feet and peeked around the thick curtain. Ghost curiously followed his gaze to find Hetty comforting Emmy. She was hunched over the table, crying over some silly thing or another.

Again, John pushed him back into the wall, but this time to hide the both of them rather than in anger.

“When are you going to finally make the move?” He whispered.

Ghost shifted uncomfortably, the weight of John’s body pressing too close into the tightness of his trousers, the scent of hedonism heavy on his breath.

“It’s not like that…” Ghost replied, being hushed instantly even though he hadn’t talked particularly loudly in the first place.

“Well, you need to do something about it. You don’t know how much pain she’s caused Hetty, she couldn’t even wear the ring I bought her months, for fear of setting her off crying again. She’s not getting any younger you know…? And if you need any help with your wedding or any-”

Ghost interrupted him, before he set off in a spiral. “John, listen,” he insisted, “it’s not her… It’s… It’s something else.”

John paused, a thought lingered on the tip of his tongue.

“There’s someone else,” Ghost said, barely a whisper.

An entire range of emotions circled through John’s eyes. They settled on childish excitement.

“Okay then, what’s her name? I can get you together.”

Ghost coughed a little in surprise. This damn clueless man, who clearly didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on his lips a little too long, or the way he would sit with his knee just a little too close, or the way he would gently brush wayward strands of chestnut locks away from his face.

“Uh,” he started, and felt the heat rise from his neck and up into his cheeks. He damned to hell the paleness of his skin in that moment. “They are… recently accounted for.”

John took a second to process the words. It was an awkward pause, where Ghost both thought he needed to elaborate, but also would have given his right arm not to have had to. The conclusion that John had settled on in his head had obviously displeased him somehow, as he took not one but two steps away from Ghost.

Of course, the first thought that came to Ghost’s mind was that John was disgusted by this confession.

But no.

For, as in all good plays by the Bard, there had been a terrible misunderstanding. John took one last look at him before he turned heel, grabbed Hetty by the hand, and marched the two of them out of the building.

Ghost woke that morning with a sore head. And to make matters worse, as he rolled atop the soft mattress which didn’t feel quite right, there was someone else there. He analysed the shape of this person through bleary eyes, and noticed the subtle curve of a bosom and the dip of a waist. Then, his eyes drew to the tapestries and feminine trinkets in the room, which were most definitely not his.

“Emmy?” He questioned, his voice raspy as he tried to hide the disgust on his tongue. For really, she was a pretty girl, wasted on a wretch like him.

Emmy startled, pulling the linens up over her chest. Her face flushed instantly.

“Oh, oh no,” she warbled in panicked sputters. “Did… Did we? Oh heavens…”

On the handful of occasions he had ever taken someone to bed, most of them spurred on by alcohol, this reaction had come to be expected. It hurt him a little. John could pull it off with ease, and –

John?

He had run from him last night, after his confession. But Ghost couldn’t help but feel something was wrong. Like somehow, his message had been misconstrued.

Carefully, he stepped off the bed, and held a plush pillow over his exposed manhood so as to not startle the poor woman further. His gorgeously pale, scar-speckled body was almost illuminous in the stream of sunrise light which filtered through the slats of the window shutters. He collected his clothes, which were thrown all about the room, and made for the door.

“Ghost? Where are you going? We need to talk about this!” Emmy yelled after him.

His heart ached for her, for she was in his shoes. Maybe not to the same extent, after being driven to insanity by someone for centuries, but she at least knew what it felt like for someone she loved to not love her back. To never, ever, love her back. For simply, they were not compatible.

Ghost fled, tail between his legs – somewhat literally. He dressed quickly in the hall, hyper aware of the servant girls who pointed and giggled and blushed. But he had no time for that, he needed to get to John to explain himself.

As he stumbled onto the cobbles, he tried to gain his bearings. It wasn’t far between the homes of Emmy and John, for he knew John had walked her home many times after late night performances at the playhouse. So, he set out in the direction of the most foot traffic, and was thankful when the road led directly to the main street of this borough.

He slipped into a jeweller’s stall with two intentions. Firstly, to adjust his face covering without being watched, as he had tied it too quickly in his rush to leave, and he could feel the stares of people who weren’t particularly even looking at him. Secondly, he needed to buy something as an apology, and his eyes settled on a beautiful ring intended for the wearer to have nestled on their pinkie finger.

It was made of an iron-like metal, which shimmered in a slightly dull, understated patina. The likes of which ensured him that his gift would not outshine that silver wedding band John had only just adorned. He purchased it with no worry as per the cost. He would pay anything to make things right.

Then, he set out to John’s door.

As he stood before it, he could not bring himself to knock. To disturb that sanctuary within, of two people who were hopelessly in love, and needed not the distraction of another objector to their relationship.

After much deliberation and self-scorning for courage, he finally took his knuckles and rapped them upon the wood thrice. The house, which usually abustle by this time in the morning, sat unusually quiet. After he knocked a few more times, he decided that they must not be home.

He was just about to turn around when he noticed the open window in the bedroom.

It would save time, he thought, as he had to go to work later that day and didn’t want to risk not seeing John if he came back during that time. And so, he hopped the low wall which surrounded their beautiful home, and climbed up onto the roof of an outbuilding, before using the ivy trellis to scale the remaining space between himself and the window.

His hands burned and itched from that horrid plant, but as he swung his other leg into the room, he noticed the sweet smell of Hetty’s perfume and the candle which still burnt on the dresser. He blew out the flame instinctively. Protectively. John was often forgetful about such things.

He took the journal from his pocket. The very same one John had returned to him after he had kept it hostage for two whole years. Ghost knew, of course. Not right away, but about a year into its dispossession when he’d seen it stuffed under a stack of play scripts on a visit to John’s house. He’d stopped for a drink after work, clearly without John’s prior knowledge. Honestly, he found it amusing that John had put small annotations in the pages as if trying to solve some cryptic puzzle. The puzzle of who Ghost really was.

He tore out a page and scribbled a message with haste. 

John. I hope I did not offend you last night, for that was not my intention. You are my friend, but more than that, I cannot bear to be without you. Please accept this as a gift, and if you wear it, I’ll pursue you no longer, for a part of me shall always be with you.

He tucked the letter under the bed linens, so that only a corner poked out. And then he left through that same window, and landed light-footedly on the roof of the outbuilding, before he stowed away over the wall to make his escape.

It had been the perfect heist, apart from one thing. One thing that, despite his usual acute awareness, he hadn’t noticed. The small, obscured frame of a woman, her head poked around the corner of the domicile as she watched him climb down from her closest friend’s window the very morning after her wedding…

In the domain of the divines, Love and Fate sat side by side as they watched the whole ordeal unfold. Hell, even Conflict had occasionally peeked down, intrigued by the story Fate played out below. The one she had hand crafted, with all her energy, to match those plays that Love adored so much.

So much so that despite Romeo and Juliet having just graced the stage for the first time, a play dedicated in her name by the mortals below, Love could not pull her eyes away from her very own star-crossed duo.

The strife of the blond one, his love unrequited, pulled tenderly at her heart strings. The panic, the desperation of him, trying not to lose again what he had lost so many times before.

And the shorter one, with a love of his own… She felt his spirit burn within him, the want to start a family, to finally settle down in life and not worry about his foe being around any corner with a knife ready to cut his throat.

It was his perfect, immortal existence.

And they watched, as the scorned woman who had been left in the sheets that morning began to run through the streets. Who thought that she was not good enough, and now, thought that it was her friend instead who her lover had eyes on. Ran, all the way to the newlywed man, and whispered untruths in his ear about his new wife and his best friend.

Love was sitting at the edge now, and grasped the bench below for dear life, tears streaming from her eyes as the ill-timed tragedy unfolded.

The play was in its final act.

III / ACT III

It was raining again when he got to the theatre.

He was barely into his shift, a matinee performance with little disruption, which he was thankful for with the constant pounding of his hungover head. Suddenly, one of the children of the backstage staff was pulling on his shirt. 

“Hm?” He muttered, looking down at the child, who clutched a letter in his small fist.

“From John sir, I ran all the way here sir!” He shouted, and then skittered away.

John… Had he seen the gift already?

He took the letter and unfolded it gently, the ink still slightly damp.

Meet me at the docks. Sundown.

J

The message was cryptic at best, and as Ghost folded the letter up and placed it in his inside pocket, he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of reception he would get. So, by sundown, he did as commanded. He had to keep a quick pace, the docks being quite far from the showhouse. Quite far from anything, really. And in the dark, it was near void of other souls.

He walked down a short flight of steps, as he followed the gentle hum of John’s body. He was good at that, his little party trick. One that he’d used so many times before to “accidentally” bump into John in the streets. That frequency that he was so attuned to. The hum which matched his own heartbeat.

But when he finally stumbled across where John waited, there was something dark in those blue eyes. Something sinister. 

“Why is it that you have to take everything from me?” The man said, his accent thicker than Ghost had heard it in a while.

Ghost took a step closer, with an inquisitive hum. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the long, wooden object in John’s right hand.

“John?”

John turned, face ablaze and ugly . Uglier than he’d seen it in many years. Something there beyond just the two of them. Something more than just Ghost and John.

“How could you?” He yelled, as he jabbed the matchlock in Ghost’s direction.

It was new. A sure, sudden death expected if one of the bullets from the revolving barrel pierced any significant, fleshy part of him. No way to parry. No armour to protect him. His fists were his only weapon, which he did not raise for hopes of talking the other man down.

“John, I… I…” He stuttered. Even at gunpoint, he could not let those words leave his lips.

They were right there on his tongue.

Of course, it did not matter what he said, for John’s understanding was entirely different. John, who thought he had suffered the ultimate betrayal. Who was absolutely seething with rage. John, who prepared the matchlock one final time, all the fiddly parts set, the trigger which rattled slightly under his shaking finger.

Then everything happened at once.

The crash of the gunpowder, which ignited in the long barrel. The propulsion of the projectile soared forward with a click, and a whistle. The sickened scream which came not from Ghost’s mouth, but John’s. And then, simultaneously, the screech of a woman who yelled out to her husband. She ran, and clutched to her chest a small letter written in an unfamiliar hand. Her other hand, tightly balled around a beautiful, forbidden ring.

She was but moments too late.

The bullet had planted itself somewhere in his ribcage, and although the death was not instantaneous, it wouldn’t be long. It felt as if every breath drowned him as the blood filled his lungs. But that didn’t hurt. No. What hurt came after. With his dying eyes, he watched as John read his letter, and the way the look on his face changed from anger, to sheer desperation.

He saw John run to him, drop down next to him, knees and hands all tarnished with saltwater and gun oil and blood. And he thought that maybe in his haze he had felt the coolness of the man’s hand against his face, and over the terrible pitch in his ears the guttural, sobbed cries of his name.

The final curtain was drawn. He no longer blinked away the heavy rainwater which dropped onto his honeyed irises.

Hetty screamed again, this time for her husband, who could not forgive himself for what he had done. Who had not trusted his friend, nor his wife. Who had accused the two people he held most dear of infidelity. Who had ignored years of signs of the man’s affections.

He had squeezed his eyes shut tightly as he pulled the trigger a second time, biting down on his own, cold steel.

IV / EPILOGUE

John stroked his thumb over the worn-down thistle emblem on the face of the ring. The band itself was dulled by many years of wear, but the flat face remained bright from this motion, which he performed unknowingly whenever he was stressed or in deep thought. It had been delivered to him on his eighteenth birthday, wrapped in nothing but a small cloth and some string, no name on the parcel. But he knew exactly where it had come from, and that he was to wear it from that day onward. Let us just assume it was an act of Fate.

He sighed deeply when he heard the rattle of heavy keys at the bars of the cell door.

“Sir John, I am here to inform you that today shall be the day of your execution,” the man read aloud, shoddily, from the paper in his hands. 

It was all a bore to him, so he ushered the guard away. It wasn’t his first execution, and probably would not be his last. All he cared about was the man who would be at the other side of that glistening axe.

He had a lot of apologising to do, and in the space of such a public ceremony, he was unsure how effectively he’d manage to do it.

When they finally brought him out in chains, his heart thrummed painfully in his chest the moment he lay eyes on the hooded man. Not an inch of skin on show, and yet by the way he held his posture and the buzzing sensation in the front of his skull, he was absolutely certain.

That man was Ghost.

To anyone on the outside, it would have looked as if he had lost his nerve in death. It seemed to others at that moment as if he had begged the executioner not to perform the bidding of God and the Parliamentarians. But that was not the case, for when he dropped to his knees in front of him, there were no prayers for him to be merciful, but rather to forgive him and take his head so that when they next met, they could be friends once more.

John wasn’t sure his words got through to him, as he stayed silent throughout the whole tirade. But, as the other guards took to the platform to manhandle John into place, he grabbed John by the scruff of his neck and pulled him over to the block himself.

It wasn’t actually rough, for he had managed to grab an adequate handful of clothing, but enough that the other guards backed down and left them in peace. John flinched as Ghost took to one knee next to him, but was surprised that instead of a bollocking, he simply brushed away the long strands of hair that were tangled at the nape of his neck.

A leather glove grabbed at his left hand, and turned it over. The ring glinted as the last of the evening sun caught against its stress-polished surface. No words followed. In fact, no words from either man, as when the judge had asked John if he had anything final to say, he said naught.

There was nothing for him to say to these people. They were just passing ships in the long, dark night.

The axe cut quickly and cleanly.

“So boring,” Conflict stewed.

Despite almost 10 years of the English Civil War, he found himself growing bored with the staleness of swords and cavalry and kings. He had introduced horrible creations with mechanised capabilities to the mortals, but even so, it hadn’t spread quickly enough for his liking.

He watched as Fate and Love looked over their pairing, and grinned a devilish grin.

The boy was only young, mouldable, easily convinced to do wrong…

He skipped in the street, feet tangled in one another, laces of his shoes always under his sole. One of the other boys had drawn a hopscotch crudely out of chalk, and no matter how he tried, he could not get the criss-cross part right.

“You’re rubbish, John,” one of the older boys teased, and pushed him away.

He fell and cut his knee. But he did not cry, for every time he tripped or stumbled or cut himself upon the sharp objects back on the Navy base, he had that same sensation in the scar on his chest. The one he was born with. It told him that he’d had worse, felt worse, and not to cry over petty little things.

His parents had thrown him out young in this life. They thought he was cursed by some devil or other, when he began speaking in detail about how his head had been lopped off before he was born. He’d been taken in by an old Naval captain, raised around boats and the sailors that manned them.

The young John didn’t yet understand why he was different. 

As he skulked away from the mean children, he felt a sudden pain in his heart. Like a cruel hand had a hold of it, it left him constricted and breathless.

Something pulled him further into town. Some sensation he did not understand. All the way through unknown streets and into the jailers district, where the gallows loomed. He’d only heard of them in stories.

He was scared, as he looked up at the bodies which hung there. He had not known death in this life.

There was a large, stone tower with a staircase at the bottom. For some reason, he reached into his pocket for the small bag of marbles that he was playing with earlier that morning. He tipped them out, straight onto the steps and the cobbles below.

Then, a voice which wasn’t his yelled out from his lungs.

He ducked behind a large barrel, and peered out just in time to see a familiar looking man loom out of the doorway. This man… He had seen him in the vision where he lost his head. He clapped his hand across his mouth, to stop himself from crying.

Desperately, he wanted to turn his head away as the man stepped on the marbles, and instantly lost his footing. But it felt as if a demonic entity had its horrible claws over his chin, and kept his vision locked on.

There was an awful crunch as the man tumbled over the bannister and landed neck-first on the ground below. He had stopped moving.

John felt himself relieved of the force clutching at his throat. He was about to flee, but there was something softer now which drew him to where the man’s body lay. He crept over, and hoped not to be seen whilst he reached for a string around the man’s neck. He didn’t know what was on the string, nor why he knew it was there, but when he snapped the chord he found a tarnished ring which sat pleasantly in his palm.

Too big for his finger now, but he knew he would grow into it. Knew somehow that this ring had meant something once.

Chapter Text

I / HEART OF THE OCEAN  

The seas had been rough that night, which did not bother the young captain. His ship was sturdy, a great beast of the seas, and his crew had faced much worse in the winters prior. So, when a lone British Navy ship drifted by in the choppy waters, they saw it as a joyous opportunity.

Of course, it was only by chance that as they netted cargo and crewmen from the gaping maw of the sea, he heard the men yell that they’d found the captain. Ghost swaggered over; thumb loosely hooked over the black sash which graced his slender hips. 

He was entirely ready to do his whole, rehearsed routine. The one where he got his hook up in their face, showed a little savagery, and made them beg for mercy.

But fuck.

Of course, it had to be him.

His skin was near blue after the impromptu dunk into the waters below, and his breaths were unnaturally shallow. When Ghost tipped his head to the side, a great amount of water spilled out of his mouth. He could only hope that if John had breathed any of it in, he had managed to cough it back up again.

He lifted the man cleanly off the deck of the ship, and slung him over his shoulder. The weight of his clothes made it harder, but Ghost didn’t complain.

His first mate shot him a look from across the balustrade.

“What?” Ghost asked, as he began the walk to his quarters.

The first mate rolled his eyes. “Taking the pretty ones for yourself, again?”

Ghost tutted. As punishment for his insolence, he handed over the rest of the clean-up operation to him. He was capable, with more years spent on the sea than the young captain had even been alive. Plus, he was fiercely loyal to boot. He knew he would have no issue if he stowed away in his room for a few hours with the ship in his hands.

Although, he really would have to put a stop to his sassy mouth one day.

He kicked the door open with the toe of his boot, and hefted John’s body onto one of the upholstered wooden chairs across from his desk. The seawater he seemingly leaked from every possible orifice dripped down onto the rug that he had procured from a similar Navy vessel not long ago.

He was fond of that rug… It reminded him of home, for some reason. There were exceptions that could be made for damages to his property, he supposed.

Ghost worked quickly as he stripped the extra layers of clothing from John’s body which would only cool his internal temperature further. Then came his shirt with those pesky buttons, and Ghost was not the most patient man, so instead of undoing every single one with his one hand he simply used the sharpness of his hooked appendage to tear the silken material away.

A chain hung around the man’s neck. That blasted ring was attached.

He’d already tried taking it from him once. Tried to erase any part of his stupid decisions which led to a confession in that love-drunk era of his. Perhaps he should have thrown it into the Thames whilst he had the chance. Perhaps he’ll throw it overboard right now.

He slipped the chain off, replaced it around his own neck and tucked it under his shirt.

There was reason for him to be thankful for the mask, for he could feel the heat rising in his neck and bleeding pink tones across his pale cheeks at the sight. His bare, muscular chest as it rose and fell with water-punctuated breaths.  He thought he was over this, when he’d chopped the bastard’s head clean off after he had grovelled about his mistake. 

But even then, he hadn’t been able to resist the soft hair that graced the nape of his neck.

“Mmmm,” John rumbled, before he sputtered another few chest-loads of water and sea salt out onto the floor in front of him. 

Shit.

Ghost panicked, grabbed some shipping rope, and wrapped it tightly around his chest. Then, he bound his arms together behind the chair, and tried desperately not to melt over the way his biceps tensed and the veins on his forearms stood proudly at the surface. If this man was allowed to roam free, it was over for him. He needed to keep this professional, just a pirate and his ransom.

He was still behind John as he tightened the final knot, when the man started rousing.

“Hello?” John asked with a sore throat, hands tensed up against the rope as soon as his muscles turned back on.

Ghost was torn. He should never have brought him into the bloody cabin, just left him to stew down in the hold with the others. But there was just something about him laid out like that, near drowned, that made him want to help.

He regretted having to bump into him in this manner, though. 

On his ship, he had gathered odd folk of all sorts. There was no prejudice towards those who were different. And, as a youth who was raised on ships like these, he’d had plenty of time to shape himself rather eccentrically. 

His arms were wrapped in black markings drilled in with ink, which he had brought back from his travels across the globe, not yet popular on the shores of dear olde England. The long fingers on his hands were laden with silver, many of the pieces featuring skulls, bones and all sorts of skeletal imagery. They had always fascinated him. He wore black around his eyes, painted his nails an even blacker shade, and darkened his pale lashes with the same makeup that the brothel ladies on the shore would wear. And his clothes, although not entirely whorish, were certainly more obscene than what was tradition at the time.

It was one of the first lives that he felt… like himself.

He tried to make himself as presentable as possible, in the reflection of the ornate cutlass hanging on the cabin wall. John still struggled to escape his bindings and was likely going to hurt himself if Ghost didn’t hurry up his attempted preening.

Finally, he walked into John’s eyeline, which caused him to cease wriggling near instantly.

“…Ghost?”

He watched as the man’s eyes drank in the sight of him. Scrolled up and down his body. And how eventually his gaze settled softly at his eyeline, where the eye makeup only accentuated the warm honey of his irises.

“Hello John,” he spoke, as he leant against the desk in a way that was so effortlessly casual that it almost looked as if he wasn’t deeply panicked by the meeting.

After he had finished ogling his body, John’s eyes flicked to the ring which now hung around Ghost’s neck. Momentarily, his face burned sour in retaliation, but upon consideration had bitten his tongue for a much tamer approach.

“Can I have my ring back please?” He asked, politely.

Ghost swore he fluttered his lashes over his baby blues as he spoke.

“No,” Ghost replied simply, as he tried to maintain that menacing persona. It didn’t really work since John had never been afraid of him.

“Why am I tied up?” John continued, giving him a look that mixed both disappointment and confusion.

“You are my prisoner,” Ghost stated. “This is my ship.”

John’s eyes took in the room. A captain’s quarters fit for someone like Ghost. Decorated quite nicely, if not for some slightly morbid touches. Weapons. A pair of shackles. In the corner, sitting on a plinth, an actual human skull. The chairs, table, that beautiful Venetian rug below his feet, all familiar looking – Navy property. 

“You’re a pirate?”

Ghost looked himself up and down and shot John a bemused glance.

“Okay okay,” John clarified, as he understood his question was probably not necessary. “Are you a famous pirate then?”

The blond shrugged. 

“Are you still not talking to me?”

That part had been unintentional. He just really didn’t have the words, and it was so much more difficult after what had happened to end their last friendship. 

He swerved the question.

“We’re heading to the Caribbean. Tortuga precisely. It will be a couple of weeks, yet. Your men will stay fed, and then when we get there, we’ll send a note of ransom to the British Navy.”

“Ghost!” 

“What?” He snapped.

“Why are you treating me like this?” John whined. His voice cracked as he did.

Without thinking, Ghost had already opened his mouth. “Because you hurt me,” he retorted, before he shrank into himself at the fact that he had already said too much.

“I said I was sorry, Ghost.”

This was a mistake. A huge mistake.

The words swirled in his head like a whirlpool. Inescapable. He looked at John, who had sported what could only be described as a pout. There were already friction burns on his pretty skin where the rope was pulled taught by his squirming.

“No words, now,” Ghost insisted, putting his slender, silver-laden finger across John’s mouth.

He walked over to his desk, and the swagger in his hips attracted John’s eyes inadvertently. And as he dragged his chair back, and sat in it with his legs spread, he was sure he caught those same eyes wandering southwards.

Outside, the commotion and the bustle had nearly settled down. There was a knock thrice at the door, and Ghost commanded the person to enter.

William, the first mate, walked in. He paid no mind to the half undressed, tied up, man who sat directly across from Ghost’s eyeline. Instead, he listed off cargo, prisoner numbers, guns, ammunition, and a whole assortment of miscellaneous items which the blond meticulously tallied off on the parchment in front of him with a quill and ink.

“Ghost,” John said, which elicited dagger-eyes from both other men in the room.

The first mate took two steps over to him and raised his hand.

“William!”

The man stopped in his tracks, and looked over to Ghost whose hand had moved to clutch the dagger strapped dutifully to his thigh.

William looked confused. “You’re letting him refer to you by that, captain?”

Ghost waved his hand. “Long story. You’re dismissed.”

The man glared at John, which was far more intimidating than when Ghost did the same. He left shortly after. There was a silence that lasted all of three minutes, before John opened his mouth again.

“Why can I not call you Ghost?” He questioned inquisitively.

“I thought I said no more words…”

“You did, bu-”

“You give up your birth name on this ship, it’s a rite of passage.” Ghost answered.

John paused, and it was clear that there was some stupid quip or other on the tip of his tongue.

He tried to continue his tallies. Sought not to engage. But the look on the man’s face, like he was just bursting to say something, was far too annoying.

“Spit it out, John,” he grumbled.

“Your birth name isn’t Ghost…”

Ghost rolled his eyes. “It’s symbolic, it doesn’t have to be- never mind.”

He was just about to reunite the quill with the paper when John spoke again.

“So, what do they call you?”

At this point, he gave up all attempts to work, and dunked the quill back into the inkpot where it would stay for the rest of the conversation. Instead, he shuffled about in a small basket under his desk, from which he produced a large bottle of fine, Caribbean rum. He popped the cork, removed his mask, and swigged straight from the bottle. 

It looked cliché as all hell, the hat, the hook, the pirate’s own choice of drink. But after spending so much time sailing the shores of those islands, he no longer had the pallet for the taste of whisky.

“Riley,” he sighed. “As in, Red Riley.”

John’s jaw dropped.

The name was enough to turn the stomach of many a sailor. It was rumoured that if Red Riley were to catch you, he would make fishing nets from your guts and throw them into the ocean to lure in sharks. Or, that his ship would be able to vanish into the mist, and before you knew it the entire crew would climb the bough of whatever vessel was unfortunate enough to cross its path.

“Jesus, Ghost… uh, Riley.”

“No,” Ghost interjected, “you still call me Ghost.”

He took another deep swig from the bottle, before he held it up towards John in an offering. And although John was trying to maintain the straight-laced appearance of a Navy officer, his eyes widened at the golden liquid which sloshed around within.

“I’ll give you some, if you shut up for a bit,” Ghost chuckled.

John nodded in agreement. Although during his tumble into the ocean he’d taken in more water than he had thought possible, it hadn’t done him any good. The salt had parched him and created a layer of dryness that hadn’t left the inside of his lips.

Ghost approached him, and placed the flat of his hook firmly on his chin as he encouraged his mouth open. He tried to ignore the heat in his loins as John’s tongue lolled from his lips in desperation. As he poured a small trickle from the bottle, the man lapped up the golden goodness, until his head was spinning with the heady flavours of spice and vanilla and a small stream trickled down his chin. The whole scene was completely erotic.

Dear lord, these following weeks were going to test him.

His leg shifted slightly, and he accidentally brushed against John’s thigh, which caused him to squirm uncomfortably in place. There was a look of anguish on his face, and his cheeks were flushed red.

“Fucking hell,” Ghost muttered, as he caught the hardness in John’s trousers practically throbbing. “I’m guessing you’ve not been ashore in a while?”

John shook his head, still bound by his promise not to talk.

“You got a wife this time?”

A second shake of his head.

It took every ounce of his being not to place hands on the captive man. But he respected himself more than that, and wasn’t about to bow down in adoration after only an hour of him tied up in his office. He ducked behind John’s chair and freed one of his hands. A small mercy for them both, as allowing him to self-relieve lessened the chances of himself going absolutely feral.

“I am going for our evening meal; I’ll bring you some back in about an hour…” He spoke softly as he stood by the chair, purposefully not making eye contact. “Do with that what you will.”

He talked business, strategy, and logistics as he sat in the eating quarters. All of that was fine, until William started to again prod for his reasons for taking the Navy captain into his own quarters. There was some suggestion of deviance afoot. In return, Ghost had to show him a thing or two with his fists and the threat of slicing his tongue off if he continued to yak with it, which merited a bemused, adoring smile from the older man.

People stared, as they took in the good show, but nobody dared utter a word.

He demanded the ship’s cook to plate up an extra dish of the good food, staring William down before he said another word. The rest of that bastard’s crew could eat slop, and that was quite alright by him. He ignored the drunken whistles as he shimmied back up the stairs and over to his cabin.

The cabin which he was more than sure was closed when he left.

The cabin which, as he peered inside, was now empty.

He flung the plate into the sea in anger. An excellent meal for the aquatic life in the choppy bough of the ship, save for perhaps the fine China plate which would be rather crunchy. When he finally stormed over to the chair, he saw the rope was frayed, cut with some sort of blade.

There was no way. The man had only his undergarments on, and even then, Ghost had taken the caution to pat him down to ensure he was not armed. A sudden sickness arose in him, as his hand travelled shakily to his own concealed hilt, which rested on his thigh. The one which he had instinctively grabbed for to protect John earlier that evening.

His knife was gone.

He cursed loudly, as thoughts raced through his mind. How foolish he was, to trust in a prisoner. No matter if it was him. He would not have given the same liberty to anybody else. And for what? For the love he once had for the man, that got his heart broken? That got him killed, all in some stupid misunderstanding.

And what was it with the way John looked at him? Why did he still insist on keeping the ring? Why did he beg for his forgiveness? Was it all just pity, for the poor, scorned man and his unrequited feelings?

Ghost drew the cutlass from the wall in anger.

He would find John, and the bastard would be lucky if he didn’t slit his throat there and then.

II / A HEART TWICE BROKEN

 Captain’s Log, Entry # Unknown

Sundown, appx 1800 hours, somewhere in the Atlantic

[[1 hour prior]]

Captain John MacTavish opened his salty eyes, tied up in the cabin of an unfamiliar craft. It was not the first time. Would probably not be the last, either. Despite the predicament, and the touch of that cold hand which knotted the ropes around his wrist, he felt he stood a fair chance if he engaged in a bargain with this seaborne bastard. He’d negotiated with plenty of the sleazy fools this past decade, and this would be no different. A little bit of money from the King’s coffers, and hopeful safe passage to some nearby spit of land where he would await rescue.

But when the owner of said hand sauntered into view… 

Fuck.

This version of his friend, if that word could be used as he did not know whether they were back on those terms, was beautiful. Probably in his late twenties, John thought, as he tallied the maths in his head since he had caused his little accident . He verged on forty in the summer to come, and he had managed to end that old executioner's time behind the axe when he was only a boy of eleven years of age.

This Ghost was about the same in age as his dearest friend, whom he had known throughout their lives that graced the plays of that old bard. The same eyes, and perhaps the same shifty attitude. But there was a wildness to this version of him. He dressed strangely, in clothing which accentuated his tight buttocks and slender waist. It was as if he knew he looked good. The jewellery, the trinkets, the piercings, and those strange abstract marks around his arms that almost looked painted on. The mask, which lay discarded on his desk, featured embroidery of a jawbone. The makeup which surrounded those exquisite mahogany orbs helped them shimmer with an allure that he could not pull his gaze away from.

He had the displeasure of being greeted by so many of those filthy pirates.  Not even one took his breath away like this, and no, it wasn’t for the seawater in his chest either.

Throughout their conversation, John found himself dragged under. A ruthless wave against such a small vessel. He fell, and fell, and fell, until he was sure his heart would crash to the ocean floor and sink further into the sand as it shifted along the seabed.

It was ironic, really. This man, who had killed him with a bitter taste in his mouth after John’s damn stupidity had protected him from his crew without hesitation. Because of that protectiveness, he knew exactly where to find that knife, strapped in a concealed sheath on his right thigh. And he used that protectiveness against him, as he once again cursed himself for being such an arse. Swift as a pickpocket, he had managed to grab the hilt of the blade as Ghost had fled the scene in what could only be described as girlish embarrassment.

Part of him had wanted to take the opportunity to relieve himself as intended. With a picture like that, and the way he had towered above him with that heady liquid, who could blame him for his head being lost in a lust-fuelled haze. But there was no time for such things.

He freed himself from the last of the ropes, and bent down to pick up his shirt. Blast. The fabric hardly stayed together as he lifted it from the floor, the material torn into long shreds by some sort of pointed blade. He guessed, after he had noticed Ghost’s lack of a left hand, that perhaps that hook was the culprit. Those buttons were indeed a pain in the arse, even for someone who still had both appendages.

A heavy velvet curtain hung at the far end of the room, which John quickly ducked behind to find Ghost’s private living quarters. It came as no surprise to him that the man isolated himself from his fellow crewmates, what with his aloof nature and general lack of social skills.

He sat on the bed, and at once was greeted with the scents of vanilla and sex . 

Now the first, that was probably the rum. He had noticed, when Ghost had got close, the enchanting scent had wafted from him. Perhaps, that little vial of scented oil which sat on the sideboard next to the bed contributed too. The liquid barely filled half the glass, clearly from much usage.

But the second scent. He had never known Ghost to be that way. He would in all honesty have assumed him to be a perpetual virgin if Hetty hadn’t told him about that little blip with Emmy right before he-

Best not to think about it.

John took the plush pillow, very similar to the ones he had in his own quarters before the bastard blew his ship to bits. He lifted it to his face, and pressed his nose gently against the smooth cover, where he inhaled that scent deeply. It was feminine and masculine all at once, and alongside the perfume and the makeup, left him conflicted.

Conflicted, and confused.

Yes, he had fooled around with men in the past. And, in the very, very distant past, he had pursued relationships of the romantic variety with them. But it was not the done thing in the modern day, and the both of them knew it. 

It wasn’t an issue for him, really. He very much enjoyed the company of women, with their soft bosoms and warm voices. But, from Ghost’s lack of those relationships, he could only assume that he didn’t feel the same. That, when he had tried to explain how he felt on the night of John’s wedding, there was deeper meaning when he said that Emmy was not the problem. No. Because the problem had been that she did indeed have those feminine qualities, and to Ghost, that was the deal breaker.

All things considered, that was likely why Ghost pranced about in his strange garb in a place like this, where he had control of his own societal rules. 

It was sinful, and he knew it, but he raised the pillow to his face once more. If he could, he would drown in that scent.

Now, to find some threads to wear, for he feared the dash across the deck to find his crew would be rather chilly with no shirt to cover his back. The drawer in front of him seemed a prime candidate. He opened it to find a plethora of garments, although his next task was to find something at least half decent to wear. He blushed as he pulled out a corset that he’d only seen the pleasure ladies on the shore dare to wear.

He settled on a silky white shirt, with sleeves that were a little too billowy for his liking; a pair of black breeches which were all too tight around his rear; and a pair of boots which were oversized by a good few inches. No matter, if all went well, he would be sat back in the chair stripped of all items before anyone was to find out.

The cabin door was shut stiff, the seawater a probable cause of the expansion of the wood, and it took a good shunt of his shoulder to loosen it enough to open. He hoped that the sound hadn’t alerted anybody. But the deck looked clear, and he knew he only had to walk a few feet before he could drop down into the hold through one of the cargo hatches on the top deck.

It was almost smooth sailing, but as he was about to jump into the hold below, he heard the drunken cursing of two men on the lower deck.

“Oy, Captain!” One of them shouted, and swayed about all full of gumption and liquor.

At first, John was confused about the mix-up, but soon realised that his shoulders and face were entirely obscured by the ship’s sail.

“You want to spend some time with us tonight? We’ll take care of you,” the other leered, and nudged a joking elbow into the first.

It turned John’s stomach. Not the fact that Ghost was spending his after dark hours with men, but rather, he was appalled at their quality. He felt that Ghost had stooped to their level, and he’d be much happier with the likes of-

He sighed.

There was a deep guilt in him that caused the scar below his clavicle to ache. This was, in some way, his doing.

The two men staggered away, more than likely used to Ghost’s use of the silent treatment. It was one of his favourite tactics, after all. In turn, John lifted the heavy hatch and dropped down on light feet into the hull below.

He was thankful to discover he had landed right across from the holding cells, where his men were being kept crammed like kippers and looked rather miserable. He hushed them quickly, before their whispers and desperate cell door rattles could give away his location. The ship’s men were eating in the room right next door. He could hear the voices, jeers, and mugs that clinked onto tables evidently louder here than at the opposite end of the ship from where he’d just fled.

He snagged the keys from the wall, and unlocked both cells, but kept the doors closed.

There was a plan afoot.

After he had shared his wicked proposal with his fellow officers, they had agreed to stay in the cells until the time was right. Then, in preparation, John had fetched their weapons from the chests and sacks on the opposing wall for the men to arm themselves with. Only weapons small enough to hide on their persons, of course, for they could not enact this scheme just yet.

The wriggle back out of the hatch was more difficult, and he only just shut the trapdoor when he heard a ruckus in the cells below. He hoped to god that the two drunken swine hadn’t reported him after seeing the real Captain still in the hold down below. It was a quick sprint back into the cabin, where he shut the door behind him and stripped himself of Ghost’s clothing, where he unceremoniously stuffed it back into his drawer.

He tied himself up the best he could. The frayed ends of the rope acted against him.

There was a commotion on the upper deck now, right outside the door.

Then, he heard Ghost’s voice. He told someone to leave, before he let himself inside the room. Attached to his hip, a large cutlass, which John was sure he hadn’t had strapped to his waist as he left.

