Archive of Our Own ^beta

As the sun that illuminated London fell asleep, the pale moon took its place, bringing with it the chill of an early spring night; its sad rays reached the windows of the cell in the Tower of London and touched the expressionless face of a man who was directed a sorrowful gaze towards the horizon. Even though the wind caressed his pale face and ruffled his hair, he did not move a step from his seat, as if he were sitting motionless in a chair by the window, holding in his hands the only source of warmth and brightness – a cast-iron candlestick with a half-burned wax candle, above whose wick rose a faint, trembling flame –  was to be his penance.  

What had been a beam of light in his days, darker than a sunlight-deprived coffin lying at the bottom of a muddy river, had not come, unlike every previous night of Albert’s year-long imprisonment. Each time dusk fell, the sky turned pink and orange, and the day slowly turned into night, a snow-white pigeon would perch on the stone parapet of the cell and coo announcing that a small capsule at its left leg contained a piece of expensive paper on which were written dozens of words that might have little meaning to someone for whom they were not the only bridge between the world and the valley of eternal despair. Albert was worried, but it did not surprise him at all – who in the world would have the patience, the willingness, and the persistence to write and send letters every night, knowing full well they would never receive a reply to any of them? He could not deny that the initially unwanted contact with Mycroft had become something he had grown accustomed to, but the doubts in his heart made him disbelieve the truth of the words written in raven ink in the first letter, for he felt that what was meant to be put into action with the words, "I will write to you every day until you give up your penance," would soon fade into nothing, and nothing more than three hundred rolled and thread-bound scraps of paper that now found their place in the small box would brighten the eternal night. 

Albert sighed and had already risen from the wooden seat, ready to blow out the candle to deprive it of its flame, when the silence around him was broken by the familiar flutter of a