“Are we under attack?” John asked, and shifted in his chair uncomfortably. He’d tied the ropes slightly too well.

Ghost simply hummed. John watched as he removed the cutlass from his waist, sat down in his chair, and swung his boots onto the surface of his desk with total disregard to the papers laying there. There was an unreadable expression across his face, but John could have sworn he saw the man nervously bite at the inside of his cheek. Ghost stared right at him, through him, even.

“Ghost?”

“What now?” Ghost asked, with a deep sigh.

“Are… are you okay?”

Ghost hummed again, but his tired eyes broke the air of nonchalance he had attempted to shade himself in. He was clearly deep in thought about something, for he pulled that same face he always used to, the one which pushed those familiar creases into his brow. Maybe it was the excess of lives they had lived, but it always seemed like an old soul was trapped in a younger man’s body.

“Tired?” John suggested.

Another hum, but this time Ghost’s eyes met his and stayed there for a long while. More than what was comfortable. John started to suspect that he had been rumbled in some capacity, but when Ghost stood up and walked over to the curtain, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The man began to undress, not quite behind the curtain, but not fully in view. Just the occasional peek of a slender waist, muscular thigh, or delicate hand. Then, John heard the springs in the bed compress, as Ghost shifted his weight to get comfortable.

If the plan was going to happen, he needed the man to be sound asleep.

He waited for what felt like an hour, but could have been only ten minutes for all he knew, until the man’s breathing turned heavy. Then, he began to loosen the knots one after another. One piece of the cut rope thudded to the floor, the sound of which caused him to wince.

He paused. 

Ghost stirred in the bed, but began to snore again just a few moments later.

What John wasn’t prepared for as he unwrapped the second part of the rope was the whimper of his name coming from Ghost’s mouth, near silent, and muffled by the pillow. His arms were free. And in good time, too, for the circulation in his fingers was nearly entirely cut off.

“John,” the voice came louder now.

John froze in place. He could no longer hear Ghost’s soft breathing, and the cabin settled with a quiet stillness.

“Don’t go,” Ghost mumbled.

It was now or never, John thought, as he stood up from the chair near silently. If Ghost knew he was going to make a break for it, he could easily stop him before he lifted the hatch and slipped down. Especially if he was going to be clothed whilst doing so.

He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but he was going to have to capture the other man before his crew had any chance of escape. The cutlass which Ghost had discarded called his name from the desk, and as he gripped its hilt he appreciated the wonderful balance it had in his hand. The curved blade was perfectly aligned, and the skull shaped pommel was just oh so Ghost. As he stepped closer again, Ghost remained silent. So silent, that John didn’t know whether he would find him awake or asleep when he pulled back the curtain.

The answer was revealed to be the prior, as he was met with the sleepy, half-open eyes of the other man. He expected a fight. For Ghost’s cat-like, sometimes thuggish reactions to kick in and for him to jump up with a swing of his fist. 

But he did no such thing. Instead, he remained in his reclined position, and seemed downtrodden, dull, and sulky .

That only made John feel worse. 

John took the cutlass blade and poked the tip at the skin of Ghost’s ribs, where a tiny droplet of blood formed as the edge ruptured the paleness of his body. Ghost was not phased. 

It was only then that John’s eyes crept down his toned back, to find the name William carved out in a deep, fresh scar across his tailbone.

Words could not describe the taste which welled up in his throat, that made him want to spit fire. It was the same, bitter violence he had carried out when the man before him had supposedly touched his wife. Only, this time the evidence was right in front of him. In a flurry of rage, and a total lack of understanding over his own confused feelings, he found that he once again took this out on Ghost.

“Does he fuck you, Ghost?” He spat, unable to hide the venom from his voice.

Ghost shrugged. He rolled onto his side, and propped himself up on his good arm, which exposed further cuts, burns and lacerations across his chest. Some healed almost entirely, others fresh. A painful tally of the people who, in John’s eyes, had conquered him.

John bit his lip at the sight. It wasn’t just that big bastard, it was probably every fucker on this damn ship. And he seethed at the idea. That he as a fellow captain would let his men disrespect him in such a way. That he would get himself into such a position to begin with.

Then, the fact that it wasn’t him, he supposed…

“Don’t do this to yourself,” was all he could muster, a deep frown settling across his face.

Ghost replied in response to his anguish. “Why?”  

“Because… You’re – you’re better than them, Ghost,” John stuttered.

Ghost sat up now, and stretched his long arms above his head, which caused his muscles to flex tightly. He probably did that on purpose. John couldn’t look away.

“Could you not sleep on the chair?” Ghost mused, only his voice had changed now. It was low, and sultry. His fingers reached out and brushed against John’s hand. “You can share the bed with me if you like, if you promise not to go.”

Fuck.

It was so tempting, and the same heat in his loins from earlier returned with a vengeance. He could always save his men tomorrow, he thought. Or the day after for that matter. Just spend the next few days tangled in the sheets with the man he could have had all those years ago, if only he’d not been such a fool and paid attention.

But John MacTavish was a loyal man. To a fault. And he couldn’t leave his crew to wait so expectantly on his call in order to pursue his own lustful intentions.

That isn’t to say, he couldn’t use this to his advantage though.

He took Ghost’s hand, and gently coaxed him up off the bed. 

The blond looked alarmed at first, but John’s warm smile gripped the part of his heart that held such fond memories. It soothed him into a trusting stupor, and he allowed himself to be led by John into the centre of the room.

John pushed him against the desk, one hand sinking to the slim part of his waist, whilst the other remained with fingers intertwined at their side. It immobilised Ghost’s good hand at least, although he was still at mercy of the sharpness of his prosthetic hook.

Seemingly though, that would not be an issue. The man looked entirely lovesick, as if he’d played out this scene in his head many times before. And perhaps he had done so in anguish, as John gallivanted around with his women not once sparing a look in his direction.

“Can I kiss you?” John whispered, as his voice broke just a little.

Ghost stared into his eyes, and searched for an answer he did not find. He nodded.

It was slow, hesitant even, when their lips met. Sweet vanilla; hot breath. Fuck. Once again, he was put to trial. Ghost intoxicated him, worse than the rum on his lips hours before, as that taste permeated through the softness of the kiss. It made him hungry, and he found himself kissing deeper before he knew it. He had only intended to stun him. To hastily pounce when his guard was down. But there was something so illicit about this, that he simply could not pull away.

He forced Ghost’s lips apart with a bite and a flick of his tongue, and granted himself entry to more of that addictive taste. Ghost didn’t seem to mind. In turn, he reciprocated with low moans which rumbled in his throat. If John was aroused before, then now he was achingly desperate.

The plan went to shambles a little when Ghost managed to slip his hand free, where he used it to trace the lines of John’s body with long strokes beneath fingers which trembled. John could hardly imagine how it felt in his shoes, after all those years of want with no recourse. 

In return, John laced his now spare hand through the length of Ghost’s hair, and grabbed a fistful with some force in retribution for all the times Ghost had done the same to him in combat. Every tug forced a whine from Ghost’s lips.

Their kisses broke away from the desk, and their bodies crashed up against the opposite wall of the cabin. It knocked down a shelf of books and ornamental knickknacks. John’s thigh pressed firmly against Ghost’s arousal, which caused him to squirm beneath him. 

The skull which sat in the corner glared over at him, judgmentally. The soulless eye holes mocked him for his sins.

Both men panted hard, and Ghost had become feverishly handsy. If John didn’t act soon, this was going to turn into a whole other situation. He placed both hands on Ghost’s waist, and coaxed him to turn around. His cock pressed against that pert arse through the undergarments he wished he’d rid himself of. And gods, did he for release, but he couldn’t let that distract him. Especially not since the solution to his now entirely improvised plan had fallen from the displaced shelf and into his reach.

A pair of iron shackles, to be precise. The very ones he had spied earlier.

He rutted into Ghost as he reached over, and upon picking up the shackles snapped Ghost’s hand into one of the cuffs, and a large wooden beam which surrounded the ornate fireplace into the other.

“John?” Ghost whimpered. And it was a whimper, pathetic and heavy breathed.

He felt truly monstrous, but he could not deny that he rather enjoyed the way his name sounded in that tone. That was perhaps something to unpick at another time…

As he dressed, he kept an eye on Ghost, who shifted into a seated position against the wall and looked rather understandably pissed off. Then, after he bore witness to him wrangling his hook as a makeshift lockpick, he bound both his free hand and his feet.

In no circumstance would he let him go. He would not make the same mistake Ghost had made earlier that day.

The mutiny of the ship didn’t take long after that, for many of the pirate crew were caught asleep or just too drunk to notice. Another thing John hated about pirates, rather hypocritically so.

He rounded most of them up into the cells, with the exception of the few who had been injured putting up a fight, who were in turn medically treated. But, upon seeing the smug smirk of the first mate William amongst the plethora of faces, he rather violently disposed of him and threw his body overboard into the choppy waters. 

He denied the emotion which told him it was jealousy.

When he finally returned to the cabin to deal with his more important problem, he was pleased to find Ghost exactly where he had left him.

“So,” he began, and crouched in front of Ghost who promptly turned his head away, “I have a plan.”

Ghost’s eyes flicked to the side momentarily, but he remained as stubborn as an ass, and would not turn to face him. John, who was not afraid to overstep that boundary, took his chin gently in his hand and pulled the man’s face back into view.

“At least hear me out?” He pleaded, with a soft smile.

The bound man rolled his eyes, but seemed to focus on John’s face for just long enough for him to believe he would pay attention.

“We’re turning the ship around, sailing back to shore. When we get to the port, we’ll hand over your crew. You’re coming with me, though.”

There was something like hope in the man’s eyes. It was quickly shadowed, though, by memories of betrayal.

“You’ll be an officer on my ship. I’ll lie, say I found you from some trade shipping company. I can look after you and-”

“John,” he interrupted.

“No! Don’t argue with me. We can go back to how things used to be right? We can be friends… Maybe something more, if that’s what you would like?”

A frown had chiselled its way across his pretty face.

“Why not?” John asked, having taken Ghost’s silence as a firm no.

“For starters, you’ve just used my-” Ghost began, but the words were caught in his throat. It took him another few breaths to start again. “You used my f-feelings- for you- against me.”

John grimaced, and tried to lighten the mood with a joke. “You’re a bleeding brilliant kisser. I’d do it again if you asked.”

Ghost stared straight at him, and did not blink. There was no smile to be found after he heard that stupid joke.

“Sorry… Go on.”

“Take one look at me John, if I return, I’ll never be able to live as I want. It’s easy for you, you can get married. You could have children, and start a family. But if someone found out- or even assumed we lived in such a way? We’d be flogged.”

John sighed. It was a valid point. Even amongst his crewmates, he knew of faces who would oppose the idea.

“We can be friends then, plain, and simple. No frills.” He replied, in a rotten attempt to cheer him up.

Ghost rolled his eyes. Always sarcastic, that bastard, even as he moped.

“And then I have to watch you get married again, and we know how that ended last time.”

John sighed. He dropped from his crouch onto his knees, and scooted further towards Ghost. He only stopped when their faces were mere inches apart.

“Please don’t make me hand you over. Work with me…”

He watched the panic in Ghost’s eyes, at the closeness. Watched how his bottom lip trembled slightly, and his pupils widened as he met John’s gaze. Then he realised, it would be cruel to keep this bird caged against its nature. Not in this life, at least. Perhaps, in lives to come, they could see past this. They could again live as friends, go back to how things used to be. John was so desperate to lean in and kiss that fear away. But he couldn’t, for the sake of them both.

It was several days sailing until they reached England’s shore. In that time, he’d moved Ghost onto the chair for his comfort, for the boarded floor of the ship grew mightily cold at night in the choppy British waters. 

Ghost hadn’t spoken much, save for basic requests for food, water, or the chance to relieve himself. When John did get words out of him, he was miserable. He didn’t let any other crew members near him. When John’s fellow officers would come in to question him or prod at him, John was powerless to say anything, for technically they should not know each other.

The situation was dire.

Just one day left.

One day to convince Ghost not to throw away his chance here, to tell him that there could be more to this life. It hurt him badly, that every time they were fated to meet, he caused Ghost’s death in one way or another. Sometimes the parallel, of course, but last time was more than deserved. He couldn’t bear to think that their accidental meeting in that one part of all the thousands of bloody miles of ocean would be what killed him so young.

Ghost slept now, but was disturbed often by fear or noises aboard the top deck. It had been a long few nights, as he refused to sleep at all, in paranoia that someone was going to slit his throat in the night. John knew he wasn’t stupid, and that he knew a worse fate would await him if he was brought onto shore as a pirate.

He put on his jacket and shoes, and padded gently to where Ghost was propped back on the chair. Then, for ten solid minutes, he just watched. The rise and fall of his chest, the gentle flutter of his lashes. He’d given him the mask for his privacy, as the other officers were in and out of the cabin often. That irked him more than it should. He wanted to see the whole of his beautiful face.

But why, if he could not pursue him, and was not going to show him love or affection, did he want to kiss those plush lips of his so badly? For his own selfishness? Something more than that?

He raised his hands gently as if he was about to touch porcelain so delicate it could crumble, and brushed a stray strand back into Ghost’s unruly coiffure.

A cry of land ahoy from the crew startled them both, and John jerked up and attempted to play off his closeness with a stack of papers that his hand had conveniently landed upon. Ghost lifted up his heavy hooded eyes, which were still half asleep, and met his gaze. For whatever reason, there was a finality to the look they gave each other. It felt like saying goodbye, for a very long time.

John rushed to the deck to begin the preparations. He was swept up in logistics, planning, readying the damn rowboat on this old, rickety ship. There was something to be said for its sturdiness, that’s for sure, but you needed to be practically Herculean to steer the wheel or hoist the sails.

A white flag was sent up the pole, to signal that the ship was no longer a threat. And, as John clambered down into the rowboat with the rest of the officers and his crewmen, he was relieved to finally have shore under the soles of his shoes once again.

More logistics. More boredom. John scuffed his boots into the sandy, salty spray which settled atop the planks of the dock. Of course, they had to declare their captures. The infamous Red Riley and his crew, all locked in the hold onboard.

He thought, at least, he’d have more chances to smuggle him away when they made it to land. He could pay off a guard, or perhaps –

Cannon fire.

A huge volley soared, right at the ship.

The ship, where Ghost was bound to a damn chair, unable to move, never mind swim.

“What are you doing?” He cried out, “The prisoners are still on board!”

The dockmaster spat at the ground. “They’re just pirates, not worth the space they take up in jail.”

All of a sudden, and all at once, it was as if his whole world was in collapse and nobody else cared. Some of his shipmates cheered even, as the sails roared up with red flame, and the red Jolly Roger burnt to cinders. The smoke went up, and clouded the sky in great black plumes. That ship wouldn’t hold for long.

“Fuck!” John yelled, and leapt from the dock down into the rowboat below.

The other officers yelled, tried to stop him even. They weren’t sure what exactly had gotten into him, but had noticed a change in him ever since he was in that room with Red Riley. The dockmaster screeched too, and tried to clear the shipping traffic which John paddled right into.

His arms ached. Muscles that he wasn’t entirely used to using burned, as usually had people to row for him…

But that didn’t stop him, and he reached the sinking ship in near record time. Then he hauled himself up, as his hands gripped onto one of the sails which had been knocked down and over the starboard side. The fabric was damp, and it was hard to get a good fistfull of the material. His hands shook with shock. When aboard, he assessed the damage. Thankfully, the cabin was intact on the outside, the volley clearly having not struck it with a direct blow.

He could hear the screams from the others below. But there was no time.

His shoulder crashed against the door, which was stuck in its hinges again, four or five times before it finally flung open. Water poured out, and the shift of weight made the back of the ship creak, before the entire vessel leaned with a diagonal kilter.

It was a tough fight against the water, but he managed to pull himself up into the cabin door which was now a near vertical entrance.

The chair Ghost was in had been thrown backward against the wall, and there was a gaping hole in the floor where the water had encroached. Ghost’s entire body was soaked through, the black of his eye paint ran down his face in messy streaks. He must have been inches away from drowning there and then.

“John?” He called out in shock. 

“I’m not fucking leaving you; those bastards volleyed the ship!”

Ghost struggled against the ropes as John cut them. As soon as his hand was free, he slapped John around the face, hard.

“You idiot! Why did you come back?” Ghost yelled, but the sound of timbers snapping and the ship’s groans almost drowned him out.

There was a huge crash as the mast fell, and tumbled into the drink. The entire ship shifted in weight once again, and water flooded back into the cabin. John glanced over his shoulder to see the door he’d just come through now fully submerged. Already, they had to tread water, and Ghost was in no fit state to swim. Surely they could not escape, and even if they did, where would they go?

He turned back to Ghost, whose eyes were cast over at that same door. It was as if he too had accepted his fate.

“I guess,” John chuckled nervously, “I just wanted to kiss you one last time…”

“Stupid twat,” Ghost mumbled under his breath, before he pulled at John’s shirt and forced their bodies together.

That was the only invitation John needed. He dove into the kiss, pressed against those vulgar lips which continued to curse him out between breaths. His hands were not shy, as he felt the boat shunt heavily as the bottom hit the floor of the bay. He groped at Ghost’s arse as his feet managed to find purchase on something below the water, which gave them a few moments longer.

A devious idea crossed his mind. He grabbed the knife again.

“Can I mark ye?” He asked, and a brush of his hand over that vile scar on his lower back indicated his intention.

“If you can figure out which end is the pointy one, you can,” Ghost cut sarcastically.

John rolled his eyes, and carved out his handiwork on Ghost’s left pec. Over his heart, which was purposeful of course, not that he would admit it. He was surprised at how much it made the blond buck against him in pleasure. A real strange fellow, he thought. But then again, he was the one who asked to carve his initials into the meat of the man’s chest like he was a bleeding tree trunk, so really he couldn’t talk about strange.

They shared one more kiss before submersion, and then passed what little oxygen they had taken in with their last breaths between themselves until the depth of the water blurred their visions. It was not a nice way to go, and the whole situation left him awfully claustrophobic. But he wouldn’t complain. Not when he got to go out entwined with a man so beautiful. Not with the taste of vanilla on his lips.

The ship settled in pieces on the ocean floor.

Love cried tears of joy at the sight. 

The bravery of the man who rushed to his probable demise, to rescue his dear friend. Then the lust, which overflowed like a cup of wine poured hurriedly, sent even her head into a spin.

Fate smiled, for her plan seemed about to head in the right direction at last. In places, it had looked a little dicey, but she could only hope that from now on things would be on the up.

Chapter Text

I / DIPLOMACY OF THE HEART

It was his eighteenth birthday.

The day that the memories come back. He could not help but notice the arousal that groaned in his undergarments as he remembered how he’d died. Then an explanation, for that vivid scar which consisted of two, shaky letters that was fucking immortalised on his person, forever.

Even though the memories come back today, it sometimes takes weeks, months even, to piece together all of the emotions. His fingers traced the raised skin, and he pondered. What crazed mind led him to allow such a thing?

“Simon!” A stern voice boomed from down the stairs.

He hated that name. Hated the connotation behind it. But he couldn’t change it as he had done in every past life, where he’d managed to abandon his parents, or when they had abandoned him, or had died in some freak accident that only some cruel god could plan.

No, because today, he had to be Simon. Today, he would meet the diplomats of the court for the first time.

It was a very important meeting, not only for the future relations of England and Scotland, but also for his father. The first meeting he would chair solo, and the first time he was to introduce his own flesh and blood into the diplomatic fold.

Simon wasn’t interested in politics.

He itched for something more. To be out in the field again, be the captain of a ship again, or doing anything other than sitting around a table where old men in suits and spectacles bickered relentlessly.

The mask his father insisted he wore lay upon the dressing table. It was a rough, pale thing made from some tablecloth offcut the maids had stitched. It covered his mouth and nose, and itched irritably if he was not clean shaven that morning. A stark contrast to the rest of his clothes, which fitted nicely, and made him look a respectable young man.

His father hated the scars his son had been born with, and the imperfections which had criss-crossed over his small, crying body. He would have disowned him to some orphan’s home, had the press not been involved. A miracle! That’s what they had called it. That baby he held reluctantly in his arms was a blessed child, who had survived whatever deformity had tried to finish him off in the womb.

Of course, the deformities were just the scars which his body would grow into. The scars left by John in his previous lives. They completed him as a person.

He adjusted his lace necktie, the frills sitting awkwardly on his chest, and then slipped on the woollen coat. He hated how itchy it made him feel, but he would have to look his best or his father would yell. God, he wished his body hadn’t been so frail. He would have fought that bastard off as soon as he got the chance.

They set out for the debate hall, sat in the back of the carriage pulled by their families’ horses. Every part of him screamed, and wanted to slip away from the meeting to sit with them instead. He got along with the coachman well, who appreciated his care and attentiveness when it came to the well being of the equines. Maybe if he asked, he wouldn’t tell his father he had made a swift exit…

As they rounded the corner, he rubbed absently at the scar on his shoulder.

“For goodness’ sake Simon, stop scratching! You look like you’ve got lice,” his father complained, and slapped his hand. The skin on the back of his palm stung with the impact.

Simon sighed, and sank further into the carriage seat, which merited yet another complaint about sitting up straight. But he couldn’t help it. The scar on his shoulder really did itch, one could say it burnt, even. He wondered whether this was a reaction to the wool as they pulled up in front of the steps of the town hall.

He hopped down from the carriage, and found himself with that twitchy anxiety he could never shake. The doctors had put it down to a weak mental constitution, which had broken his father into another round of beatings. Funny, really, how he was more than likely the cause. The young man pulled out his snuffbox, took a pinch and inhaled nasally to calm his nerves. He preferred to smoke with a pipe, but he would not have the time until they were settled around the board table. But even the tobacco couldn’t stop the jitters, nor help the fact that the sensation in his shoulder had gotten worse.

Another carriage pulled up, and in a series of baulks, his father commanded him to “put away that bloody, dirty thing” and to “stand at attention.”

He rolled his eyes, pulled his mask back into place, and did exactly that.

A stout man hopped down from the carriage first, and spouted a whole load of wicked curses and complaints about the journey. He had a warm, comforting tone to his voice not taken away by the tally of profanities which got longer by the second, and his smile was relaxed. A pleasant man. His father had rushed over, and shook his hand excessively whilst he thanked him for travelling such a long way.

But behind the carriage, someone else lingered.

“John, get here boy. Let’s not be impolite. That’s a good lad.” 

The man insisted the hidden one approached them, and around the corner sauntered a beautiful, freckled lad.

It took only a moment for them to lock eyes. Simultaneously, their hearts imploded.

Their meetings, in whichever life, were never this early. Not when memories were not fully formed about the other, and the tenderness of their emotions not yet repaired from the untimely death of one, or both of them. Since they had died together, they would both have turned eighteen only that very day.

“Simon, take John on a walk whilst we wait for everyone to arrive,” his father had insisted, before he walked away with Mr. MacTavish at a rapid pace and left them both in the dust.

The two remained in a stunned silence.

John finally broke it.

“… Simon?”

Simon shuddered. It was bad enough when his father called him by that name, but now him too? The one who, if he remembered rightly, betrayed him and yet still won the favour of his lips.

“John,” he replied, simply.

An awkward, unspoken tension lingered. The last thing they remembered about each other; the feeling of lips heavy on lips, and a knife that sliced burning initials tenderly into one’s upper dermis. But now, with both young men brought up strictly and under the excessively watchful eyes of their fathers, neither could imagine a life with such lustful, forbidden freedoms.

“You don’t need to show me around,” John laughed, as he motioned towards the very road where they used to walk back from the pub to John’s house for a game of cards.

Simon blew air from his nose, a small chuckle.

“We could always go for a drink?” he replied. It was hidden, but there was a small smile below the mask.

“Oh aye? You buying?” John replied, and instinct took them in the direction of the alehouse they frequented all those years ago.

When they arrived, it looked a little different. Less jovial, actually. The music and life of the theatre no longer run influentially through London’s arteries. They muscled their way through the room to a small table in the corner. Simon had brought scotch, a little toast to John’s heritage he thought, before remembering the last time they had enjoyed it together was during the wedding which all went horribly wrong. Seemingly, that part hadn’t clicked in John’s mind yet. The burn of the liquid on his tongue conjured back memories of him in that suit, and all the things better left unsaid.

“So,” John began profoundly, “politics hey?”

Simon near spat out the drink, for the goofy look on John’s face gave him very little confidence in his abilities in verbal debate. He looked so young, his beard not yet grown in, instead replaced by an attempt at a moustache which rested on his top lip. He had the same eyes, though. Eyes which were kind, but held behind them a reserved side which would be used against anyone who stood in his way.

“Do you like it?” Simon asked, and clarified he meant politics after John shot him a confused glance.

“Aye, saves me from getting fucking shot at, at least! Did you get all the memories this morning?”

The amber liquid swirled around the bottom of Simon’s glass as he nodded.

“I remembered all sorts… You chopped off my head not long ago, right?”

Another nod, accompanied by a frown.

“Aye, and then there was that-” John paused, and looked across at Simon. “Are you okay?”

“Do you remember… last time?”

“Aye,” John sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Best leave it in the past, though.”

Although it hurt to hear him say, Simon knew it was right. They couldn’t behave like that. It was wrong. Who he was as a person, was wrong. He would have to learn to be normal , get a wife, have children, pass on his bloodline as expected. He could tell that John wasn’t looking at him with those hungry eyes anymore, and that maybe the ship had sailed on whatever they had going on for those few fleeting lives.

“Of course,” he replied, and threw the rest of the glass down his gullet.

When they made it back to the hall, many members from both sides had gathered into small groups, and both Simon and John’s fathers flitted around each with introductions. As soon as the boys arrived, they too were paraded around as the next generation of budding diplomats.

Simon cast aside his prior aspersions. John was a natural.

He watched, as the young Scot wove his honeyed lies around people’s fingers. How naturally he charmed them, as people laughed at his jokes and engaged in pleasantries. How, when he spoke to someone dull, he would count the seconds out in gentle taps of his shoe whilst he maintained a keen interest on the look on his face. That part was probably unbeknownst to even him. And, when he enjoyed a conversation, he would rock back on his heels with a boyish swagger, well-matched by his overall youthful appearance.

Simon did not have the same luck in the conversational arts. His appearance frightened most; the mask on his face was a sure-fire sign that something about him was wrong . Different. He rubbed the pads of his fingers together until the friction started to burn, and once again he found that he needed a hit of something to take away the nerves. He reached for his snuffbox, but upon seeing the glare from his father’s direction, and the motion of a backhand, he refrained.

With no other choice, he retreated to the shadows of the room. Defeated.

Simon found himself not so lucky later that day. He sat at the end of an unused service corridor as he dabbed at his now-bust lip with a handkerchief. Some off handed remark which had earned him a swift smack to the jaw. One day, he would hit that bastard back. But not today. He could not afford to cause a scene here.

His mask was bloodied now, too. But his father had insisted he not show his “ugly” face in the courthouse, and had in turn not allowed him to attend the meeting. So there he sat, and waited once again. He rubbed some snuff on his gums, but it didn’t help with the way his skin itched, nor the violence of the buzz in his head which had infiltrated his mind ever since he reunited with John. 

John, who was in the meeting, and had more than likely charmed some of the old dopes with that smile of his that disarmed all doubts. With his face that, despite many years of warfare between them, had remained mostly untarnished barring the small cut on his chin which he usually hid under a layer of stubble.

He hated the way that no matter how many times he was cut, John’s scars never had the same permanence. But in return, every tiny mark John made on his own body would stay etched there for years to come, until one day he was sure he would simply be a mass of scar tissue with no skin left at all.

How he would forever be reminded of the man every time he looked at himself naked in the looking glass.

“Simon?”

The voice caused his head to snap upwards, and he inadvertently spilled some blood onto the ornate carpet. John? But, the meeting… He was meant to be in there.

“Why are you-?” Simon asked, and trailed off. His voice was stuffy as he pushed the hanky into his nostril to stem the nosebleed.

“Eh, they’re only talking the boring bits out. Why are you not there?” He replied, and leaned against the wall opposite with a cool stance.

Simon motioned to his general self, which caused a look of abrupt confusion in John.

“Father won’t let me go outside without the mask,” he explained, and held up the very bloody piece of fabric between two, slender fingers.

John’s face darkened. “And how exactly did you bust your face up?”

“It’s nothing,” Simon muttered. “Just tripped, is all.”

The man took a step closer. Not enough to cross a line, but enough that he could see the whites of Simon’s eyes as he spoke.

“Ghost doesn’t just trip,” he sneered through gritted teeth.

“Simon does,” came his reply. 

There was a hint of a warning in the tone of his voice that just begged just drop it .

Simon stood, and the hair on his arms and neck bristled. He felt the heat of his temper rise, not necessarily at John, but it would certainly be taken out on him if things persisted. If he kept him here, trapped like a caged animal between himself and this wall. If John trudged deeper into the muddy waters of the relationship with his father. The relationship he’d seemingly had with all his fathers, never the same man of course, but a man of the same attitude, and same volatile nature.

Only this man could not be escaped.

He had no military passage to turn to in this life. Raised as a young gentleman, he hadn’t put on the same muscle mass, hadn’t worked with weapons or guns or ships. No connections via his family either, and even if there was, he would probably end up an officer or some other rank where he would still have to come home to the vile man. This was his life now, and he would have to endure it.

John stepped aside, and allowed him to pass. He knew better than to start a fight with him. Especially not with the way his foot slammed down repetitively against the floor, or the way he scratched and picked at the skin on his fingers like it was a reptile’s shed.

Simon found his way to the front entrance, after several minutes lost in the winding corridors of that place. The coachman sat on a bench a little further down the road, where his pipe hung from his mouth in a slovenly fashion. The horses waited patiently, their hooves beat at the cobble beneath them as they shuffled around.

“Master Riley?” The coachman called, as Simon strode away in the opposite direction.

He didn’t get far. Less than a street, in fact, before the carriage pulled up beside him.

“Let me take you home,” the coachman said, his voice firm but gentle. A man who could be trusted. A man who, due to his own fear of the monster Simon called his father, would never comment on the black eyes, bust lips, or bloodied noses he would often sport after any one of their interactions.

Simon rolled his eyes in retaliation but jumped up into the back of the carriage regardless. He drew the curtains fully closed, so that the noise and light of the outside world was dulled at least a little. It was much better when it was quiet. He had never found himself one for social events, in this life and the ones prior.

The day had drained him. At first, when the memories returned, and then further still when John appeared to him so soon in his life.

He closed his eyes.

It would be another half an hour to their manor in the countryside. And, as the cobbles bounced the bench underneath him, he found himself rocked into a slumber of sorts. A slumber in which the dream from this morning repeated itself, and he saw all the spectacular golden miles of John’s body dancing and stretching. John’s eyes, which scrolled his own skin like a bible. His lips, flushed red from kisses, curled up into that easy smile that felt like home. The heat of his virility in his trousers pressed up against hi-

The barks of the groundsman’s dog caused him to shoot awake, a heated, flustered mess. He did not know how long he’d been asleep, but the carriage was at a full standstill in the drive, and a quick peek out of the front curtain showed the coachman was long gone. The horses too returned to the stable. Or perhaps, they had been moved onto their second carriage, as his father was still in the meeting hall in the town and the coachman would soon have to return to collect him.

He hopped into the gravel of the driveway, with legs that shook uncontrollably. He was entirely compromised, his mask not over his face for privacy, and trousers which strained at the hardness he exhibited between his legs. There was nothing he liked about this, and he hoped desperately for the least interaction possible between here and his room. Thankfully, only the old maid came across him, and upon seeing his injury she quickly scurried away. She too was afraid of the wrath of his father, and would only ever treat the more dire of his injuries.

His chamber was safe, at least. Against his father’s wishes, he had found a way to block the door from the inside so that nobody would be able to disturb him. Where he could rot away peacefully, and only emerge in the night to eat when only the night maids pottered about the place.

He splayed out onto the bed. The mattress was hard, and cold. Although he knew he should tend to himself, to wash the blood from his face, and to check all of his teeth were still in his gums, he could not fight off the second bout of sleep which followed shortly after.

The next time they gathered in the courthouse, Simon had made it into the meeting room without injury.

There were sixteen people in the room. His father, and the man he knew as the senior Mr. MacTavish sat centrally and handed out documents, thumbed over maps, stood, and spoke loudly in a way in which their voices echoed slightly in the rafters.

He recognised three others. Men who his father had brought for dinner a few times, who he had been forced to interact with from a young age. Five of the men, with exclusion of the MacTavish family, spoke with thick Scottish accents of varying degrees. Accents which reminded him of John in his earlier days when he hadn’t been so influenced by years upon years of living in London and the surrounding boroughs. One of the Scots had a strange aura that nobody else seemed to notice. 

The remainder of the people were unknown, unfamiliar, and quite frankly uninteresting.

All except John, of course.

John, who was sitting parallel to him. Whose eyes lit up with pride as he watched his father speak out for the sake of his country. Who, in boyish delight, penned quotes into a pocketbook he kept hidden away until inspiration struck him. John, who had no issue as he slammed his fist on the table in retaliation, or cried hear hear with the rest, and at one point had even stood up from his seat in pride of his nation, and vocalised his opinion to a reception of many nods and shouts.

And Simon could feel the eyes of his father burning into the nape of his neck every time John spoke. A jealousy of sorts, that his son could not be the same. That his son was quiet, timid, and imperfect.

The deal was signed that day, for the unification of Scotland and England into the titular Great Britain. Two great nations united by a common goal of prosperity, power, and world influence. An idea, certainly not supported by all, but at least by the fellows in this room. As the attendees from both sides shook hands and thanked each other, Simon was about to slip away unnoticed.

“Simon!” A voice yelled. 

He turned around, and saw John excuse himself from a conversation with his father, who was no doubt grovelling about how he wished he had a son like him instead. Then, he remarked that the look in his father’s eyes darkened, as John stood by his side with a great smile on his face, and buzzed with excitement.

“What is it?” He asked, and finally drew his eyes away from his father’s to meet the beautiful blue ones in front of him instead.

“Do you want to go for a drink, to celebrate?” John asked, casually. 

Simon did. More than anything. He ached to spend more time with him before he was to return to Scotland, as they may not see each other for however long after that. But he could feel again the burn of eyes on his neck, and a look of fear must have made itself visible on his face somehow, for John had caught on almighty quick to the situation afoot.

“He won’t let you?” The young Scot asked in a hushed tone.

Simon shook his head.

He hated this. He was never weak, never this pathetic. He would never let any man dictate him like this. But what could he do? He was just barely eighteen, not yet a man in the eyes of most. A child, living under the roof of the monster who was meant to protect him. No friends, no family who would accept him. The servants couldn’t help. They were just as afraid.

So, as he met John’s gaze for what he thought may be the final time, he kept his head low and his body small.

“Wait here,” John said.

It wasn’t a request, but rather, a command. Something had ignited, fiery and dominant inside of him. He patted Simon’s shoulder reassuringly, and there was a rush of energy between the two. It felt protective this time. Comforting. Something came to Simon, just as fast as it left - a memory of the times they had fought, and he had lost. Bannockburn. A pain in his heart that did not emanate from the scar, but the emotion he felt in his confusion. John hurt him then, but now?

That’s when John sprinted down the length of the corridor like the truly mad bastard he was, and clocked Simon’s father right across the face with a fist balled so tightly that his knuckles were flush white.

To say commotion erupted would be an understatement, for John fought off not just Mr. Riley, but several other members who had rushed in to help. Simon watched in horror. Or maybe, it was adoration. The boy ran at full whack back down the corridor towards him, and grabbed his wrist tightly before he yanked him out of the door. 

They hid for what must have been ten minutes, pressed chest to chest, in a small alcove at the side of the building. Simon’s heart raced. He hoped that the other man couldn’t feel it over the force of his own breathless pants. 

When everything had quietened down, there was a wash of relief as the shorter man squirmed out of the alcove, and Simon no longer had to inhale the scent of temptation on his sweat slicked skin.

“Well,” John sighed, and stretched out his muscles that ached from the squash. “Now can we go for that drink?”

After much deliberation, they had strayed to the quieter side of town. Quiet for a reason, of course, for the average tourist or wealthy man would be shyly told to avoid the place for fear of robbery, mugging or worse. It didn’t bother the two young men. One’s ego swirled with bravado after his punch-up, the other lacked self-preservation, and dreaded returning home would be worse than if they bumped into some common ruffians.

John laid on that ego, thick and heavy. He was cock-of-the-walk, in his eyes. His former lives where his sensibilities had shaped him seemingly offered no understanding of the danger of the situation they were walking into. Simon thought it was funny, at the time. He delighted in freedom for the first time in eighteen years, and the looking eyes of some shady folk did not disturb that delight.

They crashed into the first alehouse on the street. 

It was quiet inside. A few people mumbled, and whispered to one another about the pair’s arrival. Their faces were laced with soot and muck, and clearly, they hadn’t expected two young toffs to walk through the door with such idiotic swagger.

John produced a coin pouch from his pocket. One which Simon was sure he’d seen before, with the very familiar embroidery of his father’s initials stitched onto the bottom.

A small table in a quiet corner beckoned, and the two shuffled into the wooden slats of a bench, for they were not as stupid as to leave their backs turned to the room. The ale flowed freely. Seemingly after a while, John had charmed the others in the room, as he bought a round for everyone since the money was not his to spend.

They talked. Talked for long, long hours. Talked about every little thing they had remembered, and filled the gaps in each other’s memory when parts had gone forgotten. Talked until the alcohol slurred their words, and they found themselves in uncontrollable staggers and laughter as one another stumbled.

The barman, intrigued by the pair, and pleased by the financial contributions they had made tipped them off that the coppers had come looking. He showed them the back door, and the lads slipped away into the night.

Simon had suggested they walk back to town, where they could at least sleep in some drunk tank or perhaps even an inn if John hadn’t yet squandered his father’s money. But John had other ideas. John wanted to get away from the city, to take the canal walk down through the boroughs, and to escape the next morning far away from the overbearing nature of their parents. No regard was paid to the fact that, by morning, they would be two of the most famous faces in the county - no matter the many, many folk they had spoken with at the conference itself. If the police were already on their tails, it would soon be the whole nation.

Simon sighed. There was no chance to convince John otherwise, and he knew that in the morning when they were passed-out up some random alleyway in a quiet village, they could always beg a local for a ride back to the city and pay them off wealthily for their trouble.

The walk to the canal didn’t take long, and they remembered the route well enough. It was down the long alley, and past the boatmen’s pubs. Those who had clocked off after long hours of haulage, of both shipped goods and coal on the waterways. 

John, ever the charmer, attracted the conversation of a few of them after they heard his heavy Scottish drawl, and confided with him about the bitter cold of the north and other matters of national importance. They insisted on a drink with the two of them, to which John happily obliged, pleased to be in his own people’s company.

Simon was not so pleased. He didn’t like the forwardness in which these men approached, nor the overly friendly way they bought them a beer and invited them to the table. Something screamed at him, and he tried to pick through tired recollections of the day between the violent spins of the room. Was it that man? The one with the scowl. He had a strange aura about him that Simon could not put his finger on. A clearer head would have known they were in danger here.

He could not stop the young Scot, who had already engaged in a gambling game with the last of the pocket money they had pilfered.

He drank his ale and sat in silence, and watched as radiance itself shone from John’s irises and cast colours of all hues into the drab surroundings of this canal-side tavern at night. Every time John rolled a winning dice, he would grin in his direction, and all would be right in the world.

That was until his stomach turned queasy. He obviously wasn’t sober, but it had been a long time since he had made himself sick with booze. The fresh air had cleared his head rather than aggravated it, too, so this was unexpected.

He excused himself outside, where he retched into the waters below, and nearly lost his footing and tumbled in himself. John followed not long after, not before having to pull himself away from the group who clearly wanted him to stay there. To stay away from Simon.

“What’s up?” John asked, rubbing the small of Simon’s back as he heaved a second time.

Simon’s vision had turned dim. He choked out between bouts of heaving. “Something in… the ale.”

John did not remove his hand, but Simon felt him turn to look back inside. There were eyes on them both, which were not the same eyes as before. Eyes which were bitter, and cruel. Eyes that no longer reminded John of home.

“Poison?” John whispered, and Simon found his arm slung over his shoulder, as the shorter man dragged him away from the scene.

He tried his best to hold his stomach. In fact, it wasn’t really his stomach that was an issue anymore. Rather his head, which became scrambled, as he faded in and out of whatever this reality was. He stumbled, and dragged his feet, and at one point sent the two of them barrelling from the narrow walkway into a closed market stand where fish from the nearby waterways were sold in the early mornings. 

The pungent stench of fish guts snapped him out of his daze temporarily, and he saw that had landed directly on top of John in a tangle of arms and legs. The Scot moaned loudly under his breath like an animal in pain, but through bleary eyes, Simon could not see what had hurt him.

He stood and pulled John up with all the faded force of his own body. And John, who was adamant to get them to safety, obliged through the pain.

They approached a bridge, which would require them to pass underneath bathed in true darkness for at least one hundred paces. The river rushed below, and the embankment’s mud had slipped down across the path where it was tilled into deep furrows by the carts which came by in the mornings. Simon’s eyes would no longer stay open. It was as if he was being lulled to sleep, by some unknown force.

“Go,” he managed to whisper to John, as he dropped to his knees not even half the length of the tunnel.

Simon saw John’s face flood with regret. Or, at least he thought he did, for the tunnel’s shadows obscured most of his face. Was it regret for not being born a poor man, who would sling his own coal and carry timber to his own hearth in the winter? Or perhaps a soldier, again, who could carry the wounded so easily upon his back? No matter how he tried, he wouldn’t be able to lift Simon’s dead weight in this body cultivated by a lack of self-reliance and servant’s doting.

That’s when Simon saw the dark patch that seeped down the right-hand side of John’s body. Blood? The wound looked deep. He had done well to keep it quiet, but since he had insisted nothing was wrong, they had made the wrong choice. It would have been easier for John to have returned to the group, for Simon very much assumed they were after him, and him alone. 

His father could have bailed Simon out or given whatever ransom was required, and John would likely get away scot-free, after perhaps a visit to the hospital. Simon tried to open his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out. And, when he tried to lift his muscles, it was as if they were asleep.

“We’re not after ye’ boy,” came a heavy, Scottish accent. “Step aside and let us have that English pansy.”

John scoffed. His own accent came out dark and thick. It echoed through the tunnel in a booming fashion. “That’s my friend, and I don’t know what ye’ rotten bastards want with him.”

“That ‘friend’ of yours has a father that sullied our proud nation, lad. It would be wise of you to step aside, or I’ll have no choice but to cut you down.”

Two steps back, and John practically tripped over Simon’s limp form.

That’s when suddenly, and unbeknownst to the other, a strong memory engorged itself and blocked out all other thoughts. A memory evoked by the threat of danger, and the sound of trickling water. Two young boys, standing by a river.

They each saw that memory unfold exactly like the day it happened.

If Simon was conscious, he would have winced. It was a painful, horrible thing that happened, and he could only apologise many times over for what he did. But his body lay still, senses faded, save for his hearing which had not yet given out. He could hear the commotion through the echoes which bounced around the tunnel, but it was otherworldly, as if he was hearing it ten metres away from where his body lay in the dankness of the canal’s muddy embankment. 

And that was his last interaction with the world. He heard a sobbed out curse, and a scuffle of feet by his head, followed by footsteps which dripped with guilt that propelled themselves away from his body and down the opposite end of the tunnel. He had wished John would see sense, and do just that, but in practice it stung as he was abandoned to his fate.

II / FREEZE AND THAW

John tended the fire. He was always good at keeping the flames well fed, and ensured that the smoke tunnelled out in one long chute through the chimney of the dockyard cabin. He took pride in how neatly he could chop the logs, and how he could make their sparse supplies go a long way. It would be useful for the upcoming journey.

As he sat back, and the lumbar of his spine rested against the cabin wall, the scar in his side ached. It ached in the night, in the cold, and especially so when he was near water. He knew exactly why. 

This was his punishment.

Their last life, where he had been so young and foolhardy. He had been petrified of that memory, the one which he had seen many, many times before in all the lives prior. It was scary, of course, to see that animalistic presence behind young Simon’s eyes. At that time, every inch of his being had told him to run. To abandon his “friend” who had slain him remorselessly many times before.

But John knew how injured he was. Knew that the broken wooden slat of that market stall had pierced something important in his lower abdomen. So badly so, that not even five minutes down the road, he had collapsed under his own weight and bled out by morning.

John hated himself.

He cursed himself every waking moment at his own cowardice. Toiled over and over at the idea that fear would cause him to run away from anyone in need, be it friend, foe, or wherever Simon sat on that tricky scale.

The worst part was that Simon knew. He had seen that slightest glimmer of hope in his bleary, honey eyes die out as he turned heel to run away. Although the man who sat at the far side of the cabin and tapped out a rhythm on the cold floorboards with his knuckles hadn't said a word about it, he knew the mental scar that had left was probably far worse than his own physical one.

“Si?”

Simon looked up at him, and threw up the symbol for ok. He hadn’t really talked much since they met. At first, John thought he was just pissed off, but later discovered that Simon had lost most of his vocal function after a similar expedition, where he’d been crushed under an avalanche. They’d called it a miracle when they found him alive, but of course unless John was at the top of the mountain to kick the snow down himself, it would not have been able to kill him.

“Are you getting hungry?”

The man stopped drumming. He pulled out a small pocketbook and pencil and scribbled on the page.

Not for your cooking, I’m not.

Even without that heavy sarcastic tone that dripped from his voice, John could still hear it. In fact, he read all of Simon’s notes with the exact same annunciation the man would have used. A fault of knowing someone for far too long, he supposed.

“Very funny,” John scoffed in reply. “You can starve for all I care.”

Of course, he did care. He cared very much. For goodness sakes, whatever happened in this blasted life of theirs, he would do anything he could to keep them both alive this time.

The pot over the fire bubbled with a stew of dried meats they had stored in the cellar, beans, corn, and some stale ends of bread that would most definitely need the moisture to be edible. It wasn’t a pretty sight, nor a culinary revolution, but the hot broth warmed their cold bones just enough to keep off the chill of pneumonia.

He served two bowls.

They ate in a comfortable silence. Something they had gotten used to, for otherwise, John’s voice would go hoarse as he spoke enough words for the both of them. Occasionally, he vocalised an observation about the upcoming journey, their logistical needs, how much of every item he thought should be onboard. Simon would nod or shake his head, or gesture with his hands if needed. If he thought John was being a complete idiot he would have to write, but he did that as little as possible because he only had so many pages in the notebook.

It was three days until the journey. Three more days for him to ruminate over his mistakes, before he must put it all aside to concentrate on the job ahead. And, as he watched Simon slip his warm woollen scarf back over his scarred face, he thought about how all this time he’d had it easy. The deep, crooked scar which travelled across his abdomen was deserved. A payback of sorts, for all the years of faded scars he had plastered on Simon’s body.

“Right lads,” Moor spoke, as he took the first step onto the ship christened the Dobbs Galley .

Some expedition commissioned by some politician or other, to explore the North-West Passage for expansion of potential British trade routes. John had admittedly stopped listening after the first couple of sentences. He knew the goal, and knew the risks too. The journey would be bitterly cold, and at this time of year the ice sheet would cover most of the passage, which meant a slow crawl ahead for all the crew onboard.

He looked over at Simon, who rolled his eyes as the man flapped about duty, King and country.

When the speech finally crawled to an end, both men made their way to the assigned room below deck to put away their personal effects. John was somewhat pleased to know that he’d be bunked with Simon, their two slatted beds just barely apart on opposite walls of the very cramped space. It held the guarantee of a quiet roommate, with a similar sense of humour.

Rather selfishly, it would also give him a chance to apologise and ease the worry in his own mind.

John laid down on the mattress which proved to be as uncomfortable and lumpy as it looked, and watched as Simon unpacked his things. He didn’t have much. A couple of notepads, pencils, warm clothes, and some medical gear. John on the other hand had brought secret extras in the form of snacks, booze, cards and dice, and a pistol he had smuggled in his boot. All contraband, of course, but with enough good hiding places and a mute cabin mate, that wouldn’t be an issue.

“Never did ask, Si,” he began, and propped himself up on his arm to get a closer look at the man, “why’d ya get into exploring?”

Simon continued to unpack whilst he thought, almost as if he was trying to leave John hanging. John had learnt to have patience with the man, so he continued to analyse the way his hands moved as he folded away his things.

Money.

A simple answer, and more than likely a lie, for he had pulled that expression as he scribbled where he crinkled the bridge of his nose ever so slightly.

John hummed in return, but Simon began to scribble again.

And to get as far away from you as possible, not that it worked.

He had chuckled softly that time, and there was no crinkle of his brow. So, even though that was a joke, it was more the truth than his previous answer.

“Bog awf,” John replied with a harumph, and rolled onto his back again.

The ship rocked slightly as it left the port. The waters beyond the bay were cold, and choppy. But in this grand vessel, with a fully staffed crew, a little motion would do nothing to scare either man. They had lived plenty of lives, in plenty of boats, far worse than this one. 

Later that evening, they attended their first meeting. Every man piled around the large mapping table in the cramped captain’s cabin. Men were pressed shoulder to shoulder, and even if they wanted not to, they could not help but stand uncomfortably close. 

Not the first time, John thought with a silent chuckle. Last time they were in a cabin like this, they were closer still. 

Although, it had not gone amiss to him the way Simon shrank himself, and leaned more into the man on his opposing side than he did into John. The way his legs crossed uncomfortably underneath him, as if he wanted not even a boot to edge into John’s space.

He wondered when exactly that happened, for he was sure in their last life together he had seen the flush of the man’s neck as he rested heavy, longing eyes in quick glances over tankards of ale.

Maybe it was better this way.

John played cards by himself in their bunk, and ran some numbers game he had created. He may not have liked numbers when they were first a fad, but ever since, they had become a comfort to him. Set in logic, and science, and incredibly useful for so many things. He was just about to get a solid run when Simon returned from the deck, where he had retreated not long ago for some fresh air.

“Hey, wanna play?”

The man took one glance over in his direction and shook his head.

No matter, John thought, happy to be able to continue his run. The room was warm, with the two of them squashed inside, so he had peeled off a few layers to sleep. Although they were cursing the stuffiness now, it would be a relief when they reached the Arctic, and the heat of their bodies would keep out the chill of the cold. 

Simon changed now as well, and John casually peered over to him at just the right time to reveal his own initials embedded in his chest.

“Oh god… Si, I-”

His actions interrupted his words as he stepped from the bed and navigated himself to Simon’s position. Without thought, he lifted a hand to the engraving and rubbed his thumb tenderly over the raised skin. It brought back a wave of memories, of that short fortnight on the ship, of the slender frame and strange style he bore in that life, of the way he writhed and begged underneath him…

A fire ignited in both his cheeks and his loins.

He expected the same from Simon. But, as he looked up to meet his gaze, he was surprised to find the man’s face looked sour. Distant, even. He made no attempt to push John away, sure, but the uncomfortable crease pressed into his forehead was enough for John to know to back off.

“Fuck, sorry Si,” he said, and took two steps back before he bumped the cabin wall.

Simon threw on his undervest and breeches and climbed into his bunk facing the wall. John lingered.

But in the end, he decided not to pursue an answer to the question which fought to find a way out from between his lips. They had tens upon tens of nights ahead in this room, and there was no reason to start a fight on the first day. He took to his own bed again, cleared his card set, and lay down atop the thin blanket to wait for the sound of Simon softly snoring.

It was a rough night. Whatever trickster had bound them together pulled its usual strings, and he found that the desperation in his loins which had sparked from touching that scar earlier just would not subside. Of course, this just had to happen after Simon had enough of him, otherwise the night may have ended quite differently.

He did not get a wink of sleep.

“Good morning,” he mumbled into his pillow when he saw Simon stir. 

It was, in fact, not a good morning. He could already hear the heavy rain crash down on the bough of the ship. And, on top of his miserable tiredness, he was still undeniably lustful which he only managed to hide as he pressed his entire body front-down into the bed.

Simon looked his way and gestured hello with his hands, before he pulled the pillow closer to his face.

He looked sweet. Sweet for a usually murderous fool, anyways.

“Sleep well?” John mused. There was an air of disdain in his voice.

Simon nodded; eyes still squeezed tightly shut. John knew he hadn’t slept perfectly, as he fought nightmares throughout the night as he always had done.

“C’mon, stop rubbing it in now.”

The blond finally roused, stretched, looked over at John’s awkward positioning, ignored the thoughts that conjured, and finally after that long routine grabbed his notebook.

Did you not sleep?

“Did I heck, been laying here all night wide awake. I’m knackered…”

Simon pondered for a moment. He stood up and stretched again, and John watched the light reflect wistfully off his pale skin, and from the softness of the fine, blond hairs which trailed from his navel downwards beyond his clothing.

He looked ethereal. John regretted every damn word he said to discourage this angel’s affections.

The moment lasted all too shortly, as Simon donned his clothing. He took the pencil up again and scribbled a longer message this time.

I’ll tell the captain you are ill, and I’ll cover your duties. You owe me. Get some sleep.

Music to his ears, John thought. Or eyes, really. He thanked Simon and watched as the man trudged out of the door towards the canteen. His footsteps got quieter before the sound disappeared entirely.

It didn’t take long after that, until he gave into his vile desires and began to palm at his hardness through the fabric of his breeches. It was sensitive and sore at first, an entire night of that cruel tempest which pumped and whirled thoughts around his mind with no relief. After a few moments, he could not help but reach across the small space between their bunks to grab the pillow that Simon had been crushing between his chest and the mattress minutes earlier. 

He inhaled deeply the scent which clung to the rough silk.

It was abhorrent, the way that those memories flooded back so quickly. Memories where, just like now, he had his face pressed into a dirty pillow, to eagerly drink up the scent of sex. A sick, sinful pleasure, entirely unbeknownst to the other man. 

His mind wandered now, and he wondered if he did know. Somehow. If, perhaps, he could feel the heat rising in his own stomach. And, if he did know, if he were to walk in right now, to see John’s eyes roll back as he shuddered through waves of bliss, what exactly would he say?

He was reluctant to answer as he came down from his self-inflicted haze.

This was something Simon never needed to know…

After he had cleaned up any sign of his indiscretion, and returned the pillow to its rightful place, he slept soundly. So soundly, in fact, that he missed both breakfast and luncheon, and only rose for supper because Simon had been sent to collect him. Simon, who shook him awake with a firmness in his grip that startled John damn near out of bed for fear he knew what had happened. Thankfully, though, he was none the wiser.

Long days and longer nights still, before the ship finally crashed against the first great chunk of ice.

They had developed a routine of sorts, on the days Simon was feeling amicable. They would work together in the day, eat supper together, and then retreat to their cabin for cards or a small, secret tipple from John’s contraband grog. Some of their shipmates found it odd, the wordless easiness of both their friendship and collaboration. But to them, it was normal, to know just how the other took his chai, or each other’s preferred food from the ship’s meagre offerings, or even just the way John could understand Simon through hand signals alone.

Moor stood; lips pressed into a firm flat line as the ship ever so slowly crept through the ice. “Will you keep watch tonight, lads?” He asked. 

And by asked, that meant told.

So, there they stood, shoulder to shoulder under sleety rain and bracing winds, as they watched out over a vast, icy plateau of nothingness.

“Bloody freezing out here,” John complained after all but 5 minutes.

Simon shuffled, and kicked his feet into the mushy, icy mixture which puddled around his boots. A strange look in his eyes, like there was something wrong, a crease pressed tightly into his brow. He became distant like this sometimes, when the two of them were alone. Like their first night on the ship where he had seemingly just shut down and ceased to acknowledge John’s existence.

It was awkward.

John could broach the conversation, but he knew that Simon probably wouldn’t spill anything. Or maybe he was just putting off further awkwardness that would ensue if he asked. It was hard when they were stuck in such proximity not only tonight, but for the long, foreseeable future.

He shivered hard as he pondered what to say. And that is when he felt something warm over his trembling shoulders. It was a heavy, weighty material, which he took no time at all to pull into himself for the heat. It smelled like tobacco, salt, and musk.

One glance up at Simon revealed his now bare face, his lips pursed into a straight line as he watched the horizon. Like he tried hard to look anywhere but at John.

“Right,” John said, and turned to face him with the scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. “What’s wrong?”

Simon shook his head and waved his hand.

“Don’t nothings wrong me, Simon,” the Scot replied, as he interpreted his actions into words for him. “I can see it in your eyes.”

The blond rolled said eyes as he always did, and turned, as if to walk away. He didn’t get far, though, as John grabbed the crook of his arm and muscled him back around so that he was forced to face him.

“John, leave it,” Simon croaked, barely a whisper. He hardly used his voice at all since the accident. 

John sighed. He wanted to respect Simon’s wishes, but he couldn’t help but think this was still about him. Or, about them, he supposed. About what had happened when they were young and stupid and reckless.

“Is it… Because of what I did before we died?”

The words fell from his mouth before he could stop them. He had to say something before Simon could pull away again. Whilst he couldn’t hide his emotions behind the thick wool of the scarf. In reply, Simon said nothing. But the slight tug of the corner of his lip into a frown gave John everything he needed to know.

“Si, I was a fool for what I did. I- I… I’m sorry.”

The apology was pitiful, to say he’d had thirty years to ruminate on it. But, he assumed Simon wouldn’t accept it even if he’d written him a damn sonnet in confession of his deepest, darkest regrets. He watched, as Simon’s eyes scanned his own, as they flitted momentarily down to his lips, and then rapidly down to the floor.

And that’s when John made a reckless move. He stood on his tiptoes, and used his purchase on Simon’s arm to pull the man’s upper body down to his level. 

Then he kissed him.

His lips were cracked, and cold.

John felt as part of Simon relaxed into the motion. The same part that allowed him to linger there for just a few seconds, his lips slightly apart, to inhale John’s apology like it was oxygen. But then, the walls went back up, twice as high and twice as thick. He pulled away, not so fast that it seemed he was disgusted, but slowly and purposefully as if in his own mind he relented the decision. 

“Si?” John pleaded, and wondered if he’d overstepped. Assumed so, by the pained expression on the other man’s face.

Simon walked away, but his scarf remained tightly wrapped around John’s shoulders.

Another fortnight had passed since their unrequited kiss. The boat had taken a bad turn, and had sustained damage against a large boulder in the ice, where they had been forced to make an emergency dock out of a shallow divot in the Chesterfield inlet.

The shore was barren here. Just ice and rock and emptiness.

They had stayed on the ship for at least the warmth of wooden walls surrounding them. But on the days where the hull was undergoing repairs, they were forced to disembark, and instead made do with the warmth of ice packed into mounds. The dugout interiors at least offered a place to stand without the chill of the wind against one’s back.

It was in one such ice-hovel, that Simon was rasped for breath in a way that made John think his windpipe had been crushed again. He coughed, too, and had complained that it was too warm under their icy cover. They both knew the risks associated with being in the cold for too long. And, in that small shelter, it was certainly not warm.

“Back aboard!” Someone yelled, and John took Simon’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him back to the warmth of the ship.

Just like last time, John supposed.  Only this time, he would not leave Simon behind.

They entered their cabin, where John helped Simon down onto his bunk. He shivered terribly. Even with both of their blankets on top of him, his core temperature would not warm up enough to stave off this illness.

“I’m getting in there with you,” John asserted.

Simon raised an eyebrow in complaint, but John was having none of it, as he slipped off his sodden overclothes and crawled under the linens with him.

He had seen Simon’s body in many lights before. Kissed him lustfully, once, or twice. Kissed him tenderly just that one time… Fought him, grabbed, and tackled him, rolled around in mud and blood and deluge underneath him. But this was different.

There was something intimate about this. Even as he told himself it was solely for the purpose of sharing warmth.

John looped his arms around Simon’s waist. It was slender, for the size of his frame, but broader than those of the women he had almost exclusively lay with over the past ten centuries or so. The too-shallow rise and fall of his chest and the rapid beating of his heart were the most tangible symptoms right now, save for perhaps the shivering which John attempted to quell with a tighter squeeze around his abdomen.

Maybe if Simon had a voice, he would have complained. If he had the strength to let his sarcasm seep out on paper, he might have bothered to reach for his pencil. But he was tired, and John could tell by the way he softened into him that he was in no mood to push back against this.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

John heard him begin to snore, quietly at first. It was the first sleep he’d seen him get in days, and so he did not dare to wake him, despite it being only mid-afternoon. They stayed that way for a long while, and it was as John’s own eyes were about to close that he was swept up into a tight grip that damn near crushed him. Wrapped in a tangle of arms and legs as Simon had rolled over to intertwine the two of them, his soft blond locks brushed under John’s chin as his head rested on John’s shoulder. There was a strange feeling which thrummed between their scars. Not in that shocking way that felt like lightning, but rather the feeling of a warm hearth on a cold night.

At that moment, this felt like home.

Two days later, he buried Simon.

A small grave on the shore, which overlooked the rising sun. It had been almost impossible to break through the icy soil, but it was the least he deserved. To follow through in this life, what he could not have done in the last.

There was an extended silence in the seat of the divines.

Conflict was away, in some other place, no doubt the cause of some mischief or other. So Sickness has worked his mage craft once again, encouraged by Fate, who thanked him as he slinked out of the room.

Love, surprisingly, was not upset. In fact, she seemed quite content by whatever had just happened on the ice sheet below, as if she had heard unspoken promises whispered under sheets that nobody else could hear.

“Are you alright, Love?” Fate asked, as she stepped over and placed a tender palm on the top of her ethereal head. She further indulged herself as she secured a flyaway strand around her finger, and twisted it perfectly back into place.

Love was still quiet, as if she was pondering something.

“What’s got you worried?” She asked again, after having grown more concerned by the silence.

“They are going to be on the other side of the world now,” Love finally replied, “but I know they will find each other.”

Fate bit her lip. That hadn’t been her plan. But as she looked below, she watched Conflict’s vile tendrils steer the ship toward American shores, rather than back to the English port it was intended at.

“Dear me,” she sighed. She would have to tweak a few things in the timeline yet to come.

III / A COUPLE OF LIVES IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES

The first misshapen life began as Simon found himself on a boat in Boston’s harbour. He didn’t want to be anywhere near this god forsaken part of the world after what happened last time he was here on the seas, but life had other plans.

It was unexpected then, that after the tea tumbled into the harbour, and after all the hostilities had died down, that he would find himself alone in some dark corner of the dock where he filled his pipe with tobacco and blew smoke which billowed in plumes into the night’s air.

Of course, his uniform stuck out like a sore thumb. An officer of the British, brave enough to swan about in these parts, unaccompanied? It’s like he asked for trouble to greet him.

He knew he was safe. He’d not stumbled across John in this life, and so any attack on himself would be miraculously survived . The thought of John left him to ponder what ever did become of him after their expedition. If he ever did make it back to British shores, or if he too had perished to the chill of the icy waters.

He fell into deep thought as the end of his pipe glowed with a bright orange crackle. 

As he leant back, and rested his body against the hull of a ship run ashore for repairs, he hummed to himself. The large bough occasionally shifted beneath him when a high wave tugged at its anchor, an unsuccessful attempt to reclaim the vessel back into the water where it would surely sink. 

Just like his last life. Comparisons to that blue-eyed man who, like the tide, could not decide whether he was coming or going. 

First, the innocuous way in which he wormed himself into Simon’s heart, his smile, charm, sarcasm, and wit all bundled into one irresistible package. Then, after he had found out about Simon’s feelings , he was apologetic, unphased by the emotion itself, and more concerned about how he hurt Simon in the process. Followed by lust. More likely from months of being pent up at sea than anything else. Those tempting kisses that led to heartbreak and betrayal, followed by further temptations in the form of an apologetic, lustful, final moment, where they had been pressed chest to chest as the ship had gone under.

And then he pulled away.

Why had he pulled away? Because of the thoughts of others? Something deeply ingrained in his own morality, perhaps? 

But in respect of his wishes, Simon had made no attempt to pursue.

That would have been just fine, until the man kissed him again. And Simon didn’t know if it was some cruel trick like it had been before.

John didn’t like him, he thought. Not in that way at least. John would never see him in the same way that he saw John. He closed himself off to him for a reason, for every time that devil charmed his way back back like the waves on the shore, he lost a part of himself, swept away in the back current.

John, who had everything he wanted in each of his lives, slowly collected more of these pieces of Simon, before Simon would surely crumble under the weight of his own self-inflicted suffering. 

“Oi!”

The noise tore him out of his daydream. A small drunken mob leered closer, celebrating their actions in turning the harbour dark with the fruits of British trade. Simon didn’t care for them. He didn’t care either, when they started to roll up the sleeves of their coats. He sighed, and reached for the pistol strapped into the holster on his thigh.

“I suggest you move along, lads,” he offered, and flashed just enough of the barrel from under his coat to show that he was armed.

The group chortled and moved closer still. “Why would we? You’re on our soil now, English.”

Simon didn’t have time for this. For the restlessness that came from fights with lesser men. Either he prevails here and they end up dead, or he gets beaten down but they will never end him. They can’t.

Or so he thought.

For as he fired a warning shot at the feet of the ringleader, the bullet skipped unusually. It shouldn’t have been able to bounce in that trajectory, not unless there was some debris or stone that had been obliterated by the impact. But he was positive that he had not seen anything there, or he wouldn’t have taken the risk.

He watched, in horror, as the bullet soared and struck a hooded, older man at the back of the group, who let out a pained “oomph” and dropped to the floor.

His scar seared suddenly, as if he was the one the bullet had pierced.

Another man in the group ducked down to tend to him. “Fuck, he’s got John!”

John…

He hadn’t noticed that gentle hum of their closeness. Nor felt the thrum against his shoulder. He guessed he had shut it out, in all their recent close proximity, or he may have gone insane in that tiny cabin. What the hell was he doing here anyway? And why, no matter which bloody corner of the world Simon would hide himself in, did John always seem to find him.

He looked down at John’s body, and winced. It had been a complete accident. John probably didn’t even know it was Simon who fired the bullet.

After a few quiet seconds, Simon was swarmed by the mob. 

In the second of their misaligned lives, Simon attempted to keep his feet firmly on land. Life at sea, and as he had travelled from port to port, had not been kind to him in the lives prior.

Of course, it didn’t last long. Only thirty-two years in fact.

He was given a musket and pushed aboard a ship which sailed to Cape Trafalgar. They were to fight the French, which at first didn’t seem all that dangerous, apart from when his shoulder started to tingle in that itchy, familiar manner.

Was John also aboard their ship? He’d not seen him in the line to gather a gun. 

But no.

For something had gone very, very wrong in this life.

As the stern of two ships collided, and the French stormed aboard, he saw a short, athletic man jump the gap in an agile manner. Not Napoleon himself as the stories had told, but rather a man who sported a set of bright blue eyes, a scar across his chin, and a strange haircut.

The man dashed at him. The resemblance? Uncanny.

“Simon? Is that you?” The man had yelled over the general ruckus, and stopped dead in his tracks. Only it wasn’t his normal voice that came from his mouth, but rather a thick, Parisian accent.

The blond ducked, as he dodged a flying piece of debris. “John?”

“It’s Jean, actually!” John replied, and stumbled as the ship was shunted once again.

“Why… Why are you French!?”

John, or Jean, or whatever the man was called these days chortled loudly. “Honestly, I wish I knew!”

Simon looked around at the destruction. Men slaying men, with passion and fire in their eyes. Men, who would not come back after death, who feared death more than they feared anything else. Those with families at home, who had wives, children, lived lives beyond all this war and devastation.

Then his eyes settled on the man across from him. Born in an unfamiliar country, and raised by parents a tad different to his last. A man whose only constant was a set of scars on his body, and the knowledge that at some place, at some time, he would meet the man who would kill him for it to all happen again.

“Do you like being French?”

A question which to most would sound idiotic, but being a proud Scotsman was around seventy-five percent of John’s personality. This was not just a case of a man taken from his home, but taken from his home for the past few hundred lives.

“Not really,” he replied with a shrug.

Simon raised his musket lazily, pressing the barrel against John’s heart. His finger was not on the trigger.

“You do me, I’ll do you. I’ll see you in the next life?”

John looked confused. “I get you want to put me out of my misery, but what do you have to lose?”

In return, Simon laughed. The reason was stupid.  “Just don’t want to be a senile old fool, next time we meet.”

John shrugged in acceptance. It had happened before, when one of them lived. Simon remembered hardly being able to lift John through the door of his clinic, when that nasty plague business travelled about. And he was sure that John remembered being blind as a bat before then, a doddery old priest looking over texts with no strength to fight.

There was no passion in being old. 

No virility.

In all of his favourite past lives, he had been old enough to know a thing or two, but not so old that life had started to chisel away at the features on his face or the bones under his skin.

“Alright then,” John replied. “On the count of three?”

One.

Un.

Two.

Deux.

Three!

Trois!

Two gunshots, simultaneously. The realignment was complete.

Conflict flew into his usual rage. Apparently, Fate’s little amendments to allow the timeline to continue as planned had ruined something or other. Nobody was quite sure what, for the man was beside himself with anger and could not explain with his face remaining a neutral shade.

Love giggled. She found it all highly amusing.

That’s what you get, Fate thought, as it really was Conflict’s fault for messing with the Scottish one’s ship in the first place.

Chapter Text

I / WE’RE JUST NORMAL MEN

John did not remember much of the previous two lives.

He knew that he was born on unfamiliar soil, raised with a new language in which he was now quite usefully fluent, and he and Simon had entered some sort of pact of mutual destruction. But now, he did slightly resent his rapidity to throw that life away. His wage wasn’t excellent as a soldier of the French army, but it paid his dues at least. And, although he wasn’t tied down romantically, he had found himself rather sweet on a few Parisian beauties.

So much different to this life, in which abject poverty had become rife in towns across the whole of Britain despite the beginning of what the papers were calling “the Industrial Revolution”. Consumerism at its finest, where the rich wanted more and more, and the poor worked in dangerous conditions to provide the demanded goods. He sat on the factory wall and stared at his hands. 

They were not in this life marred by war, or by swords or rifles. No. Instead they were damaged by spades, and saws, and great big machines that were considered a true feat of modern engineering.

He wore a glove on his left hand, after two of his fingers were lost to a nasty injury a few weeks prior with a sheet metal press. That was not the worst part though, as now he had been given the boot for not being able to keep up with demand.

It was a long trudge home, where he opened the door to his too-small worker’s cottage, crammed together in the midst of one hundred others.

“Darling!” He called out to his wife, who rushed from the kitchen at his call.

She took him by the hand, and stroked the apple of his cheek with her apron to rid him of whatever muck he’d gotten plastered on there.

It was a small comfort, to have her in his life.

He told her what had happened, and that he’d be down at the foreman’s house first thing in the morning to see which other factories needed labour. Thankfully, jobs were plentiful, and as these booming factories struggled to keep up with the demand for more workers, they would take on anyone with a clean record. Sometimes even people without one.

In the meantime, he visited their local pub where he soused himself in beer and wallowed. It was quiet, actually, and he’d propped himself up at a stool by the bar. The street outside was in some sort of uproar, as was common at this time of night. If it wasn’t drunken revellers, it was protesters, and if not protesters, some sort of neighbourly dispute that was cursed to occur when houses are but inches apart and walls are paper thin.

A shrill whistle penetrated the air.

Mumbles around the pub that the coppers were coming, and a few more shady-looking folk slinked away to the back. John didn’t care either way. He had nothing to hide himself, but also, no interest in being a snitch on the vagabonds he shared the bar stools with.

He supped the bitter drink from the tankard and wondered why men always turned to poison to cure themselves of their ills.

Another shrill whistle tone. A scuffle.

His head hurt from the long day in the factory. His ears rang, with that same high pitched resonance that was always there, even when he slept. Some doctor had told him it was affecting all of the factory workers, some sort of damage that could be caused by loud noise and over exposure.

Doors creaked open forcefully. Silence crept across the room.

“Another please, barman,” John asked. The barman grabbed his glass, whilst a keen eye remained on the man as he entered.

Said man sat on the stool beside John. “Make it two.”

John hadn’t needed to turn his head to know that voice. In fact, he’d known by his footsteps and the prickle of the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Evening, officer,” he sniggered sarcastically.

Simon rolled his eyes, and took his handkerchief from his pocket to dab against his bust lip. Another scene repeating itself, only the last time it was from a fight with his own demons, and not the demons of the scourge that made up the civilian populace of the London Metropolitan.

“Your hand?” Simon asked, as if to draw the conversation away from himself. His eyes were settled firmly on the way John cupped his hand around his own bicep, extra cautious without those missing phalanges. 

John felt the space where his fingers should be. Their absence ached. Like a phantom, it almost felt as if they were still attached.

“From work,” he replied curtly, as he reached for the beer the barman had just poured and took a large swig.

He felt Simon look him up and down. His analysis of whoever the man sat before him was this life. And John wondered, did his clothes being torn and patched make the man think less of him? Did the dirt married inseparably to the pores in his face disgust him? Was Simon, beside him in a freshly pressed uniform and polished boots, happier in this life than he, in his holey socks and factory smog?

But then, as he glanced at the empty ring finger on Simon’s left hand, he knew that he would always have one thing that Simon never would. That stung a little to think about, so he could not imagine how it made the taller man feel.

It became a little tradition of theirs, whenever the man was on this side of town.

He would always pop in for a drink if he sensed John was there, sometimes two on quieter days. They would talk in the same way that all men talked. About work mostly, or sports, or the weather. But it was noticeable that there was a hard shell there, which cocooned the emotional, sentimental part of Simon’s heart. He never let it out during their conversations. He kept things polite, cordial at best.

That was until, one day, John opened up about his wife.

It wasn’t technically about his wife herself, but rather, the idea of family.

“Did you ever want children, Si?” He had asked innocently, as he rapped his knuckles against the bar top.

Simon pursed his lips into a line. “I don’t think it is on the cards for me.”

Of course, John hadn’t really thought about the biological aspect of things when he’d asked. Judging by the way Simon’s eyes had settled somewhere in the mid-distance, he imagined he had touched a nerve.

“Oh… Um…” he stuttered, upon realisation of the mistake he had made. He chose instead to weave it into a tale. “My wife and I are trying. Have been for years now. I wonder if we even can with the whole…” 

He gestured wildly with his hands, an implication that he meant their situation with the tricky reincarnation business.

Simon blinked a few times, and looked straight at him. “You got married?”

He realised that he hadn’t opened up at all about the personal part of his life, mainly because it seemed like Simon didn’t want to know. His ring finger was lost in the accident, so he did not wear any noticeable jewellery suggesting as much.

“Y- yeah. Her name is Rose – you can meet her if you like.”

“Congratulations,” came the response. It wasn’t a warm celebration, but not cold either. He didn’t seem hurt, didn’t storm away, or get emotional. Just that same, straight-lined mouth and dead look in his eyes.

A silence filled the space between them. John didn’t know how to take his reaction, or what Simon thought about him these days. It had been a century since they last shared any vaguely romantic touch, and even then, he’d been reluctant.

“What about you, Si?” He asked, and childishly hoped that there was good news.

Simon hopped down from the stool, and finished the last dregs of his drink in one motion. 

“What a stupid question,” was all he said, before he picked up his coat and left. He spared no glance in John’s direction.

After that, he did not see Simon again for quite some time. A couple of years at least. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know of his presence. He still felt him from time to time if he was in the area. Still heard of his movements from his fellow workers. Seemed he’d gained a bit of a reputation for being a hard arse, overzealous, and always on the job.

But of course, he was.

John knew he wouldn’t have made any friends. None that he cared enough about to know them outside of work, at least. He would not have anyone to come home to at night. Then he’d pushed away the only person who could give him anything like either of those scenarios. For despite all the happiness Rose brought him in his life, he could not help but think in his more lustful nights of the way Simon’s waist had felt, or the unexpected softness of his hair, or the way he’d traced the raised scars under his thumb.

No good would be brought if he dwelled on such things.

Their strange, informal courtship or sorts that had only come to head in a few, shaken moments across a couple of centuries was very much over. Not only that, the world was getting darker for people like Simon. For both of their sakes, and even more than before, they could not let themselves fall into that again.

II / COPS AND ROBBERS

“What about you, Si?”

What about him? 

He was forced to quench the horrible taste in his mouth with the last of the beer from his cup, although it didn’t do much good. The taste remained, and the alcohol only added to his bitterness.

Did he just ask that? Really?

The announcement of his marriage didn’t bother him all that much. It was expected, in fact, that he would find someone in every life. It was a normal, human tendency to want to live with a companion and confidante. He knew John was handsome, funny, and kind, and just a catch for any young lass who had the misfortune to stumble across his bawdy arse.

But to ask a question he damn well knew the answer to. And for it to come from his mouth?

He stood up, and headed for the door. It would have pained him too much to look back, as he didn’t know when he would show his face again.

That night, he’d had another close call. A robbery at the steelworks again, on top of the four earlier in the week. Yet another mugging on Main Street, followed by armed attackers down the bad end of town. A stinging bruise formed on his right shin where one of them had swung with a long timber, in an attempt to kneecap him, but they thankfully missed.

Although he worked himself to the bone most days, today had just tipped him over the edge.

He’d gotten a bit too hands-on, and beat a vagrant who was caught pinching pocket change. Excessive force, and he knew it, but he needed to blow off steam somehow. It backfired, and he was dismissed for the night to go and think about his priorities.

But there was nowhere for him to go.

He hopped in the back of a taxi carriage, and directed the coachman to his home address. Or that was where he had planned to go, at least, before he felt that sudden, familiar sensation smack him in the chest. He called the man to halt two miles short of his requested termination point, threw too much money into his outstretched palm, and hopped down from the back before the man could stop to give him the change.

It was hard to follow the sensation. Much harder than it used to be.

He had to concentrate deeply, and think before every turn, but eventually he came across a large clothing factory which had just closed for the evening. Men, women, and young folk streamed out of the main gate, and those who caught a glance of him cowered or scuttled away as they always did. He knew his reputation preceded him, and not in a good way. He had no clue it was this dire.

A familiar accent.

Laughter, from somewhere behind the wall, and chatter amongst a few others.

Simon knew that would feel him there, too. He had a keener sense for it than John, but at this distance it should be no issue. So he gave him a choice. Instead of putting him on the spot, he hid behind a parked carriage and pulled out his pipe. Could it be called a test? Possibly. But he could not hide the other reason, that he was too anxious to talk to him unprompted.

Anxious?

God, what was this weakness? How could he let him get under his skin in such a way? But he couldn’t help but feel his heart clench as those footsteps and the braying laughter drew closer, and that same bitter taste erupted in his mouth which he’d swilled out with booze and tobacco two years ago.

The footsteps stopped. Cautious. 

A choice being made.

“Sorry fellas, got to stop off somewhere, catch you all tomorrow.”

A sense of calm flooded Simon’s mind, like a warm rain over a parched field in the summer. Those piercing blue eyes shifted into view before the rest of him. His small, shy smile. His radiance.

“Simon.”

That voice. He’d missed that stupid voice. The way his lips curled around the harshness of the consonants. The way he would tilt his head just slightly as he said it, probably unbeknownst to him.

“John.”

The man looked around, cautiously. He acted a little odd, but this was his place of work, so who knows what he had been up to or which enemies he’d made. He gestured to start walking with a quick nod of his head.

Simon followed. He hated that he followed. Same instinctual reaction as a dog called to heel. 

“We can’t talk here,” John said softly, “but I’ve got some good news. Will you come to my house? Meet Rose?”

Simon nodded before he could think. But, even had he thought, he would have agreed. After all, he had nowhere else to go but to chase the bottom of a tankard or mull about in his home with the curtains drawn and the oil lamps burning low.

It was a short walk to John’s home. John’s new home, in fact, for he had moved from the cramped, one-bed terrace into a modest two-bed. Simon agonised over the feminine charm that the place emitted. 

He was smoke, and fire, and death.

She was lace curtains. Hand embroidered.

John fiddled with the key in the latch. Simon thought he saw the drapes twitch.

This was a mistake, he decided. The thought replayed, over and over. Especially so when the door pushed open, and a small figure stood on the other side and gargled some string of syllables that sounded like papa. When John took the small figure up into his arms with pride written across his face, and when he kissed the lad on the cheek with glee. Then, the movement from the kitchen just down the hall where a fair, red-headed woman bustled over a pot, her stomach heavy with another blessing.

Simon hadn’t realised that he’d stopped breathing entirely.

“This is your uncle Simon,” John cooed as he took the chubby hand of his bairn, and made him wave in Simon’s direction.

A voice echoed through the walls from the kitchen. “Shut the door, love! It’s nithering!”

Another Scot. As if Simon needed any more of those bastards running around.

He cautiously accepted John’s invitation inside, only because to leave now would be to give up on John in this life. And he did not want that again, no matter how overwhelmed he was.

John walked him to a small sitting room, where he took quickly to the armchair with his boy on his lap. Simon followed, and did not seat himself until John insisted. Rose brought them tea. She looked Simon over with a curious glance, before she toddled off to the back of the house.

“What’s his name?” Simon asked, and watched as the boy crawled across the floor.

John laughed. There was a mixture of awkward discomfort and true humour there.

“We named him Riley… After an old friend.”

Simon spat out the gulp of tea he’d just sipped. “John… Wha- Why? I’ve been a fuc-” he looked down at the little boy who tugged at his shoelace before he reworded the sentiment. “I’ve been a terrible friend.”

John shook his head and sat back. He looked truly smitten.

Something unreadable in his eyes.

Simon was unsure how to react to the small bundle of energy that had now pulled the lace out of its neat knot, and now used his sore leg as a balance to stand.

“Thought Simon was a bit too on the nose,” John laughed.

The blond hummed, and held out a gloved hand out for the boy to grab onto. Tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb as he steadied himself. It was surreal. Then young Riley took one step, two, stumbled a little, three, four.

He committed the look on John’s face that moment to the fondest parts of his memory.

“Love…!” John shot up from his chair in a mixture of panic and excitement. “Come quick! He’s walking!”

Rose rushed into the room to see the last of Riley’s steps, before he was scooped up into John’s eagerly awaiting arms. She joyfully kissed the boy’s forehead and gave John a peck on the lips for good measure.

And that’s when Simon knew.

He would live this life as he had before. To support John from the side-lines, and watch as his own heart crumbled once more just to bear witness to that beautiful smile which would erupt on his face. Domestic bliss, experienced from the outside. Just a peek through the glass, as he waited for the curtains to be drawn.

He became a watcher in their lives, and sat most nights at their dinner table. Rose had more than welcomed him, especially after she found out that he was the namesake of their son.

Watched as John’s boy walked, and learned, and talked more. 

Felt warmed to his core as John taught the boy his name, over and over. Simon. Your Uncle Simon. 

Watched Rose get bigger, took over with help in the kitchen when her feet ached too much to stand. 

Paid for the new baby’s bassinet, much to their protest. Insisted that he wanted the best for them. Always brought Riley small things, little wooden carvings, and trinkets. 

The sincerely thankful tears John had cried when Simon had rushed the local matron in the back of his police carriage when Rose had delivered early. 

The look on John’s face, at a beautiful and healthy baby girl. 

The way that he hugged Simon first, out of all the people in the room.

His heart beat so hard in his chest as they embraced.

That oh so familiar scent, unchanged.

Then nothing, all over again, as he watched John become smitten with his little girl. They named her Mary and gave her the world.

Watched as Riley grew.

How his eyes darkened, and hair lightened. Noticed his skin tone was pallid, nary a freckle nor mark on his body.

How every day he looked a little less like his father.

The snow had settled heavy in the borough, and even the horse carts from the surrounding factories struggled with the traction. Record levels, they had said. Simon wasn’t so sure. He’d seen heavier snow before. But, he did suppose that was almost one thousand years ago when carts and goods did not barrel up and down the road at all hours, day and night.

It was after he had helped to free one such cart that a gentleman inside thanked him, one of John’s friends he seemed to think.

“The factory open today lad?” He asked, as he looked at the man’s lack of usual tattered garb.

“No sir,” the man replied, steadying his overly excited horse, “closed for the day for lack of supply. They can’t get the wool for the looms out of the port!”

Simon thanked him, and rather intrepidly set off on foot to John’s for a midday break. It was unusual for him to visit at this time, but he knew John wouldn’t mind. And, if young Riley was there, he could show him his shiny uniform which he loved so much. Maybe if the toy shop was open, he could stop in fo-

Another stuck cart. Once again, Simon provided aid.

It was not hard to tell that with John in his life again, he had softened.

He checked his pocket watch when the wheels of the cart were finally unstuck, another thankful gesture from the man inside. No time for the toy shop, unfortunately, but time enough for a cup of chai and to play a game of cops and robbers with his favourite little lad. Maybe this time, he would hide behind the curtains. Riley was too smart to hide behind the armchair anymore.

The steps were icy. He kicked away the snow with his boot, and did not fret about the frozen slush that seeped into his sock. He’d rather Rose not slip as she walked down carrying Mary, or…

He saw the door was ajar.

Only slightly, and not enough to see from the street. But enough for small hands to easily push open and run out into the road. He tutted. They had never been so careless.

“John? Rose?” He called at the door, and when nobody answered, he stepped inside.

The silence alarmed him.

He didn’t hear the children. So maybe they were out? Had forgotten to shut the door behind them whilst Riley played in the snow?

Simon thought he heard a noise in one of the rooms upstairs. Then, he heard Rose yelp out, and he rushed forward with a sudden force of protective energy. An altercation? A break in?

It was only when he’d crashed the door down with his shoulder that he realised that this was not an altercation at all.

“Oh my god, Simon!” She yelped, and pulled the sheets over her exposed bosom.

But Simon wasn’t interested in ogling her chest, rather, the man beside her in bed, who was not her husband. And the man, who very clearly knew who he was, donned his undergarments and nothing else before he ran from the house and out into the snow.

“Simon, please-” 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He took two steps towards her form, which cowered behind that blanket, and resisted the urge to strike her. Not in disparagement of her infidelity, but rather, for the hurt she had caused his friend.

The woman whimpered and attempted to shuffle into her slip without removing the sheet. “He - he doesn’t need to know!” 

Simon turned his head and gave her the privacy at least to dress herself, not that there was anything on display of interest to him. She didn’t know that, of course.

“Where are the children?” He asked calmly, which somehow made him seem scarier.

“They’re with John, at the park – please Simon let me explain!”

She had finally wriggled into the slip and darted across the bed, where she stood with arms wide across the door so that Simon could not leave. He could absolutely leave, if he wanted to. But he wanted answers, and so he waited, arms crossed tightly across his chest..

“I don’t know what is wrong with John, but the matron thought that maybe he was sterile. Simon, we tried for so long, you don’t know how much it broke him.”

“And what about now?” Simon replied, his eyes flicked back to the bed where he’d just seen the two caught up in their tango. “Surely now you can at least be fucking faithful, you’ve got two beautiful children.”

“Simon… You don’t understand,” she whispered, looking at her feet. “It’s hard, never quite being able to get what you want.”

But Simon did understand. He understood that all too well. 

It made him seethe, that the woman who stood before him would throw away the thing that he had wanted for so long but was unable to have.

He was careful as he pushed her aside. Firm enough to get her out of his way, gentle enough not to hurt something so dear to his friend. Then he rushed for the door, and down the same icy steps he had cleared only minutes before.

The park was close, and he could afford a few extra minutes.

He could hear them already from halfway down the street, the childish giggles and yells and shrieks which often would make him beam with his own joy. When he turned the corner, he found John, as he sat on a short, brick wall. He rocked Mary in the beautiful brass pram Simon had bought for them, insistent that just the bassinet would not be enough, and that he wanted her to ride around like a princess. Riley played in the snow, and rolled big balls of it up into human-like shapes.

He couldn’t do it.

He was about to slip away when he felt the thrum in his scar. A sure fire sign he’d been spotted.

“Si! Riley, look who came to see you,” John yelled, first to him, and then to the little boy who ran over to him near enough as soon as he was discovered.

Simon scooped the boy up into his arms, and let him play with his cap. He did not mind, as he pulled at the scarf around his mouth. It always surprised him that this small child was not afraid of his scars, not yet fearful of the horrors of war.

“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” John asked him.

Simon stuttered. He looked at this boy’s brown eyes and pale face, the boy who he now had confirmed was not John’s, those suspicions he had the whole time now an unfortunate reality. He knew how it would break his heart if he told him.

“I- uh… Just passing by, I thought I’d come and say hello.”

He was a terrible liar. Well, maybe not to anyone else, but to John he was. John, who knew something was wrong that could not be spoken in front of the children.

“Pub later?” John asked, and cocked his head inquisitively.

The pub would be too loud. And he did not want to bring alcohol into this. Not when he knew that John would kill whichever scamp it was in bed with his wife… He had proof that he’d done so before, through that one misunderstanding a couple of hundred years back, which neatly presented itself as the scar of a bullet wound planted between his fourth and fifth fib.

“My place, 8pm.”

One final ruffle of Riley’s hair before he placed him at John’s feet. 

He was so close to John that he could smell the fragrance he’d put on that morning. It was his favourite scent, although he had no idea what its ingredients were. If asked, he would just say it smelled like John.

The rest of his shift on the beat had been agonisingly slow. He had scanned the face of every man he passed, just hoping he could have some stern words before John found them himself. By stern words, he meant that he would tell them to get the hell out of town before it was too late.

But the mystery fool was nowhere to be found. 

And now he sat in his armchair in the house that didn’t really feel like his, and stared anxiously at his pocket watch. His foot tapped the ground fretfully, as the minute hand ticked around to quarter past. He realised his mistake. He had let John back to the house, which meant Rose got to him first. But he could not have said those things in front of the children.

Eventually, a knock at the door.

He straightened out his clothes out of habit, before he reached a shaken hand towards the doorknob. Then turned it, slowly. Felt like he almost didn’t want to see that set of baby blues on the other side, for he dreaded the conversation that was about to happen.

“Sorry I’m late,” John said, and lingered with a smile at the door.

He didn’t know. Or if he did know, he was keeping it very well hidden.

Simon sidestepped, and allowed him to pass. It was not often, if ever, he had company. In fact, John had only been here once before to collect the pram he had rocked so fondly at the park earlier.

“This house is so beautiful,” John rambled, as he shed his outside layers. “Want to swap?”

His laugh echoed through the lofty, emptiness of the rafters.

Nothing like John’s home. Not with the same warmth, the same soft touches. Just heavy wooden shutters, exposed beams, and hard wooden counters.

“You’re going to want to sit down,” Simon affirmed.

John did exactly that, and headed towards the armchair across from Simon’s before cautiously lowering himself onto the upholstery. He laughed, nervously. 

“You’re scaring me a little.”

Simon sat too, as he gripped either side of his own face and pulled the skin taut. There was no way to word this that would avoid John going ballistic.

“I wasn’t just stopping by earlier,” he began, and measuredly watched the reaction in John’s eyes. “I went to the house. Heard your place was shut for the day.”

John was restless and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Just spit it out man…”

“The door was open. I went inside, heard an… altercation upstairs. Found Rose. She was- she was sleeping with another man.”

The room was quiet when he finished the sentence, save for the metronomic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. He tried not to make a sound himself, not even a breath, for he did not want to trigger John’s anger.

He watched the man’s face shift from shock, to anger, to something darker still.

“Who was this man?”

A quiet storm in his voice, like thunder over the horizon. Distant storm versus delicate rowboat.

“I didn’t know him, looked like he was from out of town.” Came Simon’s reply, as he went and poured two glasses of scotch and handed one to John who supped it as if it was water.

Then there was the second part, more painful than the first.

He didn’t know whether to tell him. But, something in his face gave it away.

“N- no…” John stuttered.

It happened quickly, but John had stood and rushed towards Simon who still mulled around the bar cart. Before he knew, John’s arms were around his waist and his face was buried somewhere in his chest.

He sobbed. Gut-wrenching, broken sobs.

His fingers shook as they clung at the fabric of Simon’s shirt, and he pulled himself closer, as if he just wanted to suffocate against Simon’s body. Simon reciprocated, as he tried to find a suitable location for his own hands that wouldn’t imply something more than a hug for comfort. And after a few minutes, John’s legs gave out too, and Simon had to catch him before he entirely collapsed into the floor.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” Simon whispered into the back of his shoulder. One hand had raised now to the man’s head, and he lost himself slightly as his fingers carded through John’s pin-neat, styled hair.

It didn’t matter to him that the snot or tears had soaked the front of his shirt. Or the way John had crashed slightly too hard into him, and caused him to bump the tender part of his hip against the bar cart. Or the fact that he had strained his own body to keep John’s deadweight from toppling both of them over.

What did matter was this touch.

It wasn’t lustful. Nor sexual. Not romantic, unless one considered the potential “what ifs” of their former relationships. It was purely reliance on each other’s company. A bond which would not be broken.

After Simon had managed to navigate the two of them back to the lounge area, and he’d coaxed John gently back down to his seat, he’d dried his eyes with the handkerchief he kept in his pocket. It was with such care and delicacy, that a valuable treasure would have blushed at the lightness of his touch.

“She’s gone, Si…” He finally managed to choke out, between little, breathy gasps. “She told me she was visiting her mother for the weekend, that’s why I was late. I was helping her to the carriage.”

The cunning of that woman. And the cruelty.

Part of Simon wanted to believe John could have forgiven her for the infidelity. But taking those two babies, who he adored so much even if they were not biologically his…

What she had done could not be forgiven.

John did not return to his home that evening. In fact, he had barely even made it to the guest bedroom, after falling asleep from pure emotional exhaustion in the cramped armchair. Simon didn’t want to wake him but knew his back would be sore from the slumped position if not. He nudged him gently, half-rousing him from his sleep, just enough to get beneath his shoulder and haul his arse into the guest suite.

He fully expected John to be gone by morning.

It surprised Simon to see him there, upright in the armchair, clothed in one of Simon’s morning gowns which was entirely too large for his shorter frame.

“Morning,” he groaned, and clutched his head.

He looked rough, and sounded rougher still. Maybe the extra few tipples were not the best idea.

“Morning, John. Tea?”

A nod, and another groan.

The whistle of the kettle pot on the stove didn’t help, as the sound proved abrasive even to Simon. He hoped the steaming hot cup he brought would make up for it. They spoke about plans. Simon would collect John’s things. He could stay for a while if he needed. His door was always open.

Then, Simon went to work, and expected once again that John would be gone when he returned home. He knew that despite his generally charming personality, he was still a fighter. He would not like for the man sleeping with his wife to bump into him in a dark alley, that’s for sure.

But when he returned, John was still there.

Dinner on the table, enough for the two of them.

This continued for weeks. And Simon grew comfortable in the knowledge that this time, John was going to be okay. It still hurt him, though. He cried often for the children, less so for the betrayal of his wife.

Some nights he would simply sit in the armchair and stare at the ground.

Other nights, he would spend at the pub with his colleagues as if nothing had happened, and would stumble in through the door merrily. It woke Simon up more than once, but he did not complain. He would much rather he come home drunk and rowdy than not at all.

It pained Simon to see him like this, but at least he was here.

Until one night, he wasn’t.

It had started like any other. Simon had adjourned to bed around nine, for he was on a very early round the next morning. He had heard the door to the guest room open not long after, as John came to bed himself. Around midnight, he had awoken to the sound of footsteps which padded in the landing, and had assumed John was visiting the outhouse. He’d fallen back asleep until the knocker-upper came at roughly five, as requested. And as he’d stepped into the hall, he’d noticed John’s door wide open. The bed was unmade, which was quite unlike him, and the candle at his desk had burnt entirely down to the nub. It must only recently have puttered out, if the small curl of smoke fluttering from the doorway was any indication.

He knew he shouldn’t pry, but he couldn’t help but feel something was wrong.

Simon stepped inside.

The candle holder was placed in the corner of the desk. Simon often retreated there to write his reports, when he didn’t have guests of course, which was usually never. The surface of the desk was clear, for the most part, but the inkpot sitting atop the surface had spilled over, and some other papers had been pushed to one side. It was as if someone had swept away whatever was there before in a hurry.

He was about to turn, when he spotted a tiny, ripped piece of paper on the ground, with a hastily written address scrawled on it. It was tucked behind the leg of the desk. Forgotten about. A total accident. The one thing that let Simon know exactly where he was going that morning.

There were other officers at the house when he arrived.

Forced entry through a door at the rear of the house, pried open with a flat, iron bar. Someone who wanted so desperately to get in, judging by the damage to the frame. No evidence left on the scene, apart from the body, of course.

A man, who Simon had seen but weeks before, who had fled in fright from the bedroom of John’s home.

This man had not died straight away. Not with the ruthless efficiency Simon knew John had.

No.

His death had been painful and slow. A few bruised strikes from blunt force trauma, some caused by angry fists, others from the metal piece that had been used to break down the door. He’d been crippled by that. An injury to the knee, so that he could not get away. Although from the trail of blood, it looked as if he’d tried to crawl desperately on hands and knees. As he’d gone, he’d knocked over furniture and ornaments before he reached his final resting place in the upper landing, propped up against a bookshelf.

But the trauma didn’t kill him. Nor the cuts and abrasions to his body.

This man had been strangled. His open eyes now glassy – eyes which not long ago, John had likely watched with sadistic intent as the light drained out of them.

It sent a shiver down his spine, to think about that brutality.

To think about John’s strong arms. The wild look in his eyes. The- 

He stopped those thoughts immediately.

It wasn’t professional, he chastised himself, to dream about a murderer in such a way.

Not that it had stopped him in the past. Not even when it was his throat that John’s knife was bearing down upon.

It was clear the other policemen were closer now to John’s wrongdoings. A neighbour who had heard the ruckus, of an angry Scot yelling obscenities in the early hours. Some other, who had seen an unusual woman visiting the man earlier that year, who was clearly heavily pregnant at the time. Someone who knew his face. Another who knew where he worked.

Simon would have to deal with this before the others could.

He had the head start, of course, as he knew exactly where John would be. It was a quick ride in the police carriage, and he pulled his horse onto the pavement a short walk down the road so that the prying eyes of nosy neighbours didn’t interrupt their engagement.

A quiet knock on the door, first. Then, he gently opened it with the brass handle, and walked up the stairs.

It all happened in slow motion.

He could feel John’s presence beyond the door to the children’s room. Could hear the small, shallow sobs that sounded muffled by cloth. A stark contrast to the man he was in that poor, unsuspecting bloke’s home.

Simon tapped at the wood between them, softly.

No response.

He sighed, grabbed the handle, and pushed it open slowly. He didn’t think that John would attack him, but he held his guard up just in case…

No such action was needed, as the sight that beheld him was a sorry one.

The man was folded over, uncomfortably small, in the little bed that Riley used to sleep in. He clutched at the brown bear, the one that Simon had bought him from the very posh emporium at the end of the boulevard. The one which John himself had gushed over, in a way Simon hadn’t expected him to.

He was entirely broken.

“John…”

Simon knelt on the floor, as he feared the wooden bedframe might not take the weight of not one, but two fully grown adults. He reached out a hand and placed it on John’s distraught shoulder.

“Why are we cursed to be unhappy, Simon?” The voice was a shell of its former, boisterous self.

Simon thought about it, in hopes he could provide a genuine answer. He thought for a long time about how in so many of their lives they had known nothing but tragedy. Even when they had found love. Found happiness, in one way or another. Been given joy in the form of what they wanted the most, only to have it ripped away by some horrid force.

A cruel mistress, Fate was.

“I’ll look for them, John,” he said softly. “I promise.”

He knew the words didn’t mean much. Not where John had to go. Not if they tried to take his head for what he did. But there would be some relief, that someone such as Simon would watch over his lad. It took a while to bring him out of the children’s room, and down to the carriage.

“Simon, I left my pocket watch. Will you fetch it?”

A small request. Seemingly innocent. 

Simon complied, as he would always for John. Simon compiled because it was John who had asked. 

And of course, when he got back, John had unshackled the mare and mounted her bareback. His hands clutched loosely at long lengths of the reins, far too long for this kind of ride. There were tears in his eyes as he kicked his shin into the horse, and startled her into a gallop along the icy roadway. The officer sighed. In a rush, he commandeered another horse, this one from some poor bloke’s carriage, who yelled obscenities as Simon jumped up on her back in one swift movement. 

The horses slipped and stumbled, their legs caught on snow drifts, and hooves faulted as they skidded on the perilous ice. It was dangerous, these two great beasts ridden so rough right in the middle of the largest residential worker’s housing zone in the borough. They swerved several bystanders, and John’s horse bucked and whinnied as an oncoming cart narrowly missed them at the junction.

The feeling in his stomach nauseated him, as he realised they were heading up onto the mound, where a sheer drop into the industrial valley below waited around most corners. One such corner loomed, that they were headed towards with great speed.

“John! No!” He cried out, and hoped the man would come to his senses.

They were too close. He pulled at his stolen horse’s reins tightly, where her legs criss-crossed underneath her body and caused him to fall from her back. The horse collided with a lamppost, which broke her momentum, but she brayed loudly in pain before she fled the scene. Simon frowned at the poor thing.

More important things afoot though, and now mount-less, all he could do was watch.

Watch, as his own white mare was pushed around that corner far too hard. How her hooves could not find traction in the sleet. How, at the last moment, John had seemingly snapped out of the daze he was in and had tried to drop anchor just like Simon had. 

But it was too late.

They toppled, and both bodies far cleared the iron railing which was installed to stop pedestrians from falling, and not a 17-hand high horse and a rider atop it. Amongst the screams of passing folk were two large crashes, as horse and rider separated and landed through separate corrugated tin roofs below.

The scene was gruesome when Simon managed to descend the hill on foot. His horse, or what was left of her, had taken the brunt of the fall and sprayed the factory floor with blood and entrails.

He stroked her soft mane before saying goodbye.

Then, being led by some young lad, he continued further into the premise. Further still, until they discovered John’s body wrapped up in some machine of sorts. Thankful it wasn’t turned on, the boy said, or apparently he’d have been chopped up into hundreds of little pieces.

Simon ignored the morbid child and climbed up onto a belt which wrapped around the edge of the contraption. He glanced into the open maw of the machinery.

John was dead. It wasn’t surprising, considering the height and violence of the fall. Simon hoped that, after weeks of agony, he would find himself at peace. But it hurt to think of those young children, who would not know why their father was gone.

He managed to get it written off in the paperwork as a freak accident. Some favour he’d pulled in from the higher-ups who had appreciated his recent hard work, and lack of violent incidents.

The funeral was small. Just Simon, a few work mates, and a small plot in the cemetery on the outskirts of town scarily close to another headstone for one John MacTavish buried there 130 years earlier.

Simon had always been amused by that part. The longer they lived, and the more times they died, the closer they were to remnants of their past selves. He swore he would dig one up, one day, and take his own skull as a keepsake.

The small chuckle he stifled during the eulogy garnered some dirty looks. But he didn’t mind. He knew in just a few years, no doubt, he’d see the fool again.

Eleven years passed before he felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder.

It had happened as he was on patrol, past the cloth mills in the lower borough. There was a commotion of sorts, an older woman rushed to him and yelled for his help. When he was shown the way, they came across a young boy who had been caught quite precariously, his foot trapped in some sort of machinery.

He was olive-skinned, and his freckles showed even beneath the muck and the grime of the factory. As his shirt lifted above his head, a small scar bared itself on his chest. It hurt to think that young Riley was out there somewhere, only a few years older than this boy here now. They could even have been friends.

The climb was brutal. 

There was a reason they sent such young boys up into places like this, where they were still nimble and light-footed. By the time he made it into the rafters, the boy yelled, and kicked, and made his situation worse as he nearly knocked himself loose.

“John, stay still!” Simon called, and the boy looked up at him in confusion as to how this stranger knew his name.

He would question why, for years to come, that when Simon grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and flung him to safety he felt a sense of comfortable safety he had not felt before. And when the structure toppled down into the machine below, and ended the life of that copper who was in the right place at the right time, he felt a sorrow deeper than any boy of eleven should ever have to feel.

III / THE HONOURABLE GENTLEMEN

John’s cane tapped at the ground impatiently.

“Are you done in there yet, princess?” he joked, and his voice echoed through the door to Simon’s dressing room.

In return, the man grunted something obscene, and pots clattered and bottles were spritzed in rushed retaliation.

“You know you don’t have to get dressed up for every meeting? Half of the old crones are blind as bats.”

Simon finally emerged, his hair neatly slicked back into place, and glasses perched on the end of his nose with their black, beaded chain that hung sleekly around his neck. His suit was tailored, his shirt pressed. He wore cufflinks on each of his wrists, with a small, silver skull. John had got them handcrafted for Simon’s thirty-fifth birthday, much to the confusion of the jeweller. The man, evidently, loved the gift and had worn them for the half-decade since.

“Just tell me if I look okay,” he groaned.

“Do you want the nice truth, or do you want the real truth?”

Simon rolled his eyes.

It was to most an unlikely friendship. A mentorship of sorts. The elder, a Scot who was London born, raised as a pauper, and injured in one of London’s numerous cotton mills as just a wee lad. His family had shortly moved back to Scotland with the money donated in the will of some anonymous beneficiary with the initials SR , where John had received something of a formal education. Then there was Simon. He had served in the military for the first decade of his career, before being discharged after a nasty accident which left him with poor eyesight, a tremor in his left hand, and a very nervous disposition.

Simon, who seemingly out of nowhere began to follow John’s career after he was made an MP in the Scottish borders. And who showed up at his office one morning still in his uniform with nothing but a pack on his back, where John had taken him in and encouraged him slowly into the political fold.

He still hated politics. It was something that they both knew rather well. But he did have a soft spot for helping children to learn, and eventually began working under Gladstone’s leadership in a constituency that directly neighboured John’s.

Even if they worked in opposite parties, they were close. John calmed Simon’s anxious temperament, and encouraged him to be a little more sociable, whereas Simon mellowed out John’s gushing bravado which often rubbed people the wrong way.

Also, one carriage to London was cheaper than two.

It was in the back of such a carriage that Simon picked at the skin around his nails. Fiddled nervously with his jacket buttons. Tried to adjust his hair again and again in the reflection from the metal which encircled the windows.

“Simon… You look nice, stop fidgeting now.”

It wasn’t vanity, and John knew that. Rather, it was fear. Fear of how he was perceived, and a fear of all the things which had torn at his psyche in this life. He was an anxious man, not wholly diminishing of his strength or courage, but enough so that the small things would agitate him, and eventually all those small things became one large problem that loomed over him.

“I should have brought a mask,” Simon sighed. “I wasn’t ready for this.”

John reached into his own breast pocket, and pulled out a thick, black mask. One which matched Simon’s suit perfectly, both the colour and material. He met eyes with the man, before he tucked it back into his pocket.

Two taps of his chest, then a smile. “If you really need it, it’s here.”

Simon didn’t reply verbally but flashed him that same half-smile which John knew so well. The one which caused the tiny creases in the corners of his eyes. Yet another thing he was self-conscious about, but John had always thought the opposite.

John thought they were beautiful.

They chatted for hours as the carriage rumbled down the road. Talk came easily, not only about work and their plans in their respective constituencies, but lots of reminiscing about their past lives. 

They didn’t talk about the children. 

John had brought them up just twice since his memory was restored. Both times broke his heart. The first, when he asked Simon if he ever found Rose and the children, to which Simon had replied that he spent a whole decade looking to no avail.

The second time was when they saw the obituary.

Outliving one’s child is a horrible thing. But John supposed, really, he didn’t outlive them. Not in that life at least. By the time he was reborn, his children were in fact older than him. Even if they had met, by some chance or circumstance, there was no way to explain to them who he was without getting locked up in Bethlem Hospital. So, when he read those words on paper, a dedication to one Riley MacTavish, who still bore his father’s name even after it was discovered that he was not biologically John’s child, he simply broke.

The way Simon fidgeted beside him interrupted his train of thought. Probably for the best, as he needed to stay cheery for the upcoming session.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Simon quipped.

John rolled his eyes. He knew that Simon could read his face just as well as he could read Simon’s.

They truly were a funny old pair. 

They parted ways outside the doors to the Commons. But of course, John would be watching Simon closely. As his friend and mentee, ready to provide staunch support from the opposing bench. His presence, an eye for Simon to lock onto in the whole crowd of eyes. Partly because of his dedication to Simon’s growth as a politician, but mostly because to take his eyes off the man was damn near impossible.

“The Honourable Simon Riley, as Conservative member for the constituency of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, please rise.”

John watched in awe as the man rose from his seat, a few pats on the back from his closest fellow members. Amongst the jovialities however, those people who did not know him stared . At his scars, and at the break in his nose which hadn’t set correctly. They watched the tremor in his hand, which John knew bugged him to no end, and the way a young man such as him walked with a slight limp.  John couldn’t help but bite his lip with his own nerves, as the man adjusted his glasses before he broke into his speech.

He was good at those, surprisingly.

Always a man of few words, but the words counted. His voice was strong, his accent hinted through the rough edges of his syllables, which gave him a rather pleasant tone that grated upon the masses far less than the pronunciation of those with true Queen’s English. He spoke on education in both his district and those which surrounded it, and about the future of the youth. Clearly, there was passion in his voice. But what made John swoon the most was the way Simon’s tawny eyes would flick over to him, and he would look down over his glasses with a slight smile that only John would see.

When he’d finished, he took two steps back and there was a mixture of cheers and ruckus from both benches. John, of course, rose to his feet in applause. He didn’t care whether Simon was the opposition. That didn’t stop the pride which welled up in his chest.

John spoke too. Something about welfare reforms for the borders. It came naturally to him, so much so that he’d spoken before he could really plan what he had wanted to say, and already had half the Commons on their feet in agreement. He was well loved, and well respected. Someone from common blood, who grew up in a workhouse, and made it to the stage of the people.

When the session adjourned, John was surrounded by people who patted his back and sang his praises. He chatted to them briefly, and tried not to let his usual impatience take over, as he tapped out the seconds on the floor with his foot.

Really, if he was alone, he would likely have stayed and listened to their grovelling praise. But he knew Simon would wait for him, and that he should go to him with haste.

He took his leave as politely as one could when they were in a rush, and managed to slip out of the back of the crowd and into their usual corridor. It had become a habit of sorts, to meet here and destress. Nobody was bothered about Simon’s pipe smoke, or about John’s countless rambles that regarded which MPs had done what that week, and who was on his shit-list.

“John!” Simon yelled again, John being so deep in his rant that he had not heard him the first time. “Please, can I just take you for a drink?”

John smiled. This was perhaps their joint favourite part of the job. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Several pints in, and some drinks a little stronger, John had a vision.

He’d complained for months about the restrictive nature of the Liberals in the northern and Scottish constituencies. Even if in the south they were considered the lesser of two evils, or the ones who might look out for the people if it served them well of course, they remained fearful of giving any frivolous freedoms to the northern folk. He saw it in Simon’s town as well as his own, the destitution of pit workers, factory hands, and farm folk who tried desperately to maintain a living from the land which was slowly being encroached by great feats of human engineering.

“What if…” He begun, and trailed off as he wobbled from his chair and had to be supported gently by Simon’s free hand. “What if we formed our own party?”

Simon laughed.

“You really have had too much to drink. Come on John, let’s get back.”

John pouted and thrust his hand flat against Simon’s chest. His palm glanced at the scar on the man’s shoulder, which sent a satisfied, low thud of energy between them.

“I’m serious!” He slurred, punctuated by a hiccup.

Simon, now on damage control, grabbed his hand and pulled him from the stool. “I’m serious too, we are going.”

John always hated this part, when Simon made him feel like a petulant child. But there was something in his heart that fluttered when Simon would hand him his cane, or open the door for him and allow him to walk through first. He would always insist on doing up the buttons on John’s coat, even when the tremor in his hand made the process awfully slow. Then, and perhaps John’s favourite part, he recognised the way that Simon would saunter beside him just close enough for their shoulders to occasionally bump. 

They strolled back to their lodgings for the evening, a quaint terrace John had purchased for himself a good few years ago, on the rather well-to-do side of town. It wasn’t overly extortionate, but it was certainly enough that Simon often wondered just how much John had spent. Simon himself had not bought lodgings near the parliament. There was no point when John’s home had a second bedroom. It was unconventional and they knew it, but it worked.

They poured scotch and sat around the fireplace. John hummed some tune or other, and warmed his bad foot which often lost circulation in the cold. Simon sat still. He fidgeted far less in John’s company alone.

“It could work though, couldn’t it?”

John continued the prior conversation, as if they hadn’t spent almost an hour talking about other things.

“No, John. It wouldn’t be that simple…”

The Scot swirled the liquid until it sloshed close to the brim of the glass. The aroma was heady, and it smelled like home. “We target our people. Northern folk, veterans, the needy, the lost souls.”

“John…”

“We can give them a reason to vote for us. Housing, better worker’s welfare, more rights for women and young folk, Si I really thi-”

“John!”

Simon’s face turned dark, and there were words hidden behind his lips that he refused to speak. Treading the line was dangerous, in their line of work. They were privileged, chosen to speak out for the people, but speak too frivolously and it would be their heads next to roll.

John understood that. He knew that one wrong move would not only sink his career, but Simon’s too.

He slunk down into the chair, and finished the rest of the glass in one greedy gulp. For tonight, he would drop the whole thing. Perhaps it would be easier to think about when he was sober.

He retired to his room early, the following few nights. Most unlike him, who would usually stay up to gossip, or drink, or play cards. He knew that Simon grew suspicious, and was in fact offended at his lack of company.

So much so that, during the fourth night of his early absence, there was a quiet knock at the door.

John shuffled the papers on his desk. “Come in!”

Simon entered with two cups of chai in hand. He placed one cup on John’s desk, careful to pick an empty space between the numerous papers scattered around.

“What are you writing?” He mused, and took his own seat perched on the edge of John’s bed.

John sighed. He hadn’t brought up the topic again since Simon’s disapproval. But why shouldn’t he? After all, Simon was his apprentice, not his mentor. He unshuffled the papers, and hoped his historically poor penmanship did not distract from what was written on the parchment. Lists, policies, areas of interest, personal notes. Reams and reams of the stuff.

Simon’s lips remained pursed in a straight line, but this time he didn’t rebuff him. Rather, he held out his hand towards John, who placed the lead document in his outstretched palm. Simon untucked his glasses from their chain and hooked them on his nose - a look which John would never admit made him aroused in ways it shouldn’t. Then they spent a few minutes locked into a scrutinising silence, as the blond sipped from his cup with one hand and tried to cease the papers from trembling in his other.

“What do you think?” John questioned, as Simon lowered the documents with a small hum.

“I think you’re a fool,” Simon quipped, “but this… is something.”

Something is better than nothing, John thought. Certainly, better than another stern talking to.

“Well, feel free to look through the others. It’s not much at the moment, just basic plans really.”

Simon hummed again and finished the last of his tea. He stood, and stretched out his lean muscles, and John shrunk away slightly when he came closer and clapped him on the shoulder in fear he’d clip his ear like he always did when he was being daft. For his sake, he couldn’t mess this up.

It was an annoyance, then, when he got the letter to call him out to Oxford for a few days. Really, he wished he could decline there and then and state his resignation plainly. But that would not be smart, nor effective. For this, he had to keep his friends close, but his party closer.

He watched as Simon leant against the doorframe, and waved off his carriage with a sort of cool nonchalance that would have looked ridiculous on anybody else but him.

The following days were rough. His mind raced with thoughts of his plan. Thoughts of home, and the comfort of his own bed. Thoughts of Simon. He wondered how he was doing. He pondered that perhaps he should send a letter, but that may have come across a little desperate, as he was only to be gone for a week. So instead, he bode his time, played nice with people, scoped out anybody who may be in position to waver their interest. It was a good exercise in the end, even if it did leave him half asleep with boredom.

When he was free of his duties, some seven days later, he caught the train back to London. Much faster than the usual carriages, but he had still not gotten used to such mechanical wonders borne from the technological advancement of man. 

He remembered walking barefoot with nothing but a loincloth as if it was yesterday.

The station was busy. Not only the platform, which was filled with people travelling both in and out of London, but also the surrounding areas. Vendors peddled their wares, and grabbed the attention of day-trippers and locals alike. John was about to walk past as he usually would, but he felt a strange sensation as one stall in particular called to him from the corner of his eye.

Something had pulled him to that stand, which at first seemed totally ordinary. The small shelves were full of trinkets, knick-knacks, and antiques. He pondered a few pieces, such as a small horse statue that he almost considered buying for Simon since he knew his affinity to the beasts. But then, nestled in a rough looking box in the middle of the table sat a ring. A ring, with a patina of mellowed silver damaged by water, and a thistle near rubbed off on its central face.  

“Steaming Jesus,” he whispered, as he lifted up the box and turned it over in his hands.

The man sat behind the counter raised his head from his newspaper and looked over the small item in John’s hand.

“That was said to have belonged to a man drowned by sirens,” he joked, a strange mixture of half-interest and half-disdain in his voice. “Found washed up from a shipwreck just off the coast of Kent.”

John needed no more. He paid the man wholesomely, had it cleaned off at a jewellers on the way home who managed to rid most of the saltwater abrasions, and slipped the band into his jacket pocket.

“Simon, I’m back!”

The house felt empty when John opened the door. He placed his bags down, and worked off his hat and coat. The cane clicked against the floor with a rhythmic metronome as he trekked up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“Simo-” His voice trailed off as he saw the man asleep, hunched over his writing desk surrounded by droves upon droves of papers, books, scripts, and folders. The bags beneath his eyes were dark, even darker than usual, and his face looked sickly pale.

John fetched a blanket and draped it across his shoulders. It looked like he needed the rest. In the meantime, he cooked an evening meal for them both and hoped that Simon wouldn’t complain about his skills for the hundredth time. It was only when he called up to Simon, who didn’t seem to rouse, that he thought maybe something was wrong.

He shook the man’s shoulder gently, to which he stirred.

“Jo-hn?” Simon croaked, his voice hoarse from lack of use and whatever illness had gotten him down right now. John checked his forehead with the back of his hand. He was burning up badly.

“Don’t you go dying on me again,” John joked in response, but there was a hint of nervous laughter which tinged at the back of his throat.

“Mm’not,” came the mumble in reply, as the blond’s head finally lifted from the table. He pinched at his furrowed brow bone with his fingers, in pain.

“Well, I just made us a nice sausage hotpot. Stopped at the butchers on the way back,” John began, as he helped Simon up, “so come down and eat it and then I’m putting you to bed.”

“You’re not my mother, John,” Simon complained, but there was a look of thankfulness in his eyes that John noted with smug satisfaction.

They sat and talked over dinner, as Simon explained the additions and amendments he’d made to John’s doctrines and notes. A little bit of polish, if you will, for although John’s ideas were excellent there was sometimes an issue with him articulating them concisely onto paper. John was joyously happy to hear that Simon too had written some policies and notes of his own for review.

He fiddled with the ring in his pocket.

Something made him want to give it to Simon when all this was finished. The nerves which caused his heart to skip a beat were almost as bad as the last two times he had proposed, even though this wasn’t a proposal, of course.

When he’d cleaned their bowls away, he helped Simon back upstairs. The man was going to walk to his own room when John stopped him and steered him in the direction of his own bed, for the purpose of keeping an eye on him as he wrote.

“You’re not going to insist on getting in with me, are you?” Simon joked.

John chuckled. “I seem to remember you rather enjoyed it last time.”

Simon tutted, but settled into John’s sheets quickly as if there was a comfort there that beckoned him closer. He fell asleep as John took to the desk to read his work.

John found he was shocked at the sheer quantity of documents filed into neat stacks, all excellent pieces with thoughtful drafting and beautiful penmanship. Simon must have written for days on end. Nights too. Who knows if he got any sleep during that time? He may not like the conversational aspect, the speeches, the getting on stage, but this man was so solid and refined in his artistry that he could run the entire operation from behind the scenes.

John turned away from the papers, and instead watched the steady rise and fall of Simon’s chest.

Even when he was sick, Simon wrote. John did the talking, the liaisons, the secret meetings. A few other northern MPs mulled around London as they waited for their next gathering, and John tested the waters with all of them. Sewed the seeds of dissent.

It mattered not their current affiliation. What mattered was that they wanted change, and even those adverse were soon talked around by John’s golden tongue. 

A few warned him, as Simon had. Told him that this time he really was getting too big for his boots, and that his charm wouldn’t get him as far in practice as he would in theory. That’s when he would bring up that there was another. Never mentioned by name, but rather the small circle which gathered used the moniker of The Ghost-writer , which John thought to be hilarious considering he’d known him as Ghost for so many years prior.

He would bring them excerpts of Simon’s work, to great reception. The people were excited for this.

Rumours spread, but nobody could track down the source. No matter how many meetings were called, or letters sent, nobody wanted to confess their involvement. He returned home from one such meeting, where everyone had kept their lips sealed on the town’s hottest new secret, more jovial than usual.

The desk was occupied as always when he made it to the room.

“I’ve got good news, Si,” he began, and unfurled a letter from within his pocket, “this is for you.”

He looked concerned, if not curious. “For me?”

“Open it,” John mused. He watched as Simon tore at the envelope.

Dearest Sir,

John will not tell me your name, so please excuse the lack of formality in my introduction.

I am writing with a boon. We’ll call it a bursary. For you to continue your writing, and the funds to start an official campaign in your joint constituencies to bolster support. We can talk about money later, let us not spoil this introduction with too much talk of business.

All I ask for in return is the chance to meet you.

With Fondest Regards,

Nicholas

John watched Simon’s eyes scan the page, back and forth three or four times over. His face was fraught with a mixture of fear and confusion.

“What’s with that look on your mug?” John laughed.

“Why?” Simon started, and looked back down at the letter as if a fifth read would give him the answers he wanted. “Why does he need to meet me?”

John sighed and perched on the bed. “You’re the brains behind all of this, Simon. You’re special. Plus, I think he admires you.”

“Admires me?”

John coughed a little. “He’s… Um… He’s a homosexual, too.”

There was a momentary, stunned silence that emanated throughout the room.

“So, you want me to- to fuck him for his money, John? Is that it?” 

The Scot huffed loudly. “The business and the pleasure… Those were two different thoughts in my mind. I thought maybe it would be nice for you to meet someone!”

Simon frowned.

“Sorry, maybe I overstepped-” John began, before Simon pinched at the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“No, no. I’ll meet him. It will be good for us if we can get some proper funding.”

John arranged the meeting. In a local pavilion, one that was quiet enough to allow for private conversations, but public enough that their base of operations was not put in danger. He hadn’t known exactly how Simon would react, but seemingly he’d spent twice as long as usual getting ready that morning and had sprayed himself lavishly with John’s favourite perfume.

The scent was intoxicating, and he had half the mind to just say fuck it all and take Simon to the park himself.

“You look dashing,” he made sure to say, before Simon could start nit-picking at his appearance as he always did. “Let me straighten your dickie-bow.”

He slipped sturdy fingers under the encircling ribbon, pinched, and twisted until the front of the tie settled right on Simon’s deep-set collarbones. The pulse which raced under his fingers as he did startled him. Simon’s skin was pale, and his body looked like carved marble; the scars did not deform the surface, but rather added to it in the same way silver veins run through that glistening white stone. It surprised John, sometimes, that this man was not a statue but a living, breathing being. 

They met eyes and held their gaze for a tense few moments. The urge to lean in, and give up everything they had built just for a kiss was heavy for both parties.

But they couldn’t. They had moved on from that now, and to go back was to jeopardise not only their friendship, but their lives.

John’s hands withdrew just as soon as they had made the final adjustment, and very quickly returned to his side. He could not allow them to betray him with any more mischief.

The pavilion was crowded when they arrived, which usually would have made the place unpleasant, but today provided an added layer of secrecy. John and Simon had split paths, as Simon had retreated to a more secluded area so that John could scope out the scene beforehand.

“John!” A familiar voice called out. A thick, midlands accent, which almost didn’t suit the man’s overly formal temperament. At one glance, you could tell this man was old money. The perfect, unmarked skin on his face and hands which bore not even a scar, never mind the deepest muck of coal or the burn of the sun from outside work.

John reached out and shook his hand, a grin on his face. He hoped he masked the part which wanted to kill him if he laid a finger on Simon, even though he was the one who agreed to facilitate the meeting in the first place.

Nicholas’ eyes were not really on John, though. They scanned around the scenery.

“Is your friend here?” He questioned, with a polite smile.

“Aye sir,” John replied, “I’ll lead the way.”

John scrutinised the man as he strolled beside him. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Simon, and walked with an elegant gait. His hands knitted firmly together behind his back, which kept his perfect posture upright. His hair was a fair colour, not as fair as Simon’s, but not as dark as his own.

His eyes were blue. Simon would like that, John thought bitterly.

It loomed over him that this may be a mistake. He knew that Simon was doing this for both of their sakes, and the money for the campaign would be nice, but he could already feel that pang of jealousy taint his mouth with its acidic flavour. Why? He and Simon hadn't been close like that for hundreds of years. And yes, he was attractive. And yes, he found himself desperate to hold him, or kiss him, with every accidental brush of a hand or prolonged, longing silence…

They rounded the corner, and he spotted Simon’s tall, dark figure surrounded by smoke which wafted from his cigarette. He was nervous; he always smoked more when he was.  

“Is that him?” Nicholas whispered.

“That’s him,” John replied.

John put a foot forward to continue their approach, but Nicholas put a hand across his chest.

“You don’t mind if I talk with him alone, for a short while? There’s some questions I’d love to pick his brain about.”

John did mind.

He found he minded rather a lot, in fact.

But he held his tongue, nodded, and retreated behind the treeline of a large grassy hillock, where he would be able to watch the meeting in secret. 

At first, the conversation seemed stunted. Simon struggled with pleasantries, until Nicholas had clearly mentioned something he was passionate about, and then the blond had begun to explain something with fervour. He liked it when Simon did that. It was never boyish excitement or giddiness, but rather his chest would swell with pride and his accent that he tried so hard to conceal would come out in all its roughness.

He watched as Simon pulled another cigarette out from his packet, and how before he could light it, Nicholas had swooped in with his own lighter and performed the courtesy for him. Analysed excruciatingly the way that Simon had to look up, ever so slightly, to glance into the blue pools of his irises. 

Simon smiled in the way he only smiled at John.

And John couldn’t watch.

He had promised to meet Simon outside of the park gates, but he could not bring himself to stay. It was stupid, and selfish, and he knew it. He’d put Simon through this not once, but twice, with wives and a family of his own. And now he could not even bear to watch the man have a polite conversation. It dawned on him how strong Simon had been every time he had kissed Hetty, every playful squeeze of Rose’s backside, every aching moment he had fawned over the both of them in Simon’s presence.

His jealousy mixed with mournful regret.

This charade went on for the following month or so. Simon would meet Nicholas, they would discuss plans, smoke, drink. He never elaborated on anything else, but John saw the way he looked at the man with dreamy eyes. 

One particular evening, John had made food for them at around the time Simon would usually come down for supper after writing. Only Simon hadn’t come to the kitchen even when the dishes were plated, and when John went up to investigate, he found Simon getting dressed to go out.

He hadn’t meant to come across as accusatory, but he questioned where Simon was going at such a late hour with a tone that suggested exactly that.

“I’m meeting Nic,” Simon had mumbled, whilst doing up the last of his shirt buttons.

John sighed. “Will you not eat before you go?”

“Sorry, we’re going for dinner. Don’t wait for me, okay?”

Simon rushed out of the door. He didn’t even stop in the looking glass to check his hair or ask John forty times over whether he looked okay. It was as if he was trying to avoid him.

John ate alone that evening.

The money Simon brought in a briefcase the next day was more than they had ever imagined.

With that money, they were set. They could quite easily return up north and begin their campaign. Yet, that tension that John had felt last night as Simon escaped the room still lingered.

“You don’t have to do this, Si,” He muttered over the pan, two perfectly cracked eggs sizzling away.

Simon scrutinised his latest agenda, glasses perched on the end of his nose unsteadily. He had a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. “Do what?”

“See him, in that way…”

John watched Simon’s face sour. It had been an argument in the making for a while.

“What is your problem?” Simon asked, bitterly. “You were the one who introduced us.”

“I know… But I didn’t think you would fall into this so intensely .”

Simon placed the papers down gently on the table, and stood up. John knew full well he would just walk away, and that he did not have the upper hand in this.

“Wait! Simon please…”

John reached out and grabbed the crook of Simon’s arm. He held tightly, even when Simon tried to shake him off. Even when the man growled his name out low in the back of his throat, as if it was a threat.

“Please just talk to me.”

Simon huffed. “About what, John? About the fact that, despite everything you’ve been allowed to do, to see me with someone else is clearly so painful for you that you can’t bear to let me go? You do remember you’ve been married? Twice ! After I- after…”

He trailed off, but they both knew exactly what and when he was referring to. And all the moments since, where they had shared tender instants that were never solidified by anything other than a faint, passing memory of that time.

Was it worth him clinging to this? 

Could he say he would give Simon his everything, despite the consequences of the world where the life they would share was forbidden. Give up the dream he had of the ideal family, with the pitter-patter of tiny feet which raced about the house. Exchange their friendship, the deepest and longest-standing semblance of the sort he’d ever had, for the possibility that it would all go awry?

He did not know if it was possible. But he did know that, deep down, he was a stubborn and selfish fool. He could not idly sit as Simon escaped from this fake, make-belief domesticity they had so contentedly shared for so long.

He would have his cake and eat it.

The next few days were rough. They had already planned to leave back up north after Parliament had concluded a five-day discussion that they were required to attend, through three days of which John had glared Simon down as he sat by Nicholas. It was just sitting, for nothing untoward happened. But when he looked up at Nicholas, and he gave him those same eyes that were reserved for John and John alone, he knew he could not stay here.

He falsified some news of an emergency and left the meeting early. Then, he packed his case before Simon could come home. 

They didn’t meet in that corridor anymore. Simon didn’t take him out to the pub to hush his tongue as he ranted about one thing or another. It would be all too easy to slip away, and Simon wouldn’t even know until he returned home after he had galavanted about all evening with his new friend.

John left the spare key next to the inkpot on Simon’s writing desk and was about to leave when something crossed his mind.

When he’d so excitedly returned from Oxford, he’d picked up that ring. Their ring.

He took it out of the pocket in the inner lining of his coat, where he had kept it ever since he made his decision to present it upon their work’s completion. But now it was more than that. A plea? A bargaining tool? Perhaps. Or perhaps just a promise made in desperation, that John could only hope Simon would keep.

No contact for a month.

Not with him, at least, for it seemed Simon had been very pally-pally with the contacts he had made for them. There had even been an article in the papers, about the “up-and-coming young face of northern politics” Simon Riley, front and centre, where he shook hands with that bastard Nicholas. They described him as his mentor and ally.

Only that wasn’t what irked him the most. 

In the picture, as blurry as it was, the ring was on his finger. Surely, if he wore the ring, that meant he still cared. Then, if he cared, why had he not come back? Come home? Was this man he’d met mere months ago more important than his best friend? 

Could he blame him? John wasn’t sure. He was adamant that six-thousand years without genuine love would have killed him, never mind the several hundred years since Simon last fell into bed with someone. But Simon had never seemed to mind. He didn’t grumble. Didn’t succumb to filthy desires like John did so often. Didn’t chase for touch, but was so receptive to it from the few times John had gotten his hands on him.

He remembered that ship. How Simon had melted into him, like his hips were made specifically for John’s hands, and the way that when they kissed it felt as if he didn’t even need to come up for oxygen. He remembered the two scarred letters, which sat on Simon’s chest. Two letters which screamed to the world that no matter who he decided to frolic around with, Simon had been his once.

That gave him some comfort, at least.

For now, he decided to leave Simon to it. To do whatever it was he needed to do in London, whether that be seek fame, or find a good fuck. He knew that sooner rather than later he’d see him again. And maybe then he’d give Simon a proper reminder of why it is his name permanently etched on his body, like the graffiti carved into the temples of Rome.

Simon returned north, with Nicholas in tow, just a few months later. Although in John’s eyes, it certainly seemed the other way around. He hid in a crowd of people, and hoped that Simon’s long leave of absence would mean his sixth-sense sensitivity had died down, and he wouldn’t feel him there. Everyone who had turned out to the parade cheered, thrilled with the progress MP Simon Riley had made in London. Of course there were folk who didn’t care for it, or thought they could always do more, but that’s politics for you. John had to simply bite his tongue, as he knew he should be down there with him.

There was a stiffness in Simon’s walk. 

It was not noticeable to others, really, but John noticed. He noticed, and he knew it was the exact same paralyzed stiffness as when he’d first come to his door after getting out of the service.

He wasn’t scared. Simon didn’t do scared.

Or, at least that’s what Simon would say. But when the sound of phantom bullets would whip past his ears as he sat in the quiet of John’s office, he would still drop to the ground instinctively, and often could not be moved for many moments.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen him like this around a man. A kicked dog, with tail tucked between his legs. As if he tried to mute his usual character, and to make himself small. He had noticed, in their previous interactions, how easy it was to charm Simon into submission with the right words and righter actions. A byproduct of the military no doubt, but also his father, in many of his lives. With John it had never seeped into their lives outside of those moments, and Simon returned quickly to his confident, sarcastic self.

It turned his stomach to think about whatever mind games Nicholas had played with him, and even more so to think that he was the idiot who introduced them.

The procession moved further through town, and John tailed them until they reached the constituency's small town hall. It was nothing special; just a stone building of two stories, like that of a residential home, barring the brass signage above the door which indicated otherwise. But to John, it was special, because this is where he and Simon sat for many days and nights when he was first elected, and had shared many toasts of whisky dram, and stories of their past.

They stood at the door and posed for the papers. He knew Simon hated cameras, but the man put on a brave face and wore a smile that wasn’t his. Then Nicholas placed a guiding hand on his lower back and pushed him slightly. 

It didn’t even take him a moment to start walking. 

That’s one problem with soldiers. No matter how ferocious, how cutthroat they are, if somebody can establish their authority over one, their bodies can’t help but move. There was one thing, though. One glimmer of hope that whatever thoughts rushed through Simon’s head right now, he hadn’t fallen entirely for the taller man’s brainwashing.

He looked over his shoulder for one moment, and caught John’s eye. It was silly for John to have assumed that he wouldn’t sense him there. He was more skilled with that than John had ever been, sometimes to the point where it scared him.

His face read with nothingness. No emotion, no cry for help – but with the publicity of it all, how could it?

John knew, though, he would not have looked his way if he had not needed to.

When the commotion had died down, and the spectators and punters had returned home, John made his move. He knew he couldn’t send summons to Simon; any letter or telegram would surely be intercepted. He couldn’t waltz to his house, either. He knew that Nicholas would be the one to open the door if he did.

So instead, he made his way inside the office.

The clerk looked familiar. He seemed to remember her being there the last time he swung by, and from the polite smile on her face when she raised her head, he was sure she remembered.

“Mr. MacTavish! What a lovely surprise. Mr. Riley is just-”

John cut her off with a finger to her lips. It was quite rude of him, but he knew this required secrecy.

“I’m sorry love, need you to not tell Simon I’m here. It’s our secret, okay?”

He wouldn’t have much time. The clerk laughed nervously, but he could tell that as soon as he was through the doors into the main office, she would get up to alert somebody. But what choice did he have?

The inside of the building was empty, save for the administrative staff who ran around with reams upon reams of paper from inside large wooden crates. Probably the several hundred stacks of paper that had ended up in huge piles around their London terrace, and even more, since John had gone. 

Another set of doors, then a corridor which split. John took a left, and crept up the stairs in the hopes that nobody would see him. Now, was it the first, or the second door that would lead him to Simon’s office…? No time to think. Voices were getting louder from further into the building.

There was an ornate closet propped up against the wall.

Before he could really consider his options, his feet had already stepped inside, and he pushed away some coats that he was sure had never been touched or worn. The whole thing smelt horrifically fusty, but he wasn’t in much of a situation to complain.

He could hear the low mumble of a midlands accent from the room adjacent. That bastard. He’d punch him if he could, but that would put both him and Simon in the firing line. Although he couldn’t make out all of the words, he seemed to be mid-demand of some sort of strategy from Simon.

Simon.

John could feel his scar burn. He’d always been the least sensitive of the two, so he knew that Simon knew he was here. Whatever was happening next door was getting heated. He had half a mind to just jump from the closet that second and-

The door to the room they were bickering in opened.

“I’ll be back,” Simon yelled, before the sound of a door slammed shut reverberated through the hallway.

Loud footsteps travelled past the cupboard doors. Had he not felt John’s presence? The Scot shifted uncomfortably as a hanger or some similar, pokey object dug into the small of his back. Then near-silent steps came back up the corridor, and the light flooded in as the cupboard door opened whilst Simon climbed inside too.

“Simon!” John whispered, all too loud. He couldn’t afford them getting caught. Simon knew that too, and clapped his hand roughly across what little of John’s face he could see in the dark of their new abode.

“I’ve not got much time,” he whispered through a rasping breath. He panted, and he only did that when he got that horrible feeling that he always described to John as lead in his chest. It hurt him to see him this way.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” John begged through the pads of Simon’s fingers. Simon withdrew his hand softly, with an apologetic hum.

“He’s got blackmail on you, John. He’ll use it against me if I try anything.”

John was confused. “On me? What does he have on me?” 

Simon took John’s hand and pressed it against his chest, right where John had signed his name. Shit.

“He’ll accuse you of sodomy, John. He’ll tell them you assaulted me…”

“Bastard…” John muttered. But he didn’t care about himself right now, all he wanted was Simon to be safe.

“Does he hurt you, Si?”

John held Simon’s face in both hands, and tried to check his skin for injuries in the slither of light that seeped through the gap in the doors. To his surprise, he didn’t resist the touch at all, entirely malleable in his hands.

“Not often,” Simon mumbled in reply.

John bit his tongue. Part of him wanted to lash out at Simon, for letting some pansy who had never seen a day of manual labour walk all over him. But he knew it wasn’t Simon’s fault, really. For what it was worth, he was the one who brought this devil to their doorstep.

There was a moment of silence where they both crouched, and simply took in the look of one another’s eyes.

“If you’re in trouble and you need me, take off the ring for your next appearance in the papers. If you can escape, come to my house. I don’t care if he takes us both down, you hear me?”

Simon’s breaths were still raggedy, but he nodded. Nicholas talked loudly to some poor administrator in the room next door, the noise clearly not helping the matter. It wasn’t much, but John moved his hands up over Simon’s ears to drown out the sound, and took just one step closer as he hoped that the base of the closet did not drop through under the weight of them both. He missed the scent of Simon more than he remembered, and he showed that by burying his nose deep into the divot of Simon’s collarbones, with the tightness of the closet constricting them.

The man’s shaking quelled a little.

John looked up; eyes adjusted to the dark now. Just enough to see those honey orbs looking over him the way they always used to, with adoration so poorly concealed it would have been amusing, if they weren’t in this scenario.

“I missed you,” John whispered, softly. “And not just because… you know. I missed my best friend, as well.”

He stumbled back slightly, as Simon’s arms wrapped around his waist. There was barely enough room for them in there without any undue cuddling. Still, he could think of worse places to be than encircled in Simon’s arms.

Simon’s voice came muffled from the top of his head; his nose buried in the mop of John’s hair. “I missed you too, John…”

John plotted for a few months.

Every morning, he would pick up the paper. He would check for photos of Simon, to make sure he never took off the ring. Then he would scheme. He’d found a man. Someone shady. Someone that really, he shouldn’t be seen with. The man said he’d take care of things.

John didn’t shy away from violence, as one would assume after six-thousand years of committing it. But there was no way he could safely sneak in, kill Nicholas, and extract Simon without notice. He was too well known, too popular.

He needed a man in the shadows.

He’d paid the bugger handsomely, much to his own annoyance. He’d wanted to use some of the money to get away. They’d go to France, start new lives. He spoke the language after all, due to that one strange blip in their reincarnation cycle. Simon would like France. He’d like some sun on his pale skin, at last. He deserved it more than the ice of the Arctic, or the rainy drizzle of the north of England. He did always say he enjoyed the Caribbean.

But of course, with all plans, there are flaws.

It was to happen in the street adjacent to the MPs office. First, because it was the one place that Nicholas was guaranteed to be, and second, because if it happened in public, it could be palmed off as your run-of-the-mill political assassination. Not that there were many of those these days, or really anyone bothered enough to kill off some poor sod in a far northern constituency. But the date and time were agreed, and John waited out the remaining days before he travelled across the borders again back to Simon’s town.

The streets bustled with energy, for it was market day in the city. John prayed that the hitman would not miss his mark and injure one of the many civilians who weaved in and out of the crowd. He could only hope, from his own vantage point on the roof of an opposing building, that the man’s aim was true.

When that bastard finally came down from his fortress, he saw his man on the ground take point. But there was something wrong.

Simon was with him.

He had made damn well sure of his intel that Simon never joined Nicholas on these midday walks. Nicholas had him holed up in his office, writing the pieces for him that made him famous.

Why was he here?

Fuck.

Fuck!

John didn’t know what to do.

He got up, but it was too swift of a movement and his bad leg gave out from beneath him. Stupid thing, it always acted up at the worst time. He smacked at his leg with his cane until the sensation came back.

Someone screamed below.

John could only spin his head to peer back over the ledge, and his gunman had revealed himself to Nicholas too soon. He’d been spotted by a woman, who had screamed and roused his attention.

Simon was nervous.

He took two steps back before his arm was grabbed by Nicholas, and he was yanked back towards his chest. The gunman was in panic at the interference. John could already see what was about to happen. He swore he heard the gunman take the safety off of the revolver, which at that distance would have been impossible, but it was as if his entire world had become a vacuous pit where only the four of them existed. The gunman, himself, Nicholas and…

Simon.

The gunshot rang out, and Simon’s body took the brunt of the impact. He crumpled, body limp as it hit the street below. John scrambled down from the roof, and tried to get to him before all the other onlookers could. By the time he reached the bottom of the ladder that he’d previously scaled with relative ease, he was breathless, and his legs were giving way beneath him.

He didn’t remember the stumble that he took over to Simon. Didn’t remember just how many people tried to pull him away. Didn’t remember Nicholas slinking out of view, still alive and only mildly injured.

But he did remember how he pulled Simon’s head onto his lap and stroked his soft, curly locks. How he whispered again and again just how sorry he was. His body shuddered with the shock, and wet Simon’s pale cheeks with his tears.

“John,” Simon had whispered, barely audible. “Don’t cry.”

“I thought- I thought I could save you this time…”

Simon shook his head meekly. It was hard for him to talk now; his mouth opened to speak but closed again as the blood welled up in his chest and cut off his airway. John watched, as with the last of his strength Simon slipped the ring from his bloodied finger, and glided it into place on John’s pinkie. 

“Next- time…”

It was not the first time this man had died in his arms. Would probably not be the last, either. But for some reason, this time around, it hurt more than it ever had before. As the police came and cordoned off the scene, and he was asked a hundred questions if not more, and when he was finally let go into an empty town in the middle of the night – he knew there was nothing in this life for him.

When John took his own life a year later, it was all over the papers. They wrote horrible things, no doubt fuelled by Nicholas from the shadows, about both John and Simon. And if either of them had been there to see it, it would have been a stark reminder of exactly why they fought off their feelings in the first place.

But there was something about Simon’s last words. About the exchange of the ring from one hand to another.

It felt like this was the end to the charade where they pretended that they did not care.

Chapter Text

I / SEX ON FIRE 

Love was thrilled at the news, and that they had seemed to end their differences at last. Of course, this wasn’t the end. Nowhere near in fact... Fate still had them wrapped together in their cycle of rebirth until they broke free.

The cycle of rebirth, which was currently at great peril.

Fate knew her limitations. She could decide a plan and influence her flock, but a strong enough will, a mitigating circumstance, or even the force of some other divine unbeknownst or not, could knock her plans askew.

That love interest from the former life, who pulled the strings for some plot of his own, was not meant to survive. He had meant to take the bullet and bleed out. But now here he was, alive, and about to arrive at the same grand manor where the stage was set for the fated ones to meet tonight.

It had not happened before.

Would he recognise the two, as much younger boys? What would that do if he did? A paradox, perhaps? A rift in the timeline?

Conflict had a hand in this too. He wanted this to be a staging ground of his own, for some generals to meet and discuss something he had planned for the near future. Something which, despite his usual bragging, he kept under wraps. And he could not let any mortal soul get in the way of his plans.

“An alliance, for tonight,” he had boomed, and held out his hand to Fate.

Fate took it. She would burn her creations down in this life, to save the rest of the world.

Love begged them not to hurt the two, but it would be down to them whether they made it out or not.

A future officer in the making, his father called him, and slapped him on the back in that always-too-hard manner. The group gathered around them made a series of excited noises, some patted him on the back as well. Simon rolled his eyes. It had been roughly a year since his memories returned, and he knew that he’d led people to war many, many times in the past. There was nothing special about it, he thought, to send young souls to their inevitable deaths.

Of course, he liked the order. He liked the routine and the discipline. He liked to know exactly when he was to wake up, who would be around, how many miles they would walk.

A quip from his uncle. “Oh Simon, bog off and let the adults talk, your face is souring my drink.”

They only wanted him there to show him off, and when that was out of the way, they didn’t care. Fine by him, though. He would sneak off somewhere, indulge himself in his more looked down upon habits, and spend the rest of the night in a chemically assisted haze until some poor sod had to peel him off the furniture.

Or at least that was what he had planned, because it hit him like a bolt of bloody lightning when he felt John enter the building. He did the maths in his head and scanned the entrance hall for a man in his seventies.

Nobody of the sort…

He’d never had a reaction like that, without the energy having been real. And he could feel him, so damn close it hurt his head. A tap on his shoulder. Simon spun around, and nearly wiped out in the process. Someone was sitting up on the antique sideboard right behind him, a truly strange place for anybody to be, really.

“Awright, Si?”

He was bleeding gorgeous, and for some reason not old. But, that would mean- 

One hundred questions tried to leave Simon’s mouth all at once. “What are- Why are you-? John?”

John laughed and performed a morbid noose motion. “Couldn’t live without you, although it took me a year…”

Simon motioned for them to get somewhere quieter, which John happily obliged. It hadn’t gone amiss to Simon that John was wearing a kilt. It made him wonder, with all the pent-up sexual tension of a young man his age, whether what they said about Scotsmen was true…

On the way, Simon snuck into the kitchen of this stranger’s grand manor and stole two bottles of liquor. He hadn’t really looked at the bottles, but anything would do just fine. John had laughed as it happened, before the two of them scarpered at the notice of one of the cooks.

It was quiet upstairs. Mainly because guests were not technically meant to be there. But, as always happened at these parties, people wandered. The occasional sideward glance from a scullery maid or matron didn’t bother them, and they finally found a corner where they could settle behind a large, ornate screen. It was gilded with gold, gems, and other treasures from a faraway place.

They didn’t notice.

They only had eyes for each other.

Simon popped the corks from the bottles with his teeth, and handed the scotch over to John. He stuck with the other bottle, bourbon, a recent import from America. He shuddered at the thought of that place, and all the prior things that happened there. But he could not deny, the grog tasted amazing.

“So, you topped yourself?” He questioned, and watched as the Scot took a deep swig of the dark amber liquid.

“Aye,” John laughed. “But I wrote myself some notes and buried them before I did.”

Simon cocked his head. “Is that so? And what did the notes say?”

He watched John’s face flush ever so slightly, the pink hue spilling over his freckles.

“Think I’d need a few more drinks before I tell you.”

“Get drinking then,” Simon chuckled.

Their hideaway became less secretive by the minute, and so they stowed what little booze they had left in a large, decorative planter, and began to once again roam the halls. John was loud, and his somehow now more bawdy accent made Simon’s heart flutter in both admiration and annoyance.

“Shhhh,” he whispered, as he grabbed John’s arm and dragged him into an alcove to hide from a passing guest. John and alcohol were never a good pairing if stealth had to be involved.

“Gis’ a winch, Si,” the Scot muttered, incoherently.

“A what?” Simon replied, one hand on John’s chest to stop him from escaping, the other pressed flat against the wall as he peered around to check the coast was clear.

“I kin show ye,” John replied, and tugged at his jacket.

The agitation caused Simon to abandon his post, and he twisted back to the shorter man. He was about to complain about John’s lack of care for their hideaway, when he took a step forward, and placed both hands against the wall at either side of Simon’s waist. Simon was pinned.

“John…” Simon grimaced, worried someone might stumble across them. John, on the other hand, did not care. 

It was gentle, at first, the way John cupped his hand steadily over Simon’s cheek. Then Simon remembered that this was what affection had always felt like with John. Not with others, who would strike him, or pull his hair, or force their affections upon him.

Tender and warm.

And even though they could be spotted, this had waited for far too many lives to be put on pause even one second longer. He leant into John’s touch, allowed him to guide their lips together, and tasted the bittersweetness of whisky which dissipated in his breath. 

“John,” he demanded against the man’s lips, for he still had to be in charge of their joint safety, “let’s go somewhere.”

Anywhere would do, right now. That anywhere ended up being a small broom closet; the first unlocked door they had found in a drunken stumble down the hallway. There was no hesitance now, for John had pushed Simon through the door and shut it behind him with such excitement that the items inside shook on their shelves. For good measure, he took a sweeping brush and used it to bar the door from the inside.

There was no negotiation either, no words from both members of the party. Just the near instantaneous crash of lips upon lips, hands wrapped around waists and tangled in hair, and the sheer closeness of them as their bodies pressed together in the cramped interior. Much different to last time they were stuck in a confined closet. Filled with such lust and passion that Simon feared he would not be able to hold anything back.

It couldn’t be said how much of this stemmed from the overconsumption of alcohol, or from the hormones in their now-young bodies overcompensating for the lack of virility in their former, older selves. But this kiss deepened quickly, until Simon felt John’s hands unbuttoning his shirt, desperate to touch his pale skin below.

He whined, as John’s hot tongue ran a thick stripe of saliva vainly across the carving of his own initials. The look on his face suggested he’d wanted to do that for quite some time.

“Yer’ mine, Simon,” John mumbled into his neck. Simon felt his teeth sink in before he sucked a claiming bruise right under his Adam’s apple.

“Oi, careful,” Simon reprimanded, and pushed John back against the opposite wall. Both men were headstrong, even bossy, when they wanted to be. This wouldn’t be as simple as taking what they wanted and when.

Simon had to crouch a little, but he returned the favour of hot and heady kisses into John’s neck.

“So… What did those notes say?”

John laughed, and wrapped his leg behind Simon’s. Simon, in turn, hoisted him up so that John’s back lay flush against the wall, and his throat and chest were bared for more violent kisses.

“I told myself,” he started, before Simon’s tongue glanced over his nipple and caused him to whine. “I said, ‘ John MacTavish, if you are idiotic enough to let that man go again, you need to check yourself into an asylum ’, among some other things...”

Simon chuckled, and kissed up into John’s mouth. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

John had his hands locked around his shoulders, and let them roam up into Simon’s hair. Simon laughed to himself a little. It was probably quite some time since John had been with someone who could pick him up and throw him around.

Simon wanted to show him what else he could do better than those before him. 

He kissed him again, hard, and needy, before he placed him back down on the ground. Then, he dropped to his knees at John’s feet, which caused John to both gasp and groan all at once.

“Is it true what they say about a Scotsman’s kilt?” Simon joked, as he shot a devious grin upwards towards his stunned companion.

John replied ferociously. “Ye kin tek a keek, darling.”

The words had come out gutturally, like a growl from the back of his throat. And it didn’t matter that Simon didn’t understand half of them, for the way the man angled his hips, and the slight twitch of his cock as he muttered that pet name was enough to suggest that was his blessing.

Simon wasted no time to get under the thick pleats of the red and blue of MacTavish tartan, and was somehow surprised to find John really was in the buff.

“Like what you see?” He joked as he ruffled a hand through Simon’s curls. Simon couldn’t even think of a sarcastic retort. He needed his hands, mouth, any damn part of him on the beauty which hung between John’s legs. “Go on, darling, I know you want it.”

He took him up in his hand at first, and stroked long, breathy moans out of the Scot. Then slowly, he brought his mouth around him, and indulged himself with the taste of sweat mixed with precum. It had only been moments, but John trembled above him already, and wrapped his hands tightly into Simon’s hair.

“You okay?” Simon slurred lazily, John’s cock weighing down his tongue.

John took a moment to answer. “Fine, darling, it’s just been a while…”

Simon chuckled, the reverberation did not at all help the situation. “I’ll take it slow, then.”

He did take it slow. Slow kisses placed lovingly on John’s thighs. Firm licks of John’s whole length, with long, anticipatory pauses. He teased John with it, until his cock wept and begged for release. But no release came. 

There was a scream from the corridor outside, and at first it seemed they had been discovered. But no, that wasn’t it. There were loud crashes, and what sounded like running in both directions past the small room. Then the smell of smoke.

Fuck.

“A fire?” Simon asked, as he pulled his mouth away in panic.

“Fuck Simon! I don’t care if the building is coming down, don’t leave me like this…”

He had wondered why the room felt abnormally hot. The seals of the door blocked out the scent of smoke, but now it was more than noticeable.

“Straighten yourself out, we have to go,” he commanded John. A reverse of their previous position. John clearly wasn’t pleased, but he did as he was told.

No matter where he shifted his shirt, he could not hide the large blemish above his collar, for which John apologised profusely. And John, who was still uncomfortably hard, could not restrain his modesty with the lack of undergarments to tuck anything into.

They opened the door, and the few remaining stragglers in the corridor were thankfully too concerned about their own safety to wonder why two drunken, bedraggled lads had fallen out of a cupboard together.

When they reached the stairs, they realised just how bad the fire was.

The guests downstairs had managed to evacuate with ease, the fire thankfully spotted far before it posed a risk to life. But those upstairs, both guests and staff, were not so lucky. The flames had quickly spread through the soft furnishings and wooden balustrades.

John scoffed. “I’m starting to think we’re cursed,” he joked.

Simon had the exact same words on his tongue.

He grabbed John by the hand and began to pull him down the corridor to the stairs that lead up to the third floor. He’d rather have to jump than burn, and if they were lucky, they would find a vantage point or a ledge that they could climb down from.

“Boys, please help!”

It was one of the senior maids, who found herself trapped by a cabinet that had fallen through the cracked floors from the room above. There was somebody else too, whose body could just about be made out through the smoke filling the room. It took both of them to push the cabinet out of the way, and John reached his hand in to pull the old girl free.

The man on the ground - it was an older gent. His chest suggested he was still breathing, but it was shallow.

There was something that sickened Simon to his stomach, however, and John had witnessed the change in his expression. John told the maid to run, and that they would take care of this.

“It’s Nicholas,” Simon muttered under his breath, as he turned to the Scot.

John came close and investigated the room. There was no doubt, it was him.

“Fuck, Si… What do we do?”

Simon was certainly no saint, but he was just. In turn, he remembered injustices like he remembered his own name. This man laying here, he had committed many, not only to him but to many other people in his time.

“We leave him, this place is going to crumble,” Simon replied, and tugged John’s arm again. John seemed hesitant at first, but after another look, he agreed.

They climbed to the third floor, and stumbled out onto a decorative canopy that overlooked the gardens below. The wind howled as it whipped smoke and ash in their direction, and John very much regretted his outfit choice for the day.

“Bit nippy, eh Simon?” John prodded lightly, in an attempt to detract from the dire situation they found themselves in.

But Simon didn’t listen. He was deep in thought. Calculating. 

There was a lintel that one of them could carefully drop down onto, with help. Then, enough space to shuffle along ten paces or so to the left, where a large balcony remained undamaged by the fire. He would bet that on the far side of that balcony, there were some trellises, or a pipe, or even another balcony below which would be safe to jump from.

The only issue was, only one person would make it to the lintel. There was no way to get there without assistance from the canopy.

“Do you trust me?” Simon asked, as he grabbed both of John’s shoulders.

“Always,” John replied instantly. “But why?”

“You’re about to find out,” he muttered, as he motioned for John to sit with his legs hanging off the edge of the rafters. John followed, without hesitation.

He only screamed a little when Simon pushed him off and swung him from the collar of his jacket, his feet barely managing to gain purchase on the small ledge below.

“You solid?” Simon shouted down, after he let his jacket go.

“Aye, but when I get my hands on you, you’re dead!”

Simon laughed. He knew that unless a bloody miracle happened, that wasn’t likely in this life. The heat of the flames had already overwhelmed  the room they had just climbed from moments ago, and the window wouldn’t withstand the heat much longer before the flames burst onto the canopy.

“Right, now jump down onto that balcony there,” he ordered.

John did just that, although there was a moment of tension when he landed and nearly went backwards over the railing. This probably wasn’t the best idea when they were each a litre deep in hard spirits.

“There’s a ladder… We can climb down, Si!”

“You can climb, Johnny."

He didn’t know where that name had come from. He’d never called him that before… It had just fallen from his lips before he could stop it. John hesitated, seeming equally confused about the new nickname as he was about why Simon wasn’t following him. 

And then it seemed to click.

“Simon… Why did you tell me you couldn’t follow?”

“Because you wouldn’t have gone, otherwise,” he shouted back, and let out a sigh as he watched the younger man pout. “Now go, you might be able to find a way for me to get down yet.”

He watched John take a final glance in his direction before he hurried down the ladder. Simon knew there was probably nothing he could do, not unless he pulled some stunt or another that you could see in these new “movies” he’d heard his family talk about.

If only he could take John to see one.

The flames licked the window now, and the heat scorched his back. He could feel his clothing start to smoulder, and his body drip with sweat. Of course, the activities they were performing just before now probably hadn’t helped with the latter problem. 

His mind began to wander, as one’s mind does when they come to the end of their time. He wondered whether there was a god, and whether this was all an atonement for his sins. If there was a hell, as John had once so adamantly believed, would this have solidified his place in it?

“Simon!”

He peered over the edge at the sound of his own name.

John was on a horse. A fucking horse. Riding side-saddle, for that matter, because of his bloody kilt. Where did he get the horse? No idea! But it didn’t matter, for the horse had towed a large hay cart behind it which was full to bursting with hay. This was going to hurt. No doubt he’ll break a rib or two. But anything is better than the fire, and if anything, it would make for a spectacular death if he didn’t stick the landing.

He jumped without a second thought, and for a moment felt the freedom of being airborne followed by an instant bout of nausea. Nobody sane would jump from this height without good reason. Nobody would get to experience that sensation of falling with absolutely nothing to grab on to. He managed to turn in the air, so that his back would hit the hay and hopefully cushion all of the soft, squishy parts in the front.

CRASH .

The whole cart split in two, as Simon’s body barrelled into it.

But the softness of the hay, and the shock absorption of the boards meant that apart from the pain which seared in his ribs, he was alive. John wasted no time, and clambered into the remains of the structure before he wrapped his arms around him.

“Ow, ow, ribs,” Simon yelped, but in return buried his face into John’s chest.

This was different. Different than the times before. They had both been in abject danger and survived . There was no time for thoughts. No time for being rational. He was alive, and he could breathe, and John was here.

“You should’nae have sacrificed yerself, ya wally!” John joked, and threw light punches into his upper arm. He had forgotten the previous threat of murder, it seemed.

Simon laughed. 

He would do it again for John. One hundred times over.

II / CALM BEFORE THE STORM

“There’s two injured here!” Someone yelled out, and John pulled himself off Simon’s chest in double time.

The rest had happened so fast. Doctors looked over Simon at the scene, and decided he needed to go to the local hospital. His family had gathered around, and reprimanded him for going missing.

Thankfully, the bruise he had graced Simon’s neck with blended in with the other minor burns and abrasions. 

He had shrunk back from the crowd, in an attempt to not arouse any further suspicion, but in doing so had managed to bump into his own father.

“John, there you are!” 

Then he was being dragged by the arm.

“Wait, that’s my friend!” he retorted, and cringed at the sound of his voice as if he really was an ignorant teenager, and not a six-thousand-year-old soul trapped in the body of an eighteen-year-old.

John’s father glanced at the lanky blond boy, who he knew he’d never seen in his life.

“Come on John, you’re drunk. Where did you even get booze from?”

He couldn’t retaliate as he was pulled away from the scene. His legs were already rocky, the adrenaline which had drained quickly from his system now being replaced by the awful shakes that followed.

The last he had seen of Simon was the doctors, who lifted him onto a rudimentary stretcher.

He sipped his coffee and pondered over the paper in his hand. It was his most recent column, returned from their in-house editor, covered in the usual scrawls of disapproval. 

Too flouncy . 

“I’ll show you fecking flouncy,” he scoffed, feet slung up onto the desk like he owned the place.

In reality, he did. Or rather, his parents did, with the intention of passing it down to him when they wished to retire. But it wasn’t exactly going the way he had planned.

The sports column was a good gig. Solid. Always something local to report on, bigger sections for the well-known derbies, small and regular for everything else. He got to travel to the matches frequently, although that often than not meant he sat in the rain, piss wet through, as he watched some chaps slide about in the mud. As a result though, he had indeed earned a bit of a name for himself in the local journalism scene.

But he was sick of it, after two years of all the same tripe. He wanted bigger and better things.

Things more aligned with whatever was going on in Europe right now. They said a war was coming. The war to end all wars. But John had seen a lot of wars in his time and knew that no matter how many times that phrase was spoken, it was clearly never true. Still, thanks to the scheming influence of British journalism, it seemed to the general populace as if they would have a tremendous advantage.

Part of him was excited.

If there was a war, it would give him the chance to travel again. He could even report from the front lines, maybe write a paper for the other soldiers.

Maybe he would find Simon…

He shook the thought out of his head.

It was best to not think of Simon, for it would go one of two ways. The first way involved heart-wrenching pining with no recompense, and the second was something of a more devious nature. The fire had already started in his loins as he tried to think of anything else.

They had not met since the day of the fire. John, in fact, hadn’t found a trace of him in any paper or telephone switchboard, even though he was sure of his father having some important title that he never got to ask about.

He swore down he would find him in this life and tell him everything else he’d written in those notes. Things that, for the better of both of them, he had left unsaid.

Speaking of notes, John had become rather fond of the written arts. Rather embarrassingly, or so he thought at least, he had started writing for pleasure alongside his usual columns and journalistic tripe. Nothing much, just a soliloquy here or a poem there. He started vaguely. Something about spring, the weather, amusing commentaries on sport. He tried to pen a book but found he had not the patience for long form.

Then, one day, a poem about a lost lover with eyes as brown as the clay-rich soil beneath, from which the tender stems of new life sprouted beautiful roses. Very cliche, but he thought about that one often.

The divines knew it would not be long before they were to meet again.

Love felt the pull of the red string. It was strong, and did not waver. She felt every taut vibration and slackness of it, but it was never severed. Fate could sense it, too, but she was not sure exactly why. This was the doing of another divine, the nature of which was sinister.

Conflict of course, steered the plan.

The whole world was in tension, and any one event could cause the snap. He had pushed all the buttons, over years and years, and then waited with his hand firmly on the metaphorical detonator. In the end, the exact cause was unknown. It would be disputed, no doubt, in history books and academic texts for centuries beyond this point. A bullet, fired at a Duke, was the powder keg that set the whole thing ablaze. But this ran much deeper than that. This was the human condition, playing out on the world stage. 

III / THE STORM

A lovesick fool I am, to dream of you by night,

Have neither held your hand nor spoke my truth to you,

Gave youth instead for tender Britain’s plight,

‘Cross green fields and o’er oceans blue.

Did you ever wonder what became of me,

That night I left you with no trace?

I remember; I had turned slow to see,

One final fleeting glance of your warm grace.

And now, in this trench of mud and rain,

Rifle jammed, boots of water filled,

May God grant solace, to see you again,

If this bloody War will see me killed.

Simon held the paper firmly in his left hand, and rubbed the coarse stubble beneath the mask with his right. He hated the way it felt, when the little thorns of hair would poke through the fabric. But facilities were less than adequate on the front lines, even for the officers further back from the front lines. Here, he had a dugout, a glorified, pokey shed built into the dirt containing no less than one table, two stools, some files, and their radio.

The papers were nice, though.

Not many copies circulated. In fact, he didn’t know how the buggers who created it managed to get a printing press onto the front lines. It must be in a resupply trench, or perhaps even back in the administrative buildings. People would circle parts, leave notes for each other. One of the lads who came by his dugout was particularly fond of the poet’s page. Its ink had been home to many a famous soldier’s words, and some others lesser known.

That poem stood out on the page, circled, noted on, and seemingly highly praised. But the author was unknown. 

He would never admit it, but the poems had become a bit of a guilty pleasure of his. It was strange. He didn’t care for Owen, or Sassoon or Brooke. No. He wanted more of that anonymous poet who seemed to describe his own feelings so perfectly that it was oftentimes uncanny.

A knock on the wooden board above the dugout. No door, of course, but a thick burlap curtain hung down that had been cut and stitched from potato sacks.

“Enter,” he commanded, as he folded the paper away and placed it with the rest.

A young lad shuffled in, who must have been barely seventeen. A common occurrence. These poor sods, influenced by propaganda and a chance to prove themselves, with some as young as fourteen being able to trick their way in. Some went to the trouble of forging papers, others were just “lucky” and had a selection officer who looked the other way.

Of course, not many of them felt lucky anymore.

Simon had seen with his own eyes the change. The morale of July, gone by October. Even he, who had served in most of the major wars in British history, and even some outside of it, was horrified by the turn.

There were no swords and chivalry now.

Guns fired at any semblance of movement. White flags often meant nothing to the eyes of tired men, on both sides. There was no tent to return to, no castle, no boat. You were lucky to sleep, lucky to have one moment's rest. He had forgotten the sound of silence. Even when the guns ceased fire momentarily, his ears would continue to ring.

The lad shuffled impatiently. Simon had been lost in his thoughts.

“Sorry lad,” he said, despite himself being only twenty-three. Still, he had to live up to his rank.

“New orders, Sir. Trench expansion to the West. They are predicting two days and two nights of digging out.”

Simon nodded, thanked the young Private, and dismissed him.

His family pushed for him to be an officer. He had been made an offer too, despite his young age. A natural tactician they had called him . Of course, it wasn’t natural at all, it was entirely learned behaviour. And although he was naturally bright, he had much of that to lend to his past careers.

So, when he had signed up to be amongst the enlisted men, nobody had been pleased.

He knew it was here that he could make a difference. That he could lead by example, and not with sheer bluster like those fools locked away in secure buildings calling the shots. And, perhaps most stupidly, he thought that maybe this was his best bet of finding John.

John…

The man who crossed his mind at least five times a day. The man who caused his ears to prick up any time a young Private with a heavy Scottish drawl pushed by him in the walkways. The man who he had just been waiting to appear, propped up against some wall in this broken hollow of the earth, and to whisper his name so sweetly his ears would melt to hear it.

A shell landed close by. Over the parapet, thankfully, but close enough that the dust and deluge was blown in through the measly curtain, and coated the room in clods of thick earth. 

It broke Simon away from his daydream all too soon.

He was scared, in this life. More than he’d been in any other.

He had already met John – that was the usual catalyst. Once upon a time, John would have had to drive the blade through his chest for him to die, but that seemed long gone. Maybe the violence was never a part of it; just an unfortunate side effect of the hatred that they used to hold so deeply for each other.

If he died now, without John here, would that be the end?

He realised just how deeply he had fallen, when the fear of dying concerned him less than the fear of not seeing that dumb bastard again.

For two days, the men dug the trench to the western flank. Whenever they rested, for the sake of his own sanity, he would pick up a shovel himself. He didn’t know why. He had never minded digging; there was something satisfying about the repetitive breaking of the earth beneath the tool, and the satisfaction from the progression that came with it.

The artillery line laid down a heavy barrage. His ears rang with the sound.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

His shovel broke through another heavy layer of soil.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. He needed a moment to rest, so he laid his shovel down.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch?

In his delirium, and through the whizzes and booms of the mortars, he didn’t process the sound. His arms felt as if they were still going, as if he still swung the shovel back and forth, and the dirt that crumbled inwards from his freshly excavated wall was just the result of his own actions.

Only when the tip of a shovel broke through did he realise what was happening.

An invasion? Sappers?

He pulled his bowie knife from his hip, his rifle just metres out of reach where he had propped it for better access to the dig zone. There were no voices coming from the thin layer of soil between them. Was it someone alone? Or were they keeping quiet for an ambush?

It was already quite dark, this late autumn. The sun fell from the sky early here on the Western Front. It was not all that different to home.

The intruder broke through.

Simon grabbed the man’s uniform, and thrusted his entire weight against him to pin him back into the trench wall. They slipped and stumbled in the mud, where the boards had not yet been laid underfoot, and Simon raised the knife to the man’s throat.

“Fuck, Simon!?”

The voice quelled the adrenaline surge instantaneously, like a bucket of water over hot coals.

“Johnny!?”

The Scot was filthy, to the point of being unrecognisable. His face was dark with muck, the type which no matter how many times you wash it will never leave the pores of your skin. His uniform was not only sodden but torn. One of the legs of his trousers was entirely ripped off, from the knee downwards, to reveal a leg thick with hair, blood, and dirt.

There was a pregnant pause between them.

So much to say. So much to do. All of which would get them into insurmountable amounts of trouble if they were seen.

“You looked wrecked, mate,” Simon finally choked out, and released the hand which he hadn’t meant to keep on John’s jacket for so long.

John straightened himself out, as well as he could with half of his uniform ripped off. He seemed disappointed by Simon’s retreat.

“Two days, I’d make it.”

Simon titled his head slightly. “Two days?”

“Aye, that’s how long I was fucking tunnelling for.”

“Tunnelling? Out there?” 

John walked deeper into the trench, which left Simon no choice but to follow. He picked up his discarded rifle, and ordered a couple of Privates who had lingered around in the wrong place at the wrong time to clean up the dirt which had now fallen back into the trench and to do something about John’s tunnel.

“You have a dugout, Sir?” John asked. The formality of rank slipped from his mouth as if it was nothing. 

But this wasn’t nothing.

It was the first time they had ever been on the same side.

Simon led him to the dugout and fetched his emergency medical supplies, where he tended to the deeper cuts on John’s leg. Whatever had nicked him so badly that it ripped through fabric had really done a number on his skin, but the mud mixture had probably helped stop the bleeding, acting as a barrier of sorts.

“Wire?” He asked casually, as he attempted to clear the dirt and dried blood from the wound. The mixture of the two came off in great amounts onto the cloth, but it seemed as if it would never clear away entirely.

John nodded. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion.

“When you said tunnelling?”

“New tactic,” John yawned, “they’re thinking of forming a Corps soon, to break the stalemate.”

“And you actually dug under their lines?”

Another nod, and a mumble about placing explosives. His head lolled down onto the table, and before Simon had even finished tending to him, he snored deeply. Simon looked at the bars on his breast pocket. He made Lance Corporal.

When someone finally came into the room, to see what the fuss was about, Simon ordered him to tell the radiomen to search for a battalion missing one Lance Corporal MacTavish, with haste.

It wasn’t long before his battalion was found.

They were based three kilometres down the lines, and they had thought him dead. He was missing for four days.

Simon imagined what it felt like in those tunnels. How John had no clarity of time, since he had thought he was gone for half the time he really was. How you would see not the rise of the sun, feel wind or weather, breathe the smoke-filled air. He could sense the stifling claustrophobia of walls all around.

It made even the dugout feel small.

This man, asleep with his head in his arms, was very clearly mad…

Simon had let him rest for a while, for he was sure he needed it, right until his brigade came to collect him. Two soldiers, one short, one lanky, appeared in the opening to the dugout unsure of whether to enter. He called them in, and shook John awake so that they could carefully hook him over their arms.

“Sir,” John had said with a nod and a smile, as he steadied himself against their grip.

His leg was looking worse for wear, and he was malnourished. A trip to the medical tent on the back lines was in order, and perhaps whilst he was there, they could fix him up with a new uniform and let him get a proper bath.

The extra company at this moment was unwelcome.

Simon had wanted to order the men back out of the room, to hold John close for even a second. But he knew John had gone through hell and back, and what he needed most right now was not him, but some actual medical attention.

He saw them off, and escorted them back to the supply trench from where they could take John to the medics. John was barely conscious, body on the brink of complete collapse from exhaustion. But that didn’t stop him from a turn, and a wink over his shoulder as the two damn near dragged him out of sight.

The damaged wall was repaired, John’s impromptu tunnel filled, and the final stretch dug out another kilometre or so until the edge of the trench just kissed the scrub and brush of a heavily forested area. It worried him that this passage could be so easily used to cover the tracks of those coming in, or out .

Deserters in concept didn’t bother him.

He could write the textbook on the horrors of war; knew that not everyone could hack the hardships of this life. But as a leader, that escape, that small glimmer of hope to those poor bastard souls who needed it was trouble.

It killed him when he had caught a lad no older than sixteen, mid-scrabble up the parapet. He grabbed him by the ankle and yanked hard, so that his body tumbled back into the trench before he could stand and get shot at from the opposite line.

He let out a scream that was stifled quickly by Simon’s gloved hand.

“Don’t,” he ordered, and glared the boy down for long enough that he was sure he would listen.

When he removed his hand, the lad was silent, but still trembled where he sat.

He cursed himself for being so bloody soft, ever since that insufferable bastard came into his life. Before, it would have been easy. He could just have looked mean, pushed the lad around a little, and given him a reason to be more scared of him than he was of a German machine gun or the shells which fell inches from his bed at night.

But that wasn’t him, anymore.

“Talk, lad,” he spoke, in a tone that tried to be soft, if not for the harsh edges on his consonants that his accent so naturally blessed him with.

Then he listened. Listened as this youth who should still have been in school blabbered through tears about missing his home, his parents, the girl he was sweet on. He had wanted to impress her, and thought he could go for a couple of months and come home with a medal and some stories. It wasn’t what the recruiters told him it would be like. He didn’t believe the people who warned him otherwise.

Simon handed him a handkerchief from his pocket.

“I’ll not report this,” he started, as he uncomfortably shifted in the crouch he had taken to get closer to the lad, “but you need to go back. They’ve started doing bad things to deserters.”

The young lad sniffled and met his gaze for the first time. Eyes of bright blue stared up at him.

If this was his Johnny, would he have let him go?

He sent the boy back, and nothing more was said about the attempted escape. Not to him, at least. But by the lack of other attempts, he assumed that something had been said that the route was patrolled and a no-go.

One less thing to worry about.

That was until the day that a particularly bad artillery barrage had crashed down upon their section of the trench. Some men were lost instantly, others wounded by shrapnel or from gunfire as they crawled away from the explosives.

He got to the scene as soon as the dust settled, organised the medics, yelled orders until his voice was rasping and ragged. 

“Sir! Come quick!”

Someone was yelling from a section of the trench where the corrugated iron of the revetment had been blown out, warped, and twisted. He travelled as quickly as he could, with the foot traffic in the area.

“Sir, please hurry!”

Yet another young one, whose uniform barely clung to his small frame. These uniforms, which were stitched for men, and not boys. Simon cursed their mothers for allowing them to leave the house. But he knew deep down the dumb, gut courage that being immature and foolhardy gave you, and that the threat of a slipper or old wooden spoon would do nothing to deter these reckless young fools.

Simon grabbed at the iron; the torn edges cut his hands as he did. He pushed it back hard, which allowed the younger man to shimmy underneath. A few moments of stillness, then the boy started pulling something, or rather, someone out of the gap.

Another soldier rushed to help, and out from the mangled mess the body came.

Then the screaming started. He was alive, barely, and clearly shaken. His arm was gone, thankfully his left, and far enough from the shoulder that some sort of prosthetic could be made. But then Simon realised not everyone had the reassurance of time like he did. Not every man could survive the same wounds he had.

Someone handed him the med kit. They hauled the wounded chap upright.

It was not the first time he’d scrambled on all fours in the dirt to save someone. But as he pulled the tourniquet from the bag, and looked up at his patient, his heart sunk.

The young, blue-eyed boy whose escape he had stopped mere days ago.

“Fuck!” Simon audibly yelled, as he struggled to get the knot around the man’s arm with the slick of blood seeping over every surface. “Get the fucking medics here!”

He watched as a group of Privates pulled his panicked friend away. Although Simon could sense that this was more than a friend, to him. He looked at him that exact same way that Simon looked at Johnny. And this boy, with eyes just like Johnny’s, who had a girl waiting back home, a mother mithering over him, would forever leave blood on his hands if he did not pull through.

Simon never found out whether the boy made it. Just another thing to haunt him at night. His blood stained the knees of Simon’s trousers in a dark, oxidised brown. He wouldn’t have a new pair for another week, at least. After the field aid, had gone to wipe the blood from his hands, his eyes, with the handkerchief from his pocket, before he realised he had given it to that very same boy days ago. 

His hands gripped the paper tightly, as he tried to stop the tremors. Those were new, in this life anyways, but a similar run in with an artillery piece had left him like this in his former life too. There were two ways he knew how to deal with them. The first, distraction. His eyes flickered through updates, memorials, birthdays, events, and charity funds. Nothing caught his attention.

Not until he flipped to the poetry section, and nestled between another reprint of Brooke and Graves, was his favourite anonymous writer.

Lover, I saw you. I saw you in my dream.

Your fair skin, winter snowfall cold.

I thought they had sent you from above.

To bring me home into the fold.

But these were your arms, not angel’s wings.

And your voice spoke, ‘get back from the light!’

A vision. The reason my soul still clings,

To wretched earth, was you that night.

He scoffed. That lovesick fool was at it again, mewling tender nothings into the dark like a cat in heat. But as his eyes crept back over the stanzas, he couldn’t help as his heart warmed, and softened. Unwittingly, he imagined himself as the recipient of such words. After all, he had only recently met Johnny again. He wasn’t sure how much of it Johnny remembered, if any, as his state of delirium probably clouded his focus.

It crossed his mind momentarily that perhaps it was him writing. Then he shook the thought away near instantly. He knew John felt something for him. But not enough to start pining for him through the papers in the hopes Simon would read it, right? That was too much like a fairy tale, and Simon’s life was far from magical.

The distraction worked, for a while, until the shakes returned. His second port of call was the same as last time, a chemical distraction. Whether it be tobacco, or something stronger, he always carried something which would pump his body with fake happiness and serenity.

A cigarette, for now, for he had to meet his superiors later for a report.

The smoke curled up into the roof of the dugout and lingered. If these things weren’t in such short supply on the front, he’d never be without one between his lips.

Christmas Eve of 1914. This would all be over by now, those in charge had said. Of course, Simon knew from the commencement that statement was a load of bollocks – no war of this size would ever be over in five short months. But the trenches had fallen quiet, today. In the distance, the sound of shells still boomed, but not here.

Perhaps he was being soft again, but he could see the exhaustion on the faces of the men around him and knew the German trenches would be just the same. He decided today not to push the men harder than their necessary tasks.

In the false silence of some part of the Western Front, people sang carols.

It started from the opposing trench. A soft hum, in some language Simon had not yet managed to learn in his long time on this planet, which broke out into song. And the tune was mimicked from their line, in a way that even though the words misaligned, the cacophony of both was achingly beautiful.

He heard a lark sing, for the first time in months.

It hadn’t been mandated, but the following day, one darn fool had poked his head above the parapet with a flag of white and a call to cease fire. Simon hadn’t been watching at the time, his head buried deep in some logistical report, but he was unsure whether he would have even tried to stop the bloke.

They watched, cautiously, as a German soldier mirrored his action. And how, slowly, more people from either side inched over the top to join their fellows in No Man’s Land. Surreal wasn’t a strong enough word. Simon, who had seen war in all its functions throughout all human history, had never seen something quite like it.

The scared part of him told him not to go. The curious part of him would kill him if he didn’t.

His boot hit the soil at the top, as fellow men pulled him up by the arms and dusted his shirt down. He did the same, for a while, helping people to scramble from the marred hole in the soil. Then after a while, he paced to the centre of it all, where men of both sides traded cigarettes and pats on the back.

No words between them, except maybe the occasional hello, or please, or thank you.

Things were peaceful, until he heard a yell of his name from somewhere east. Not his title, not his rank…

“Simon!”

Johnny. His Johnny.

Simon did him a favour and began the walk towards him, as the man hobbled here on crutches and was altogether slow. He cursed whoever released him from medical care like this, but knew it was probably on John’s own say-so, and that the poor sod would have had no choice. 

“Shouldn’t be up here in your condition,” he crooned, and threw an arm around John’s shoulders in a way that attempted to be pally.

John chuckled and leaned in a little closer. Too close, really, but it seemed as if everyone was too busy to notice. “Aye, probably not, but I heard the footy’s on.”

John’s information wasn’t wrong. They used the morning to collect and bury the dead, fix defences, and coordinate with battalions further down the trench. But then, around midday on a patch of land not quite blown to bits, two teams formed.

“You’ve got to play, Simon,” John said with a grin.

Simon saw again in John what he’d seen in so many of the man’s previous lives. A new soul, young at heart, never tarnished by what he had seen or what he had done. The things which pulled Simon down, that kept him awake at night in terror, John just… floated over. This whole cycle, these reincarnations which had still not revealed an explanation to them, the Scot took in his stride. He looked and acted as a twenty-two-year-old would look and act. 

No doubt, deep inside, it hurt him too. But you would never know if you were to see the sparkle in those eyes.

“I don’t play football, Johnny,” he laughed, and ruffled the man’s hair, toeing the line between familiarity and something more.

“You’re no fun,” John groaned, “hold my things!”

Before Simon could reprimand him, John had offloaded not only his equipment, but also his crutches and his jacket, stripped down to naught but his trousers and vest. Simon tried to contain the flush he could feel plume onto his cheeks, as the man flexed his biceps overenthusiastically in a humorous gesture to his new teammates.

He watched from the side-lines for most of the kickabout, until the older Geordie that had been John’s through-ball man slipped on a particularly mulched up piece of soil and had to come off injured. As soon as it happened, he saw John’s eyes flick in his direction, and so with a huff he relieved himself of his own jacket and joined the game.

“Knew I’d change ye mind,” John cackled, as he booted the ball his way.

Simon was shit at football. But Simon wanted to make Johnny happy. So even when he skyrocketed the ball, tripped over Johnny’s feet, and missed the chance to score a corker of a goal, he looked at Johnny with a face that begged for reassurance until the man smiled back at him, enchanted. 

For once, Simon too felt young. As the earth sprung beneath his feet for some purpose other than to run from danger, he actually laughed out loud.

Then, in the final drawn out moments of the match, John kicked the ball in the fashion of a First Division player, and the pig leather sphere circled in the air only to soar between their makeshift goalposts. There were groans and grunts from the Germans, who patted each other on the back in condolence.

John on the other hand, went ballistic with excitement and fired himself at Simon as if he’d been shot from a cannon. It knocked the two of them to the ground and down a small divot.

“Fuckin’ hell Johnny,” Simon choked, the breath knocked clean out of his lungs.

He could have been convinced that he had looked directly into the sun, for the radiance of he who lay across his downed frame was doing everything it could to blind him. And if this was the last thing he ever saw, he would not complain.

“Sorry, Si… Got a bit carried away there,” John laughed, as he grabbed Simon’s hand to pull him up.

But not before Simon could pull him close and place one, chaste kiss on his lips, when he was sure nobody else could see.

“Great shot,” he whispered hot into his ear, before he allowed John to get him up as intended.

The return to the trenches that afternoon was disheartening, but there was a war to fight that could not be won over ball games and cards. The only good news to accompany the solemn moment, was the news that John and a few other candidates for the freshly forming tunnelling regiment would be moving into the section next door. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” John laughed, as he brought Simon deeper into his own part of the trench. This section, unlike his own, had a large dugout that seemed recently installed.

He could hear a small machine whirring away.

“What’s in there?” He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

John turned to see what had caught his attention. “Oh, did I not tell you? I run the paper that circulates in our area.”

Simon blinked slowly. If John was running the paper, did he know who the mystery poet was?

“Can you show me?”

John paused, their rendezvous waiting for them further down the trench line. But what was five minutes more? He followed John through the curtain.

The machine was larger than he expected. Not a full-sized one, but even so, stood as tall as the two of them with belts and pistons and chords all wrapped around various gears. John showed him how the paper travelled through, the plates which transferred the text, the arduous process of hand stitching the papers together. He talked in detail about the machines he had back home, which would do that part for him, but it had been a logistical nightmare to organise the delivery of one and so the volunteers sat with thick thread and bound the pages themselves.

Simon was enamoured. Less so by the complexities of newspaper printing, but more by the way John’s eyes enlarged and glimmered as he talked. 

“Does that mean you know the anonymous poet, then?”

There was a small pause, before John laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”

A curious response, but they were already late for their report. He thought it best not to pry, not right now.

It took longer than Simon would have liked. Practically, it was the same length as before, but he found himself increasingly more distracted by the three-day stubble on John’s chin, the way the hair he took such pride in sat foppish on his scalp, and the way his hands drummed any conceivable surface as if he was about to burst with energy.

“Sergeant Riley has shown me the joint service tunnels,” John had said, but he hadn’t heard anything past the sound of his name curling around John’s lips.

The walk back was too fast. Knowing he would have to leave John part way, he tried to shorten his steps. But when the entire world around is in a hurry, it is sometimes inconceivable to do anything else but rush alongside it.

John offered him a smoke.

“What’s this?” Simon replied. He took a cigarette out of habit but made damn well sure his look of disappointment rested on his face.

John rolled his eyes. “You’re not exactly one to lecture on this matter, Simon.”

“You know,” Simon started, “they are doing studies which show they are awful for your hea-”

“Simon.”

Simon glanced across to find John’s stern face looking back at him.

“We live, we die, we get brought back to this fuckery. I don’t think ill health is what should be worrying us right now.”

He hadn’t meant to touch a nerve, but he could tell from the tiniest furrow of John’s brow, and the way his lip quirked slightly that he had. It was a silent walk, the rest of the way. The gravity of the words loomed over them both; it was as if at that moment they realised that despite the gift of each other in every life, they would never have the liberty of growing old gracefully, nor the closure of a life well lived.

“Stay safe,” Simon sighed, as he walked back to his own section alone.

IV / JOHN’S JOURNAL

17th December 1914

Woke up in medical. Strange dream – though Simon was here. Was he? Can’t remember the last few days. Must have been in rough shape.

Had another idea for a poem when I woke up. Scribbled it here. Should I publish this one? I’ll give it some thought.

My Love

Lover, I saw you. I saw you in my dream.

Your fair skin, winter snowfall cold.

I thought they had sent you from above.

To bring me home into the fold.

But these were your arms, not angel’s wings.

And your voice spoke, ‘get back from the light!’

A vision. The reason my soul still clings,

To wretched earth, was you that night.

23rd December 1914

On crutches but back on the front. Seems we may be moving soon, further up the trench. The lads who took me to medical said that’s where I came from when I dug my way back.

They also confirmed he was there, the bastard himself. Need to go see him when we move. 

24th December 1914

Singing tonight, both sides. Wish I’d have had a chance to warm up, voice sounds like horse shite. Maybe someone has some pipes I can play instead, put those bleeding lessons to use.

Heard rumours they might try and arrange a ceasefire for Christmas day. I hope so. My heid is pure raging.

25 th December 1914

I saw him today, and oh Christ, I’m in deep. My heart was beating like a mad thing. If God won’t forgive me for this, then damn it all. That one kiss was worth more than any faith I had left in my sinner’s body.

Best Christmas I’ve had in a while. Even if he is really bad at football…

27th December 1914

Felt like penning something today, but the words wouldn’t come to me. All this time I’ve been pining, but what am I meant to do now?

3rd January 1915

I really need to remember to write in this thing when I’m busy. So much to catch up on. We’ve moved, just down the line from his unit. Apparently, he takes the night patrol, according to some of the lads here. Think I might have to pull some strings.

I ask my heart, whatever should I do.

Now your eyes of brown have met mine of blue.

Too obvious …

6th January 1915

Showed him around the place today. He seemed interested in my poetry… Not that I told him it was mine. We argued though, about my new little habit. Well, maybe not an argument, but he worries over the smallest things. I might have snapped a little. I’ve been cranky.

We’re on borrowed time, and I’ll never get to kiss him without fear.

13th January 1915

Got pulled in for more talks about the Tunnelling Companies today. They say if I go in, they’re going to promote me to Sergeant. Has a nice ring to it, but bloody hell, thought I was done for after the last time… Would it be worth it, leaving him behind?

17th January 1915

Managed to catch him on patrol today. We shared a cigarette, thankfully no mention of our previous argument. I told him about the promotion, asked for his advice. He said I should take it, but that man is a terrible liar. I know he’s as scared of losing me, as I am of losing him.

23rd January 1915

Went on rest leave today. Two days is all we get this time around. I write this in the evening, so I’ve already used my first day getting a proper bath, getting my uniform patched up, a real haircut. Of course, now it’s the evening, the lads are going to see the girls. “Jeunes filles” they call them. It used to be seedy business, but the higher ups underestimated just how badly a man’s needs can cloud his head. They give them passes now, to show they are clean. Poor things.

Still, I’m no better than any of the other blokes. I know my name is stamped on a few of their cards.

Jeunes Filles

Pretty girl of Parisian stock, however do you cope?

Twenty soldiers in your bed per night. Some young, some old,

Some scarred, some broken. No matter, you give them hope.

Which you provide with caring arms and open legs.

Your bosom, a respite for tender, fragile heads.

But lonely, aching hearts you sadly cannot fix.

They think not of you, but their girls at home instead.

Their names in hitched whispers by your ear are spoken.

Does it hurt you to know if you were born elsewhere,

Or perhaps at a different time, ten years from now,

You could have your own lover resting there?

Who sees you for yourself, and not a stand in for another.

(Like this one – publish?)

5th February 1915

Took the promotion today. Meet my new company tomorrow, might not write for a while.

13th March 1915

Been all about the place, not taken my journal. Was glad it was where I left it when I finally got back. Was nice to sit in meetings, away from all of this. But every day, I worried about him. Worried what I’d come back to. And if, when I did come back, he’d even be in the same stretch of trench that I left him in.

We’ve no way to contact each other, it’s just dumb luck or chance or fate that we’re stationed so close. I was never much of a gambling man, but I’ll gamble on this.

24th March 1915

Talked with Simon on patrol longer than I should have today. Two cigarettes’ worth of conversations, at least. He’s just been back from rest. Two days, just like my last. I was curious, asked him if there was somewhere he could get his “needs” met. He said he knew of somewhere and got all quiet. I joked that he must have had a good time then, and he shook his head. He didn’t go. At first, I thought maybe he was being overly cautious – not wanting to get court martialed is a solid reason. Or a disease. But again, he shook his head. Then he gave me this look through the smoke, sad and wanting. And God, it’s a good job I’ve been serviced recently, because I almost gave up there and then.

14th April 1915

The first big one is coming soon. Early May, we’re shipping off up to Aubers Ridge. It’s a long way from here, and from him.

19th April 1915

Told him today that I was going soon. He got close, hand on my shoulder. “Don’t die on me,” was all he said, gave my shoulder a squeeze and walked away. I know he didn’t want to face the possibility; just wish I could have looked at his face for a second longer before he left.

8th May 1915

Travelled to Aubers today, on the back of a wagon with eleven others. Eleven idiots, dumb enough to go and play with explosives in a tunnel barely wide enough for your shoulders to wriggle through. Tomorrow, we strike. And I hope to God I’m not leading these men to their deaths.

13th May 1915

Total failure. Plan was executed, but the Germans weren’t occupying the trenches that we had assumed. They caught half the regiment on the way out, a tunnel collapse got the rest. Twelve of us went in, three came out.

Goodbye Brave Men

Eleven faces that I did not know.

Some that I had never even met.

Struck down in our shared toil.

Buried deep under foreign soil.

14th May 1915

They sent me to medical again. Wanted to get straight back to see him. Fuck it all.

18th May 1915

Received a letter today, unsigned. Of course, I would recognise that handwriting anywhere. He gave me an earful, or I suppose a pen-ful, so I’m guessing the news travelled fast. More than anything, he’s thankful I’m alive. I don’t care how it happens, but when I see him, I’m getting my hands on him.

23rd June 1915

Back to the old trench today. Thank God for Jenkins and Lloyd, they’ve kept the paper running whilst I’ve been away. Read a couple of copies myself when I was resting up. Though I have heard people asking when the mystery poet will be publishing his next piece…

25th June 1915

We are going to a meeting together tomorrow. Privileges of sharing a rank now. Want to try and write something for him, but it’s hard when he’ll read it knowing it’s for him. Before, it’s been so easy, the anonymity is like a shield. If not tomorrow, then one day.

26th June 1915

Couldn’t do it, but it was nice to see his face after a couple of months. He looks older - can’t describe it. It’s not his face as such, but his features. He looks like he’s seen a lot. He looks tired .

28th June 1915

Sleep, My Love

Love, you should lay your weary head,

Down on my waiting lap.

Or perhaps on my chest instead,

Hear my heartbeat’s gentle tap.

Your eyes are tired, your soul more tired still.

Do not worry about the night ahead,

Tender lullabies from my lips shall spill.

12th July 1915

Been a bit of a long one, hasn’t it? No time to think in this place right now, never mind keep up a bleeding journal. Not much to update, really. What more is there to see, than death and injury. I miss Christmas. I miss home. I should write to my parents…

15th July 1915

Wrote to my mother, and sent her my best wishes.

17th July 1915

They’ve been using gas more often. Fuck it all! How could humanity fall to these lows? I lost good men. Some were so young. Jenkins is out - he’s not dead, but the seal in his mask wasn’t right. He won’t be back. I tell them to check daily… First it was guns, and then bigger guns, then explosives, and artillery, and I hear there were planes used at the start of the month. Planes? Big winged bastards in the sky. A scary thought, truly, that man has conquered earth, sea and sky and only uses it for devastation.

19th July 1915

Counter attack on a local trench. We’re going under. When this is over you will never catch me in a bleeding tunnel again.

28th July 1915

Back from med bay. Mission was a success, but some bloody Jerry must have heard us coming. They fired at the embankment, took a bullet in the arse. I leave it to you to imagine the comments about Sarge's “bullet wound”. I kept the bullet when they pulled it out, though. For posterity.

He wasn’t happy when I told him, but we laughed about it in the end.

6th August 1915

He’s taken ill, and fuck it all. Only found out from one of the lads this morning. High fever, sickness. Of course the first thing they tested for was bloody venereal disease. Then, whilst the bastard was sick and dying, they left him until they had their answers. Now they suspect some heat sickness. Why could they not have investigated that before the prodding around his- you know. If he doesn’t pull through, I don’t know what I will do.

8th August 1915

It was better for a few hours, and then he got worse. I have one of the med-runners keeping me updated, he started out in his battalion but lost his trigger finger in a bad shelling bombardment so he can’t fight now. Good kid - glad he’s looking out for him. They say the heat sickness has caused some other illness, it’s gotten to his lungs. I swear to god I will shoot my own foot if I need to, to get to the med-bay to be with him.

10th August 1915

No luck. He’s getting worse. They’ve taken him to an actual hospital too, lucky sod. The runner is doing double time now, he’s updating me every few hours. I don’t even think they know that he’s gone- seems to be doing all of this as a favour to him. I don’t know exactly what he did for this kid to owe him, but it’s nice to see he has a heart sometimes…

I don’t know what I will do if he goes. No point fighting this damn war alone - not when I could go with him one way or another. Suicide seems cowardly, so I’d have to go out with a fight. Why am I even thinking about this? Well. I suppose he’s my everything, and I cannot be without him for eighteen more years. This is the worst I’ve been in a while. The world seems such a dark place without his light. Even if it was all sarcasm and bickering. Fuck, he would get so mad if he knew just how much I’ve smoked whilst he’s been gone - he’ll be even more mad when he knows it was his rations…

16th August 1915

He is feeling a little better today. Not entirely, but the nurses say he will pull through. I would do anything to be at his side. Only a few days and he will be back, they predict.

23rd August 1915

We met today. It was heartbreaking to see him - he’s so thin. Said he could hardly keep down the water they gave him, never mind the food. Thank god someone sent an aid box recently. I snatched the boiled sweets and the cigarettes before giving the rest to the men. He likes sweets - the sherberts are his favourite.

There were more than two cigarettes on the patrol this time. Really, we were there a little too long, and I think people might have noticed. But I just couldn’t help myself, with how long it had been, and how ill he’s been, and the way his lips puckered as he got a really sour part of that sweet… I leant in to kiss him, then that daft bastard Chester came barreling around the corner about something unimportant. Had to play it off that I tripped- thankfully I don’t think he noticed.

3rd September 1915

Another attempt today. A quick one, as I dropped a report off at his dugout. He was trying to fix the radio. The stupid thing had popped a capacitor or something. He looks so good when he’s building things, although I'm better at it. I had the thing put back together in five minutes. He initiated this time. Stroked a hair from my face and started to lean in, and by all things holy I thought my heart would burst from my chest. But no. Shells right outside and we had to scramble to assist. One day soon, I will get my mouth on him.

17th September 1915

It was quick, and it all happened in the moment. We met on our patrol route, he is starting to look better. I’ve been giving him my extra rations if I catch him in the early evening. My stomach is growling a little, but he’s a bigger man than I, and he needs the food.

He caught my jaw with his hand and kissed me quickly. Before any interruptions or shells or any other fucker could bother us.

My heart melted all over again.

24th September 1915

The CO came to this section of the trench for the first time in a long time. Bastard usually spends his time holed up somewhere nice and cosy in the rear, but something’s got his goat. He prodded me especially hard about my loyalties, not that I have ever shown a lack of such. Strange.

26th September 1915

Came back from patrol just this moment. Some Private I’ve not really spoken to before was sitting in my bunk routing through my things. At first I thought it was cigarettes he was after, but I don’t go out of my way to hide those… Was he looking for this journal? I shall have to take extra precautions.

19th December 1915

So much for bloody extra precautions! 

Hello, my dear journal, after a couple of months apart. Where do I even begin with this story? My last entry, which was in September, suggested that I thought someone might have been after my journal. The entry prior, a suspicion of mine about my CO. Well, both have come to fruition. The Private who I found in my things returned, and Lloyd wasn’t to know - he lied, and told him that I had requested he bring it back to me. I don’t blame him, although I do wish he would have used his head. He and Jenkins were the only two I’ve ever told about the journal, so some unknown man was obviously not privy to that information.

So how did he know? Well, he’d been watching me. A lot. Watching me work, watching on patrol, watching me speaking with him. There’s a reason I never use his name. Because of people like this Private - I think they called him Jones. Not that I stopped to ask. “Jones” doesn’t like people like he and I, and he made it damn well clear when he threatened blackmail. “I’m handing this to the CO,” he said when he eventually came clean that he’d taken it. He also called me some disgusting names, that I’ll not repeat again. Those words need to be put to rest.

It makes my heart hurt for him though. How many years has he heard words like that, and not been able to hide himself under the guise of marriage to a woman?

You might wonder how I recovered the journal. Well. Turns out Jones had gone quite barmy, poor fellow. Whether that be his nature, or whatever war had done to him, is unknown. But, he was so driven with fervour about casting me to Hell for my sins, that he stood up on a box to preach to us all and his head came clean off. I took this off his body. Wouldn’t usually say this sort of thing but… He deserved it.

25th December 1915

Merry Christmas. Or at least I wish it was merry. There’s not much to be said about hiding in a dugout all covered in mud and blood and whatever that stain is on my shirt. But, at least I can do it with him. He made us a ‘picnic’ consisting of Christmas care package rations, the posh cigarettes we get sent sometimes, and a small dram of booze he had somehow procured. What booze was it? Absolutely no idea, it tasted foul and looked just as bad. But it was nice to have something strong to heat up your core, it’s been devilishly cold this winter. He doesn’t complain about me smoking any more, but he hates seeing me smoke more than one, even though he could happily puff his way through the whole packet. Still, he never complains.

Something has turned him soft… I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

1st January 1916

And a happy New Year! We hope, at least.

I’ll not write for long today. He found some more of that horrific drink, and now my head is as sore as it’s been since the aftermath of that party all those years ago. Really, I think I shouldn’t drink that stuff any more - it might kill me before the bloody war does.

Hard to think that another year has passed, and we’re still here. Morale is low. I may not write for a while, as I want to spend every spare minute with him - even if that means volunteering to double my patrol hours.

12th February 1916

I’ve been thinking a lot recently. Valentine's Day is upcoming - a funny old tradition really. Some old bloke from four thousand years ago who let Christian folk get married under the nose of the Romans. I think it’s nice that he sacrificed himself to let people love who they wanted to love. Of course, things are a little different when the person you wish to love is… Well.

I found a deceased roe deer about a week ago, a very young buck. Must have been only his first winter. His antlers were not yet fully racked. I don’t know what came across me, but I took out my knife and separated the remainder of the fur and the sinew from its skull. It had been picked mostly clean by the crows, anyway.

I took the skull, and now I’ve just finished polishing it after several evenings. Lloyd told me it was gross, and no doubt thinks of me as insane. But I know exactly who I’m going to give this to, and on what day. It’s funny to think that it was a deer that started all of this in violence, and now...

14th February 1916

I tell no word of a lie when I say there were tears in his eyes. Never, ever, ever have I seen him cry. He gets really angry sometimes, but tears? No. Over some old bones, too. It’s confirmed now, he has definitely gone soft. 

I won’t say he cried alone though. He told me to open my hand and close my eyes. I did. I felt something cold in my palm, and some sort of string or wire. Of course, when I opened my eyes, I damn near barreled over with laughter. My bullet. My arse bullet. I knew it had gone missing, but thought it must have just been cleaned away. But then, I turned it over in my hand, and there was a heart carved into it.

What did that mean? Does he feel, truly, the same way I feel? I couldn’t help but cry at that moment, and against our better judgement, he took me in his arms and held me for just a moment.

Of course, the moment was ruined when he left and he said in that stupid voice of his, “it won’t be the only thing in your arse, Johnny.” Dirty bastard… I miss him already.

23rd February 1916

Bloody press broke a few nights ago. I’ve sent word to father, but god knows when he’ll receive the letter. Can’t work it without the belt that has snapped. It was already partly broken, we’ve been hand stitching the pages for the last year…

Morale will take another hit after this news.

1st March 1916

The men have been so down, so I’ve been trying to make it up to them. Gave my cigarettes out, and my sherberts. He won’t be happy when he finds out, but I’ve got to look after my own every once in a while. We’ve been singing, sharing stories. Heck, we even had an impromptu comedy night two night’s back. I was howling - Chester is a natural.

I missed my patrol though. I hope he didn’t wait too long.

7th March 1916

He waited that night, and then our schedules clashed, and when I met him tonight he didn’t seem best pleased…

It’s hard to balance him, and my duties, and the morale, and having time to eat, sleep, and fight. I’m tired.

15th March 1916

He is still mad, although I have saved him some sherberts this time. We met on patrol, and I popped one into his mouth before he could start his bickering. No words were said by either of us, and what happened after that was stupid and dangerous. But god, I wish it would happen again. I can still taste the sherbert on my own tongue… Perhaps I should annoy him more often.

18th March 1916

What can I even say about that bastard today? He continued his tirade against me, only today, it was a command in the artillery trench to get on my knees. It came as a shock, and seemed all too dangerous, but who am I to disagree? I dropped there and then, only for him to ruffle his hand through my hair like he always does, and skulk away laughing.

Bastard.

I had to… relieve myself after that.

30th March 1916

Seems he has finally forgiven me. He apologised for his continuous cruelty for the past month, and seemed genuinely quite worried that he’d gone too far.

I told him I liked that side of him. His cheeks flushed quite hard after that.

1st April 1916

Sometimes I find myself missing the presence of Scotsmen. I’ve met a good few in my time here, but regular battalions tend to stay together regionally. Specialists on the other hand, we end up all over the bloody place.

The last of my kind I talked to, we joked about an old tradition. Huntigowk Day. They do April Fools in England, but it is of similar tradition. Besides the point. I chose my Gowk, of course it was Chester because he’s as dumb as a box of rocks and I swear blind he was the one who took the last of the jerky meats we had been saving. I wrote my message, and told him to deliver it to him.

Chester came back no more than thirty minutes later, with him in tow. Now, the message’s intent is for the recipient to read the note, see that there is a prank afoot, and send the Gowk on a wild goose chase. I’ve seen it last for hours before - admittedly, I have also been in the place of the Gowk.

I dismissed Chester, for fear I would instead receive a bollocking. No bollocking, but I had to explain the whole thing three times over. Bloody English - they have no culture!! Then to top things off, he got the last laugh when he yelled to duck and I hit the floor before my brain could even react. Apparently, that’s how you get a prank done, he said. Bastard.

17th April 1916

He came to me again today, for the first time in a while. Difficulties on his side of the trench. Morale low, from the sounds of things. Seems like not only my men miss the paper.

We discussed that it may be better to cut back on time spent with each other, after a long debate. The truth of the matter is we will see eachother for the rest of bloody time, whereas these poor sods have only one life. His loyalties lay with me, and I’ve always known that, but he does have a heart somewhere in that chest of his.

30th April 1916

First time seeing him since we last talked. Now I’ve got to pretend that the bruise on my neck is from something other than his teeth…

May 13th 1916

There’s a funny old thing called gallows humour, which is the only way I can describe we are keeping ourselves sane. We lost Chester yesterday, and for some reason, we laughed. Not right away, of course, but it was the bloody irony of the situation that just leaves you wondering whether there is a God, and they are playing tricks on us all.

We lost others too. None as cocky as Chester, mind. None who said loudly and steadfastly that they were seeing this thing through to the end, only to get blown up two hours later.

I miss his stupidity already. Life goes on, though.

May 22nd 1916

The Dark Humour of the Executioner

We serve our sentence

We fight and we toil

Some ask for repentance

As we lay them in soil

For war is a gallow

And we pull the lever

A grave quick and shallow

Best cure for Trench Fever

June 1st 1916

Heard a rumour from the higher ups, nothing confirmed just yet. Seems like this is it, we’re going in for the big one. An all out offensive of some sort. But that’s not what this war has been. It’s not swords, cavalry, and a charge into battle. It’s attrition, and supplies, and tactics. I suppose changing said tactics would give us the drop, if we don’t all end up dead.

June 18th 1916

We are all going to end up dead… Not me, perhaps. Or him. But our men, the people we know, the people we’ve grown so close to. It’s a charge, over the top. Men will be shredded by machine guns, ripped apart by wire. All of this, in the hopes that it will change the course of history. How little does human life mean to those in charge?

June 28th 1916

Probably the last time I will see him until the day. I asked his thoughts on the matter, and he seemed pensive. Tense. I know he didn’t connect with his men like I did mine, but that doesn’t mean he would send them to their deaths willingly.

I have been thinking about going with them. I didn’t tell him that, for he would blow his top if he knew. It was busy in the passage where we took our patrol. Bustling, lots of logistical movement at all hours. We didn’t get to have a final kiss, so maybe that will change my mind.

June 30th 1916

It’s tomorrow, the big day. I am torn. They don’t expect me up there, not with the chaff and the ones they are willing to lose. But those are my men, my comrades. I couldn’t do bad by them, not after we lost so many. Not that my gun will make a difference, or my feet on those ladders, or my blood in the soil. But I would have been there, and that would leave me with no guilt.

No guilt, except for what it would do to him.

I couldn’t do that to him, could I? Well, first of all I’d have to hide from him. If he knew I was planning this, he’d probably shoot me himself. But that’s not what I worry about. If he knows, he will follow. What have I done to him… How could I be so selfish? But then again, if he was by my side, I would surely feel invincible.

Much to think about tonight- this may be my final entry. I fear I shall get no sleep.

V / OVER THE TOP

He dreaded this day more than anything. The big push, over the top. It was an all-in situation, to break months and months of stalemate and back-and-forth artillery. Futile, and they knew it. They had told him not to go, to simply send his men out into the fold, but he had seen a glimpse of something in John’s eye that suggested the plan would not quite work that way. 

“Sir,” John had nodded in his direction after the hurried huddle, an old habit that seemingly still hadn’t passed after his own promotion.

Simon had watched him saunter, almost calmly, over to his men. He watched them share a laugh, a handshake, and a pack of cigarettes between them as his own men did the same. 

No. Not here. Not surrounded by people he knew John would try to save.

He cursed that fierce loyalty that had gotten the Scot into so much trouble so many times before. Times where, not only had he tried to save others, but also tried to save Simon.

He wanted to yell at him, to tell him to have some semblance of self-preservation. But he knew, inside, that he didn’t feel that way for John’s sake. Of course, he would never want to see him hurt, but the hurt was not the issue here. 

No. 

The issue was that life without John was cold. A life where John had been was the equivalent of a bonfire that had all but puttered out. The phantom heat that remains inside, the hot embers of the coal, and tears blinked from wet eyelashes whilst you swear down it is just the smoke.

It had been this way for a long time. In hatred, in friendship, and in… Something more.

The frenzy of passing footmen who carried heavy crates distracted him for a moment, and the man slipped out of his sight. He knew it was intentional. He could feel it, somehow. Or rather, it was the lack of feeling that alerted him. As intentional or otherwise, the deep thrum in his shoulder had softened, as if it was trying to just pad along a creaking floor in slippers or socks. Still there. Still audible. But something blocking the sensation with a cry of please don’t follow me.

But Simon would follow.

Simon, who despite his rank, despite his size, despite the closed-off nature of his personality, was wrapped so tightly around John’s finger that to hell or high bloody water he would follow.

The first of the men climbed onto the parapets. Up ladders they scrambled, like livestock into the abattoir, funnelled by a shared fear and excitement. There were boys, those same boys who had signed up at first dawn, who had somehow made it through without slaughter. Fodder now all, for the angry maws of opposition machine gun fire.

He knew that he shouldn’t, but he left his own men under the eye of some other fool he never bothered to learn the name of. Not out of disdain, but because he’d probably die just like the others. There were too many names now for him to carve into that wall inside his heart, where the memories would stay for just a while, until the acidity of the rain washed them away.

Someone yelled for him. He ignored it. Ignored the screams and the dirt which blasted up in huge chunks, and coated his hair and his uniform.

Drowned everything out until he was met with those baby-blues in the line for a ladder.

“Simon?!” John yelled, over the violent drilling of pellets which whizzed above their heads.

Simon held his arm tight. Fingers under torn gloves, white with the strength of it. He need not speak the words, but the look in his eyes begged John not to go. And for a moment, it looked as if John would consider it. They could run away, somewhere. Nobody would know – nobody would look for two unnamed bodies in a sea of thousands.

But then there was a push from behind, the shriek of a whistle pierced the air, and John was swept away in the crowd. He looked back as he climbed the ladder, with eyes that said stay .

Simon did not stay.

“Sergeant!” An officer bellowed. He had spotted Simon’s recognisable form from a mile away. But that wouldn’t stop him. 

A bullet might. One zipped so close to his ear that he felt the rush of wind before he heard the sound. But as soon as his eyes had zeroed into John leaping between artillery craters, he was set. All odds would have predicted him struck down before he even made it ten paces, but whoever or whatever was watching over him that day seemingly chose to ignore those odds. The bullets intended for him missed by inches or skipped unusually in the dirt below.

Simon was not a stupid man, but for stupid moment, he felt invincible. John had tumbled into a shell-hole with another soldier, who looked as if he was heavily bleeding. So, Simon followed, and his boots struggled to find purchase in the mulched-up soil, which meant he entered the hole in far more of a rough-and-tumble manner than planned.

“I’m here, okay?” He heard John urge, but nothing in his voice was urgent. Words spoken in comfort, in sympathy, with a dying man he didn’t know.

Simon didn’t intrude the moment until the man’s hand had dropped cold, and John pressed his eyes shut.

There was barely enough space in the crater for them to sit upright, so both opted for a kneeling squat, their heads just below the crest of the pit. No words spoken between them, just a nod and a hand signal, and they ran again two shell holes further, until they found themselves confronted with a thick tangle of barbed wire left stranded over a collapsed trench. One of the wires lay strewn aside, already partially damaged, but not enough to climb through.

“Cutters?” Simon asked, his lack of preparation for ending on this side of the trench clear.

From his pocket, John pulled a small set of shears, and began stripping the wire away. It hurt to watch the man skilfully pry the wires apart, with a tool he had pre-prepared. Like one of those prongs had dug itself into the taller one’s heart. 

“You knew you were going over?”

The Scot sighed and nodded. They both ducked as mud rained down from somewhere over the crater’s edge.

Simon could not help the bitterness which shook his voice. “Why?”

A strange silence followed. A contemplating silence. One in which it wasn’t clear whether John even had a reason in the first place, or, if the reason was so deeply gut-wrenching that the utterance of the words would hurt more than the wire which cut into the fleshy part of his hand.

His mouth opened and closed around sounds which would not form. He made the final snip and the wire sprung back, narrowly avoiding Simon as it twanged into place.

“Do – do I not mean anything to you Johnny?” Simon asked, his hands motioning between them. “This? Does this not mean anything?”

The words were meek, and pleading. Simon was neither of those things.

“Si, I-” John started, but hushed just as quick as heavy footsteps rumbled through the abandoned trench just beyond their position.

Both men lay low. The snap back from their emotional exchange to their survival was instantaneous. The rumbling got louder, louder still, then tapered off into the distance as if they were never in any danger at all.

John turned back to him and took a deep breath.

“This means everything to me, Simon.”

Simon crawled closer, and avoided the sharp wire trimmings which peeked from the mud like ragged, thorny roots.

“Then why?”

A shell dropped nearby. Simon’s golden eyes lit up with the flash.

“Because this world wasn’t meant for us.”

But he was wrong, Simon thought. 

So wrong. 

It was true that they could not show their affections as they wished. That what Simon was, was still seen as a sinful, criminal act. And that likely wouldn’t change, not for many years, if ever. But if they lived through this, if the Scot had stopped being so stubborn as to throw himself into the stomach of death whenever something didn’t go his way, then maybe they could have retired. Somewhere nice. Peaceful. 

Some cottage, on a farm, far enough away from prying eyes that two men sharing a home would seem more like a business decision rather than anything else. Rather than whatever the proverbial this was.

Yet here they were, about to breach a German trench line with teeth bared in the face of danger, and silently they prayed that danger would not bite back. There was a naivety to their hope, and Simon knew it. He knew John knew, too. John, who had used their inexplicable ability to rebirth as a bargaining chip. One thrown in the face of God, whilst he screamed unanswered pleas which asked why they cannot have their happiness. 

Time grew short. To think further would not aid the situation; they were already too deep.

“Together, Simon?” John asked, as he reached out his hand. Simon grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him close. 

It was awkward and clumsy, and they scrambled through the dirt to make it work, but they pressed chapped and muddy lips together so desperately, so wildly, that it seemed as if time stopped around them and the whiz of bullets was their own crescendo of applause for an act which at any other time would see them scorned.

To pull back from this moment was the hardest choice Simon had made that day.

They proceeded methodically, deeper into the trench through a blasted wall just beyond the wire they had cut back. A few others had made it this far, but none were in fit fighting shape. Some injured, others in shock. They could do nothing for these men, without putting themselves in danger.

John brought out from a small satchel on his hip several canisters marked with scientific nomenclature that Simon couldn’t quite make out. 

“What’s that?” He whispered and watched as John’s hands made light work of putting the contraptions together.

“Modified explosives, extra nitroglycerin. Feisty wee chemical, they make it from whale fat wouldn’t you know - ah! Don’t touch, you might lose a hand.”

There was something wildly attractive about that, which Simon wasn’t sure he was ready to acknowledge. But his heart skipped when he saw the way John’s eyes glimmered as he rolled the canister eagerly between supple fingers.

The plan, which they had rather quickly devised, was to push in from their flank on the west. They had heard sounds of a battle due east and presumed that men had managed to break through the wire in that direction. And it was only three-hundred paces or so before they had snuck up behind the men which had passed them by as they hid in the blasted-out shell hole.

John’s modified grenade had made short, gruesome work of the small troupe. To take life was never easy, but it was a burden they had both come to terms with over the past few centuries or so. In a sick and twisted fashion, it was those little moments of flare that at least made the job interesting.

Further still they pushed, until their surge had reached the battle ongoing. Then it was rifles and pure blind hope, as they dispatched a few men who had arrived as reinforcements. From the outside, it was tempting to see these two men all ablaze with fight and fire, and to presume they would win.

But they were deep behind enemy lines, and vastly outnumbered.

Men filled the gaps they created; rushed in like water into a freshly dug gully. There were only so many bullets one could carry, and only so many grenades stuffed loosely into satchels before tides turned and water eroded away the sides of the channel that was built to hold it.

They retreated, back into the abandoned line, back as far as they could before a wall of earth and wire stopped them from getting any further. Then it was a firing line. Bullets hailed upon them. Bullets which struck Simon’s leg, just below the knee, and caused mind-splitting pain that announced itself in a barely muffled yelp.

John hit the ground like a sack. The groans were at least a good sign that there was life in him. But clearly to the enemy this was enough, as the shooters were dragged back into the fray.

“We’ve got to get back,” Simon choked through the bile in his throat.

John made a noise of affirmation. A weary and bleak sound, but a sound, nonetheless.

They stumbled and struggled, as John was pulled to his feet, and the two of them squirrelled back through the passage from which they had emerged just moments before. And with huge, gutsy bounds they rushed back through the first shell hole, and the second, until it almost felt possible that they would reach the safety of friendly soil.

But Simon knew his leg wouldn’t hold out the distance. Not when the blood was already pooling in the bottom of his boot, and the only thing keeping him upright was the thought of John beside him, and the hand which clutched tightly around his shoulder.

John was quiet. Unusually so.

They passed the fallen soldier whom John had made the first push with, and were about to break the surface again when a large shell struck the earth nearby and threw them down into a low gulley in the earth.

“That was fucking close,” Simon had laughed, as he bent down to re-link John’s arm over his shoulder.

John smiled. “Yep,” he replied, weak voice hardly carrying over the sound of the machine guns in their own trench.

They were so close.

Simon pulled again, but John wouldn’t budge. “Come on Johnny, get up- we’re almost there.”

John’s fingers trembled as he lifted his hand just high enough to grip Simon’s wrist, and with the small strength he could muster, he tugged Simon gently southwards so that he was crouched by his side.

They had never diagnosed what exactly the bullet which knocked John down had hit. Not in the rush of it all. Of course, John knew, but he wouldn’t give away the state of his injury for fear Simon would pull some heroics and get himself killed alongside him.

His leg would heal in time. The bullet could be removed.

John’s abdomen however was beyond repair. Bullets through muscle, sinew, and organs. All leaving a bitter trail of blood down his front in a deep rusted red.

“Got something for you,” He remarked, with a slight chuckle that brought up blood to his lips.

Simon’s eyes darted from the injury to the paleness of John’s face and back again, a dozen times at least. There was a disbelief which from some small and raw part of his being, bubbled loudly and angrily, at why the world would never work in their favour.

“No! Johnny no, you’re not dying on me you bastard, not again.”

“Pocket,” John choked, and pointed loosely with his limp hand to the inside of his jacket. The same pocket which, for the last 2 years, had carried a small, leatherbound journal and all of his big thoughts.

Simon reached inside, the logical part of his brain overriding the emotional part for just long enough that he could carry out John’s wish. His fingers danced across the cover as he pulled it out from John’s coat, and he looked across for the affirmation that he was meant to open it there and then. Whether he deserved to know whatever John’s beautiful mind had written on the pages between the worn, tan binding. He took the small nod of his head as permission.

One loose page hung haphazardly and drew Simon’s attention with two letters drawn neatly pencilled at the top.

SR.

“What’s this?” He asked, voice shaken.

A rhetorical question, of course. He would find more from the page than from John, who was still conscious, but only barely.

Written below was a poem, familiar in tone and all too similar to be mere coincidence.

An English rose in foreign soil, with thorns that nip and bite,

Perhaps hard to love; yet harder still to refrain from love.

You are not tender, more bristle than petal, and yet despite,

That your heart is warm and spirit wild like wing’ed dove.

This life I did not fall for you, but rather continued to fall,

So fast and deep that the ground may swallow me whole.

How long have I yearned like this my dear? I cannot recall.

Different bodies, different charms, same beautiful soul.

There is one persistent thing, which I foolishly never told you.

In each life, something you keep which I may cherish.

When eyes of glorious, honeyed brown meet mine of blue,

My heart skips ten beats, and I feel that I may perish.

If the sky had not wept softly, it may have seemed as if a glorious sunbeam had struck the muddied white of the paper, and the realisation of months and months of confessions jumped from the fractals of light.

“It was you…?” Simon whispered, his voice quiet and husky against John’s ear. “All this time-”

John heaved as he searched for the strength. Enough guts and breath for two final words.

“Always, Simon.”

Simon held John tight, and yelled obscenities as his hands shook and breath grew ragged. A voice, in a sea of voices, in an ocean of guns and shells and explosions.

Their plight, their constant, forcible repetition of this same story which became only more bitter with time. For with every care, and every emotion revealed, and the more they peeled away that thin, fractured veil which covered up whatever this was between them, the more it hurt .

He stood bolt upright, not a care that he was still deep in the throes of No Man’s Land, and to his chest clutched John’s journal. The journal which could let him know all of John’s little secrets, but it felt like cheating in a way. He laughed with a small lick of irony, with evidence that John would not have done the same. John would have scoured every page, for perhaps Simon was not as forthcoming as he was, and perhaps that enraged him more than it should.

Simon would rather just ask John in the next life.

The next life.

Would it be different?

Part of Simon knew, if he was so inclined, he could have made it back to that trench. If John was there, and there was something to live for. He would have crawled through the mud flat on his belly, over rock and wire and ash. But with his leg shot through, and nobody there to care for him on the other side, it was not worth the struggle.

Both sides yelled in shock and confusion, as a tall, bloodied man strode out into the open with hands that hovered in a half-surrender. His uniform was torn, and his body battered. Yet, the sun did not shine down upon him to grant him a beautiful death. No. For this was war, and in war, he was no special soul. No chosen one. No lover, no friend, no son. In war he was a number on a tally, and that tally would etch deep marks into every country that stubborn quarrel had gripped its violent hands around.

His thoughts stilled in an instant, as the bullet pierced his skull.

Chapter Text

I / DON’T KNOW WHERE

The desert heat baked down on John, as it had done for the past six months. Although he thought the tan looked quite fetching on him, he was at heart a Scotsman, so no number of layers could stop the top of his cheeks and round of his shoulders as they turned a scolded, peeling red.

The No 8 Commando division had been posted into Morocco, to begin the reconquest of North Africa from Axis powers. Of course, this was a war like no other. No longer were they to sit in trenches and blow each other to smithereens, but rather, this was the birth of a new faction of specialists in small-group military procedures.

The Special Air Service Brigade.

John was interested far too fast. It was something different, something new. Not only that, they got to do things that he could have only dreamed of even two hundred years prior, never mind in the earliest days of his existence. He’d seen the planes in the Great War of course, the Vickers and the Sopwiths, but never once had his feet left solid ground. That was until he and his fellow men were strapped into the back of a Douglas C-47 Skytrain and told that they would not land at their destination, but rather, parachute into it.

Of course, that was a long while ago now. He’d spent the past year behind enemy lines on solo missions, small groups, and the like. Then there was the news which came from above, that they would be receiving fresh blood in a merger with the No 62 Commando.

He had just taken a swig from his water bladder, chest down in the sand on overwatch of their post, when he felt that warm buzz in the scar between his collarbones.

“These chaps are Riley, Stubbs and Hackett,” the CO had shouted in his usual bawdy manner. “And they will be joining you as the first transfers from 62, give them a warm welcome and let’s put them to work. Dismissed!”

John had paid no mind to the other two. He had vaguely noted one was short, and the other a ginger with fair complexion, and both were overshadowed by the hulking figure of a man who stood taller than six feet with muscles that bulged as he crossed his arms across his chest. He ogled at the way his khaki trousers sat just an inch too low on his hips, at the scarf which wrapped the lower part of his face, and the tattoos.

God damn, the tattoos. 

It hadn’t gone amiss either, the way Simon’s eyes traced John’s own body up and down, nor the way his gaze lingered on the freckles which peppered John’s arms and face thanks to the good graces of the desert sun. The small frown which quirked his mouth, too, as he watched the heated cherry of the cigarette redden between John’s cracked lips. This time, the emotion was mixed with something other than disapproval…

He observed as Simon forced himself to break eye contact, when two of the higher-ranking men in the troupe gathered up the new folk and escorted them to the tents. They would not see each other for a while, he imagined, not until they’d received their mandatory inductions, tests, and the sort.

His mind wandered, as he imagined all the things he would do to that man, and all the things he would let that man do to him…

It was two days before they reunited. John polished his rifle on his camp bed; a rather obscene affair as he positioned the butt of the gun neatly on the ground between his legs and stroked grease along the length of the barrel. His eyes had wandered to cloud nine, and he was deep in thought when the flap of his tent was abruptly pulled to one side.

Usually, it was his bunk mate, or maybe another squaddie coming to bum a smoke.

But not today.

“That’s a pretty sight,” teased Simon, his voice coarse like gravel, topped off with a deep smoulder like that of freshly heated coals. The sound truer to itself, and not a mimicry of a well-spoken toff.

It took a second to snap out of his daydream, but as soon as he did, he dropped the rifle onto the bench beside him and launched himself into Simon’s arms. The tent flap thankfully had dropped down in time to provide them a moment’s privacy, as Simon wrapped his hands around John’s waist and stared down at him in awe.

“You still mean what you wrote?” Simon asked, as if he couldn’t believe this sun-kissed Adonis standing eagerly on his tiptoes to greet him would ever feel those feelings that had laced his poetry.

“Always, Simon,” John repeated, as he brushed a finger over Simon’s jaw.

Simon sighed, then laughed. “You’re mad, Johnny.”

“Absolutely.”

They stared for a few moments, and drank in one another’s perfections, imperfections, and everything in-between. But they hadn’t waited all this time to just stare. It was quick, and messy, and dangerous the way they pressed lips together and near enough knocked each other southwards towards the sandy tarp floor. Warm tongues danced and traded places and teeth clacked abruptly. It didn’t matter in the moment, in fact, the urgency only deepened the kiss.

It was hot. Too hot. The ambient temperature in the tent already caused a sweat which stuck clothes to skin and hair to foreheads, and that was even before the two of them came together. With the sweat that dripped from them both, which pooled where their stomachs pressed together and caused damp spots to form in their shirts, they knew they could not do this for long without prying eyes and awkward questions.

To break that kiss was hard, but the comfort of each other’s presence eased the pain a little.

With the first weeks together a passing blur, they had told some folk that they knew each other from long ago, before the war. It helped ease the suspicion of why they had become such fast friends and had allowed them to not only share a bunk, but for John to show Simon the ropes on their first few missions in the field. 

Of course, he did not need to be shown. He still had that same, ruthless precision which John not only admired as a friend, but as a fellow soldier. So, when they got their orders that they would be tasked with diverting or destroying a cargo convoy deep into enemy territory, they were eager.

Just the two of them, their guns, their packs, one old junker of a military vehicle and several hundred miles of the Sahara at their backs.

“You’re burning again,” Simon said plainly, as he dabbed John’s brow with an old rag, and reapplied some of the thick mud which they had swilled up to help keep the sun from their skin.

John hadn’t moved now for some time. His chest and arms seared against the ground as he remained scoped in, no matter how much he felt he needed to move, he could not compromise this spot.

“You need water?”

“Mm.”

“Want to swap out soon?”

“Nuh uh.”

“Anything else?”

John sighed. His back was stiff, and the angle they had taken upon the hill offered a great tactical advantage but less than optimal lumbar support.

“Unless you can turn off that bloody sun, then no,” he grunted.

They sat in silence for a short while. A comfortable silence, but one in which John’s irritability plainly grew. He didn’t want to be irritated, didn’t want it to seem as if he wasn’t enjoying Simon’s company, but they had been stuck on this hill for three days now with no progress.

“A sniper has just finished his induction test on the range,” Simon began. He shifted in his position a notch, before he realigned his viewfinder. “The sergeant says, ‘wow, this one’s good’ and gives him a pass.”

John, who had tuned in around the second line, glanced over at his companion momentarily. “Are you… telling a joke?”

“I was until you interrupted,” Simon laughed softly.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” John mocked, “carry on then.”

Simon extended his leg just enough to kick John in the shin, only lightly, as to not disturb his stance.

“The lieutenant turns to the sergeant and sighs nervously. ‘Sure, he is good,’ the man says, ‘but I think we need to run a background check’.”

“Why’s that then?” John asked, eyebrows raised.

“He wipes his fingerprints off the gun with every shot.”

John snorted, a sound which only made him laugh more, as he tried ever so hard to not let his body move from its position. If he would have dared a look in Simon’s direction, he would have seen his face light up in glee at the sound, and a slight pink flush tint his ears where the mud mask hadn’t quite taken hold.

“That was a really stupid joke,” John managed, when he stopped snickering.

“Got a laugh out of you, though.”

It was only minutes later that the convoy they had been waiting on finally rumbled over the dunes. Both men shrunk to conceal their position, and blended with the sand and dirt. Simon triangulated; his tone different now from just moments before as he calmly delivered instructions John’s way. And John, who would have told anyone else to shut up and let him concentrate, followed every word.

Three popped tires on the convoy’s vehicles, the guardsmen picked off one by one until they fled into the dunes. When the scene was cleared, and after they were sure it was safe, John finally rested. His entire upper body ached, and his shoulder had been knocked until it was bruised with the recoil. 

“Atta boy, Johnny” Simon whooped as he ruffled a hand through John’s sweaty mop. A pleasant chill ran down his back at the words. 

They had rucked down from their vantage, only after they were sure it was entirely clear, and began to disable the rest of the vehicles. Only, John couldn’t help but stare at Simon’s backside as his frame draped itself atop a high sided wagon to short the electrics.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Simon laughed, clearly not amiss to John’s slack-jawed gawping. 

“Sorry,” John fumbled, as his hands idly returned to his own work, “we’ve just… never been so alone since – well…”

“Since the broom closet?”

The broom closet,  John wondered, and then chuckled as the memory flooded back. He thanked the mud plastered over him, for he felt his cheeks well up red near instantaneously at the thought of the unfinished business they had there.

“Aye,” he replied with a grin, and the white of his teeth dazzled against the dark mask. “We never quite found closure there, hm?”

Simon looked at him sternly. Despite them being the same rank here, the same age, he had certain sensibilities which John seemed to sometimes leave behind in moments like this. John tutted but took the opportunity to playfully slap Simon’s rear, much to the man’s annoyance.

They carried any items of use back to their own vehicle, which was carefully parked in a dip in the dunes full of desert shrubs.

The drive back was still unbearably hot and sticky. But the steady, pointed pressure of Simon’s hand on John’s inner thigh, which screamed you’re mine without words, was enough to at least sate the Scot’s thirst for something more.

Life was somewhat domestic, if one was to disregard the occasional trek into dangerous territory or airborne jump from several thousand feet. When they made camp, they would talk low and quiet, for tent sides cannot muffle illicit words not allowed to be shared between two such as they. But, in occasional moments of bravery, perhaps stupidity, they would clasp hands, press lips to lips, or sometimes let wandering fingers pry below waistbands and underneath overshirts.

It was in one such moment, as they shared a fire and a few beers with Stubbs and Hackett, that they let their legs fall together naturally so that their knees slightly knocked. They were never overt with it, always traded touches that could, if needed, be passed off as an accident. But, with these two whom they had spent the best part of five weeks with in the Hoggar Mountains, it seemed somewhat safe.

Topics varied as the kaleidoscope of stars washed over the last light of day, before the dark snuffed out the sunset in an all-consuming blanket. It brought a much-needed chill to the ground below. As always, John and Stubbs would argue about football, and Hackett, the quieter of the two, could be brought to muse about cricket if the topic arose.

They spoke of film, and books, and of course the usual military trollop. Routines, how best to strip a rifle, stupid, crazy stories of expeditions and feats which may or may not be true.

Then girls. Always girls. John, of course, could talk shop when it came to women. He loved reminiscing of all his best fucks, omitting the dates in which said instances happened, for his last romp with a woman was just shy of thirty years prior despite him being a man of only twenty-eight. The others laughed, and called him a stud, and teased that they didn’t believe him.

John could feel Simon’s eyes on him, but whether that was in admiration or jealousy was yet to be known.

“What about you, Riley?” Stubbs asked jovially. “Got a girl back home?”

John felt Simon’s leg press closer, and the hand which rested on the log they shared slowly made its way onto the small of his lower back.

“Don’t think gals want an ugly mug like me,” he joked, as his thumb circled over the lowest vertebrae of John’s spine.

Guffaws from Stubbs and a shake of the head from Hackett. “You really think that? My sister would be swooning over you,” the shorter said.

John felt the heat creep up his neck, as his face slowly flushed to match. The dark masked it, for the most part, except for when the embers jumped from the fire and danced in the air to expose his compromised position.

It was the first time he’d been quiet all night.

All he knew was heat from Simon’s fingers, and the small amount of friction as the scruff of his glove brushed the bone. He felt his eyes, heavy lidded, begin to close. Body leaden, but the motion was so soft it was as if he was floating. His body shifted, weight pressed against Simon, cheek accommodating itself against his side.

Simon and Stubbs talked about nonsense for a while longer, and the depth of his voice reverberated from his chest into John’s ear as he chuckled or spoke. It was a poor sinner’s lullaby.

“Is he asleep?” Stubbs whispered loudly, but not loud enough to rouse him from his new headrest tucked gently up against Simon’s shoulder.

Simon peered around, and as he did, brushed a wayward hair back into place in John’s tousled quiff.

“C’mon, let’s turn in,” he fussed.

John grunted and allowed his eyes to open for just long enough to say goodnight to the others, and to make their way into the tent hooked around Simon’s arm. They would say it was the beer, or the exhaustion of too many miles walked on tender feet, but in reality the slow creep of hands and the comfort of closeness was what had tipped him over the edge.

The Scot found himself propped upright by a sturdy arm, as Simon used his free hand to buckle the tent flap shut. He took the opportunity to make his face at home in the heat of Simon’s pecs and was pleasantly surprised when an arm wrapped around his back and pulled him in even further.

“You’ll be the death of me, Johnny,” Simon whispered into the crook of his neck.

The desert night brought a cold that without the warmth of a fire would chill a man to the bone. Their bedrolls, seemingly counterintuitively to those not in the know, were thick and fur-lined for this very reason. And John felt the warmth of the bed’s embrace cling to him, as Simon lowered him down, only to find it smelled not like his own cologne and sweat but that of Simon’s.

“Shift,” Simon mumbled, followed by a steady push of his chest against John’s back as he crawled into the space too. A bed which was far too small for them both, and with far too little volume of bedroll to keep them both warm.

They made it work.

Simon’s arms worked their way around John’s waist, the opposite of how they had found themselves long in the past in the arse end of some Arctic spit of land. And, in a way, this was Simon’s own admission of being irrevocably smitten. The confidence in his touch, in possessive, grappling ownership. A grip which knew how popular his companion was, and how many people had fallen into his bed - how many people had owned his heart. But now it was him, and only him, and John knew it.

John felt the soft kisses which the blond pressed gently into his nape and revelled in the way that Simon’s chin fit so perfectly atop his head, so that he was entirely cocooned in his hulking presence.

It could not last, for nights like these never lasted, but he embraced the few seconds before his eyes drooped closed again and savoured the sweetness.

II / DON’T KNOW WHEN

Back on European soil, but not home. Italy, specifically. Various operations; raids, ground support, prisoner rescue and the annexation of high value areas. There was no time for rest, here. No domesticity. In and out, come success or failure.

Their little group, the band of the four of them, continued to work together. But on one mission, they found themselves separated into two pairs. Logistical reasons. John and Hackett, who were to land further into the AO, were whisked away into a plane with only a glance over the shoulder and a silent promise to stay safe.

Simon didn’t like that.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust John. The man would have been long dead by now if he didn’t possess the skills which he did, and on top of that, the drive and determination to succeed. But, even when John worked at his best, it couldn’t hurt for Simon to be on the sidelines. To pick off a sniper he hadn’t had the vantage to see, to patch up a wound quicker than he could do it himself, or even just to give him the courage to push forward into danger knowing Simon had his back.

Stubbs knocked his shoulder gently. He hated when people were so familiar, but he supposed it wasn’t so bad if it was him.

“They’ll be alright, come on,” he spoke softly, and passed Simon his rifle from the back of the wagon they had travelled in.

Stubbs was a good man, with a good heart, but he was cluelessly unaware of just how much John meant to Simon. Their closeness, their reluctance to leave one another’s side, had seemingly passed as nothing more than a firm friendship.

Either that, or Stubbs was an excellent actor, who knew to keep his nose out…

They would deploy further away, into an open clearing of the forested area behind the compound. And, given any luck, they wouldn’t be needed.

He shifted in his seat more than usual, which hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Ants in your pants, Riley?” The CO had joked, but the way his mouth sat downturned showed that even he knew something was wrong.

“No, Sir,” Simon replied, before he jammed his hands under his thighs and clapped his boots tight together beneath the seat to force himself still.

Wrong.

Something was wrong.

Something nagged at his scar, in a way it had only been known to do in times of actual distress. But he could not compromise his own mission, nor risk the others finding out about his and John’s relationship.

And, even in the eventuality that he could confess something was endangering their other party, there was no explanation other than a six-millennia old, semi-telepathic link as to how the hell he had known.

He hated the rush of flying. Being trapped in a giant tin can that should, by the laws of the scientific world, not have any right to kiss the clouds and marry the sky. He had never wanted to tempt Fate, something which he had learnt to believe in. Only Fate could explain why he and John were linked so fundamentally. So the idea of flying, the very notion of flinging oneself from immense heights with a prayer that the chute on your back would open. was far too reminiscent of Icarus’ wax wings that led him too close to the sun.

Now John, he would disagree. If he was here, pressed toe to toe with Simon, he would have waxed lyrical with excitement. He rambled constantly about how the sky felt like freedom, and how if could choose any animal to be, he would be a skylark, or an eagle, or a hawk. The species was never consistent, but it was always something flying and feathered.

John believed in Fate, too. But, as John did with many things, he chose to laugh in the face of it. Nothing could stop him as he chased that high, that rush, as he tugged at the ripcord later and later just to experience freefall for one more second.

Simon bit his lip, and hoped that the end they all joked about John meeting, wasn’t the one he had met. 

Their own drop was a success. Simon’s chute opened with only minor encouragement, and their positions remained concealed. There were no gunshots or sounds of disturbance from the compound below, but the scar would not stop burning.

They sat in that clearing for four hours.

The sound of the skirmish below started about one hour into their stay. The gunshots and explosive booms lasted for a little over an hour and a half. Then, roughly thirty minutes after that, the first of the men had started to filter back up to the camp with reports.

A success, they had said. The capture of high value targets completed. The total elimination of a communications stronghold deep behind enemy lines.

But John was not back. And neither was Hackett.

Hackett was quiet, so quiet in fact that it initially went unnoticed that he hadn’t returned. But everyone knew John wasn’t here. There were no jokes, no laughter, no cursing under his breath or remarks in vulgar Scots slang. 

A search party was formed from the reserve troops, and although Simon had demanded to join, the request was denied. There was no formal search and rescue training on his record, and so they had not selected him.

They weren’t to know he had a built-in tracker to locate the missing man. As the team departed, Simon kicked leaf litter from under his boot in anger. He couldn’t wait here, not whilst John was still out there. Not for one minute more.

“Oi, calm down!” Stubbs insisted, but the words went in one ear and out of the other. “They probably just took a wrong turn.”

John didn’t do wrong turns. He had seen the man navigate a navy vessel with a broken compass and the stars in the sky, and would frequently walk around cities he had no prior knowledge of as if he owned the place.

He was stumped. If not lost, then what was wrong? Was he injured? Captured?

Simon did something he never thought he would do. 

“You’ll think I’m mad, but… What would you say, if I said I could find them?”

Stubbs paused, the look on his face torn between confusion and disbelief. “How exactly do you mean?”

“John and I, we’ve known each other for a long time… I can… Track him, using a feeling I get in this scar,” came Simon’s response, as he rolled his shirt down just enough to show the faded white bolt through his shoulder.

Stubbs gave him the once over, and looked for any sign that he might have hit his head. Simon knew the look all too well and was about to turn away, as he silently begrudged the fact he opened his mouth in the first place. Now he’d have to convince Stubbs to not report him for being crazy.

“Hey, wait!” 

Stubbs grabbed his arm. 

“Riley, it sounds like you’ve lost your bloody marbles but-” He paused, and scratched the back of his head. “I’m willing to try if it means we can find them.”

Simon stared at first, and then laughed. “Mate, I think you’ve lost your marbles too.”

It was easy to get away. There was much bustle and commotion as the mission packed away into the trucks which had rumbled their way into the clearing, and nowhere near enough eager sets of eyes to catch the two men slip away into the treeline.

Simon’s scar was, from previous experience, able to pick up on John’s location within a radius of roughly two kilometres. Three, and there would be a faint hum, but nothing trackable. It was worrying, then, when they had already tracked about one klick into the trees and still picked up nothing.

So instead, they reverted to following a trail. 

Despite not having that compulsory formal training which banned him from the search party in the first place,  Simon knew the art of tracking as well as he knew how to breathe. There was a knack to it, which at first was a little rusty, but as soon as he saw that first broken branch on a peculiar path, he was locked in.

Two more forks in the lesser trodden trail, and they happened upon a piece of green fabric snagged on a rough branch. The same green John always wore, which complimented his tan and brought out his eyes. Simon had brought it to his nose, to test for John’s scent, which did merit a raised eyebrow from Stubbs but no further remark.

As soon as the scent perforated his nostrils, the sweet, cloying scent of days old musk and honey, he felt a shock in his shoulder that near grounded him. 

“Fuck!” He cried out, and grabbed the tree for support.

“Riley!? You good?”

He could hear Stubbs’ voice, but the ringing of his ears blocked out the sound. The mark hadn’t caused a reaction this visceral in thousands of years. He staggered, three or four paces, before he retched hard.

“Riley?”

He could hear something. Not Stubbs, not the sound of his own violent expulsion, but something else. It was a scream, distant, as if someone far away had yelled out his name. But the forest was silent, except for the sound of the birds and their own clumsy feet.

It took a moment for him to come around before instinct kicked in and he started to run. Stubbs, who was just as confused as he was scared, began running too in hopes not to lose the long-legged man who sprinted at full pace through bracken and brush.

They happened upon a bag. 

Hackett’s bag. 

Only, there was something odd about it. Odd, in the way that it was placed gently, deliberately , against the stump of a tree. The way the straps and zips were all perfectly intact, and only the front pocket hung open and looked perturbed, as if someone had rummaged for something in a hurry.

“That’s…” Stubbs started, before he trailed off to silent words that need not be said, for there were clear signs of a skirmish here that happened not between men with guns, but fists.

Broken branches, deep trenches from scuffling feet in the muddy undersoil, but most importantly a stained, white rag, which lay half-hidden underneath a large shrub. He didn’t need to pick up the rag, he could already smell a chemical contaminant. It was confirmed by the possession of a bottle, the cork strewn aside, which had been stuffed back into the bag but ultimately left forgotten.

They had been crossed.

Stubbs was furious. He kicked the bag and yelled obscenities that would make even the most thuggish man blush. But Simon remained calm, and calculated, despite the whistle tone which rang out in his head, and the stubborn bile that suffocated his lungs.

“They haven’t gotten far,” Simon said, and it was true, for he could feel the presence of John even though his body was likely unresponsive. “But, if they get to a vehicle, an exfil…”

The other man steeled himself and nodded.

They pressed onward, through deeper knotted bracken and twisted roots. It was no wonder Hackett was slow to escape, for the two were only laden with their rifles, and even then, it was hard to navigate the undergrowth.

One klick north, then a minor adjustment west, and he was close. By now, they could hear the rumble of a service road, some logging track cutting deep through the woodland. The compound, however, was long out of sight.

“You ready?” He whispered to Stubbs, for the area was no doubt guarded, and the trees had ears.

Stubbs nodded, silent. 

It wasn’t often the man struggled for words.

The urge to surge forward was immense, to get to John as quickly as possible. But they could not compromise their position. So they crept, at a mere snails’ pace, until the scream in Simon’s head was damn near deafening.

John. It was his voice.

There were other voices too, Italian ones. But they were, as far as Simon could tell, entirely real.

“Get him into the truck!”

“Come on, move!”

As they crested from the treeline, and made sure to stay low, they knew they stood no chance. Twenty men, if not more, and a convoy of at least four vehicles. Then there he was, roughed up a little, with a black eye and bruised lip to match. But the heavy rise and fall of his chest, however laboured, proved that he was at least alive. If he had happened to find out about Hackett, to stumble into this unawares, that may not have been the case.

So, they wanted something from him.

But what would John know that Hackett wouldn’t?

Simon couldn’t think of a time, apart from the six or seven short months before the two companies merged, that Hackett wouldn’t have been in the know. Not unless there was something he didn’t know about John. But would John know something that Simon didn’t? Keep something from him?

He shook his head.

There was no doubt that trying to intervene now, to pull John from the grasp of two armed guards and fight through several more to do so, would be a death sentence. But even so, Simon had to bite down the guilt which bubbled up like bile in the back of his throat. 

He took in his face as he was pushed into the rear of the truck, for he feared it would be the last time he would see him look so at peace.

Simon and Stubbs returned to the group to a mixture of reprimand and unspoken thanks. A few pats on the back from fellow men, who understand the loss of a friend more than any. They served their report to the CO, Simon telling them what he had overheard John’s captors say and were dismissed promptly to a four-day rest back at the home base.

Those were the longest four days of Simon’s life.

“Naples!”

Simon jumped damn near out of his chair. The sudden announcement, followed by the CO’s usual thump of documents down onto the desk, caused the murmurs of the men in the room to cease. It had been the only thing keeping Simon grounded, and now the static silence between each of the man’s words prickled at his skin and kept the hair on his neck raised.

The scar had burned constantly, but not in the usual way. It was dull and itched uncomfortably whenever he tried to drop off to sleep.

It called him a coward, unfairly.

He realised he hadn’t listened to what was probably important information, especially so considering it regarded John’s whereabouts. But he was tired. Tired of having to chase what should be his, and tired of fighting for the sake of a country which would turn on him if they found out what that was.

“We will be leaving tonight, you are dismissed. Riley, stay back – I need to talk to you.”

He remained seated as the others filtered out from the room. Really, he should have stood at attention, but he could not bring his rear to leave the hard metal of the stool nor the self-inflicted punishment it was giving his coccyx. 

“Close the door, lad,” the CO said calmly. 

Good conversations never happened behind closed doors.

“What is this about, sir?” Simon asked. He knew he’d rather get this over and done with, as the door slid gently closed.

“Your involvement in this mission is-” he started, but stopped with a long pause as his brain attempted to find the least offensive word to use. “Problematic.”

The blond stepped forward to interject but was quickly hushed with the two apologetically raised hands of the man before him.

“MacTavish was tasked with a mission before you arrived. We knew, in some capacity, that there was an infiltration attempt at hand. Although, of the three of you, I must admit I had you or Stubbs pegged as the rat.”

He pulled out a cigar, thick and freshly cut. Then, a second one, which he handed across the table with clammy hands. Simon wasn’t one to turn down a good smoke, especially not when his final pack of cigs had run out last night after he had chain-smoked several of them in his bunk to try and calm his frayed nerves.

He took the fat neck of the cigar eagerly between his lips and lit the nub.

“Anyways, after seeing how close you and MacTavish were, I was sure the plan would be a bust. He wouldn’t turn you in…”

Simon interrupted, knowing full well that John has done too many stupid things on behalf of the country that were detrimental to their relationship. “I think you underestimate his loyalty, sir.”

The CO nodded. His jaw wobbled slightly as he did.

“I hesitated to allow you onto this mission, but I knew if not, you would just sneak out anyways. MacTavish’s loyalties may lie with the state, but yours are… elsewhere.”

There was no real malice to the statement, but a hesitant toeing of an invisible line that Simon did not push back against.

“For whichever bloody reason you cling to that lad like a bad smell, I don’t want to hear it. Don’t want to see it. Don’t even want to think about it. But I know out of anyone, you’re the best bet for getting him back, and he has information that we cannot let fall into enemy hands. He’s a tough nut, but four days is a long time to go unbroken.”

It hadn’t gone amiss that John was probably dealing with the unthinkable right now. In fact, it was practically all he’d thought about every time he tried to sleep. His mouth turned chalky, the smoke not aiding the matter.

“Go, take Stubbs. You two will scout, send a signal to the team when infiltration is possible. And Riley?”

“Yes sir?”

The CO took a moment to answer, as he blew a long stream of smoke from the corner of his lip.

“Don’t bring any more shit to my door.”

As he packed, he thought about the words the CO had spoken. The passive, blind-eye approach to a relationship which had probably become too obvious after Simon had trekked near solo through the woods, and disobeyed direct orders to find him.

He could only hope that the secret went no further.

“Ready?” Stubbs asked, as he leant at Simon’s door. He’d been the only person Simon could really call a friend, other than John, and for once he didn’t mind the company.

“Mhm,” Simon replied. He brushed over the top of his shirt across the ever-so-slightly raised bumps that formed John’s initials on his chest. A remnant of the far past, but even more important to him than any other scar, mark, or tattoo on his body.

Shipping out to Naples was a long old slog. They didn’t go by plane, for flying so close to the city would only attract attention. So, it was trucks, and then civilian vehicles when they approached the outskirts. The facility was only a short stop outside of town, and so they found themselves tangled with locals at more than one junction, trying to act natural.

This wasn’t a POW camp, nor a camp of any kind. It seemed more like a regular office building from the outside, probably home to some sort of communications centre.

So why was he here?

Simon, cynical at the worst of times, bit his lip. This wasn’t some common office, not judging by the constant convoy of military vehicles entering the perimeter. Nor by the constant presence of Axis officers, of all nations, who were escorted around the building by guards and foot soldiers. It would be a stupid idea, near damned impossible, for any large group to infiltrate the site.

The buildings were tall, easily tall enough for a couple of snipers to mount in the upper windows and pick off those encroaching from the road. And the constant, swirling mass of men through the choke point of the revolving door meant they would never be alone.

If there was any other person inside, he would suggest a barrage be coordinated on the building for a mutually assured destruction.

Simon was cold and calculated at the best of times. But Simon was also selfish.

It was the selfish part of him which won out.

He had a few things that Stubbs did not, and that the rest of the gaggle certainly didn’t. A motive, an almost fluent understanding of Italian, which had changed just a tad since the days of Rome, and a tracker. So, they hatched a plan. Stubbs would overwatch from a sniping position on top of a nearby building. The scaffolding from a prior bomb run was an ideal infiltration point onto the roof, and the low fog which hung over the city would give him at least some cover as he scarpered up there.

Simon, on the other hand, would be going entirely overt. Well, perhaps not entirely. The knocked-out Italian soldier who had come too close to his ambush would say otherwise, as the blond squeezed into his two-sizes too small uniform. It was uncomfortable, and tight, but it wouldn’t matter for long.

He occupied the truck that the man had been driving and sighed as he fumbled with the gears. He still didn’t like these automobiles - horses were much safer. John drove them everywhere when they were together.

As he rolled to the gates, he was called to halt by two soldiers. 

He could only hope Stubbs’ aim was true if this all went to pot.

“Your name, soldier, and reason for visit.”

Of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to come entirely unprepared. He had turned the man’s pockets out for everything he had, which thankfully included an enveloped letter with both his full legal name and a summons. It was in Italian, and although his written knowledge was a little rusty, he got the gist.

“Sergente Antonio Russo, reporting to Colonnello Lombardi with a mission status, Sir.”

The words were believable, he just hoped his accent hadn’t given him away at all. At best, it sounded like he had a bad cough as he choked around the pronunciation. Seemingly, the guardsmen didn’t notice, and let him in. 

He used all his willpower not to stall the damn car.

When inside, he mulled about for time with a cigarette bummed from a man who looked older than all of Simon’s years on earth combined. The old fool mithered on about something, as Simon tried homing in on John’s location within the building.

He was close, on a floor up above. Possibly two floors, maybe three.

His presence was nowhere near as strong as it should be from this distance, especially not after days apart where Simon’s acclimatisation had been given time to fade. 

The old man seemed not to notice as he slipped away.

The stairs were an issue. Every corner had some important person or another, and although the routine and regiment of saluting was not unusual to him, it certainly was strange in the face of the enemy.

He climbed three flights, before he entered an area that was highly secure. Even as he turned the opposite way, and pretended he had somewhere else to be on that level, he saw the guards at the door shift nervously at his arrival. It would be easy to slip through the large vents in the walls of this corridor – not built for military purposes, but the day-to-day bustle of some financial business or other.

That is, if he wasn’t stopped before he could try.

“You there!”

He heard one of the men shout and played ball. A total about turn, met with a salute. Five paces forward in marching rhythm, and the upkeep of appearance.

They lowered their guard.

Simon had prepared for violence, if necessary, but the uncomfortable closeness of the walkway meant his punches were not as potent, and his kicks not as tooth-knocking. It took a good minute to subdue both men, and he could only hope the excess of noise had not roused further suspicion.

He stowed the unconscious men away into a nearby closet and shut the door tight.

The guard on the right had dropped his keys in the brawl, which Simon took and looped around his belt in the same fashion. Openly, and with purpose. He continued, past the formerly guarded door, and to the end of a long hallway where finally he could feel John close.

Muffled noises and thuds, then the bark of a gruff man.

There was an interrogation.

Simon knew that this was an opportunity, but a painful one. He would have to wait.

It was another long hour before the man inside downed his tools. Throughout, he had heard the slap of open palms against skin, and the meaty thuds of closed fists bearing down full force. And then, at one point, the hot sear of metal brandished into a meaty thigh or arm or buttock – Simon did not dare think which.

But the worst part of all, was hearing John beg.

Not for his life, but Simon’s.

They had him completely convinced that they had captured Simon too, no doubt Hackett’s idea, the wily little prick. The man talked over, and over, and over again about all the things they would do to Simon if he did not comply. Unspeakable things, downright evil things.

And Simon could say nothing.

When it was clear that John had become nothing but an incoherent, babbling mess, they called time on the session.

The doors swung open, and out came a short man with big, meaty fists. Fists which were red with blood. Fists which Simon so wished he could break, for John’s sake. But he saluted, and stood guard of the door, and went entirely unnoticed to the man and his party who swore and scrapped all the way to the end of the hall.

It was clear as he entered the room that he had come hours into the torture.

Tools were strewn about, rags stained with blood discarded on the soiled ground, and there in the middle of it all, illuminated only by one exposed bulb, sat a broken man with his back to the doorway.

He glanced around the room one more time before he spoke.

“Hey, love.”

The words slipped from his mouth all too easily, and quietly too, for the disbelief stunted the vowels to nothing more than a whisper. It was for the best, though. He could not risk letting John startle, which would surely alert the guards to his plan.

There was no response.

He dared inch closer but thought best not to touch him suddenly. Although his skin, lacerated and bruised, was probably desensitised to a simple gentle caress now.

It hurt to see his face. To see his beautiful features swollen, to see that tan skin only mottled in red and purple hues and gaps in his smile where teeth sat comfortably just days prior. But what hurt most of all was the glazed, lost expression on his features that didn’t change even when Simon crouched down at eye level.

“Johnny?” He whispered again and dared to brush his thumb over the top of John’s thigh.

Nothing.

He needed to get him out of here, into the hands of someone who could help. Simon could easily strap up a broken finger, or relocate a dislocated shoulder, but he would not play with the putty of a mind so ravaged that one wrong move could shatter it.

It was a task to get John back out of the complex whilst remaining in character. He had put a burlap sack around his head loosely, and hoped not to scare him into screaming as he tied his hands with bloodied rope which had already been used for something unthinkable.

There is an art to hiding in plain sight. One which Simon thought they would never pull off, not with his distinctive features and lack of local custom. But leading John from the door, the front door to be precise, and piling him into the back of the stolen vehicle with a false roughness was all that was needed to seem convincing.

By the grace of some foolish god, it worked.

“You’re okay,” he urged, and squeezed John’s shoulder in the back of the truck. “Come back to us, Johnny.”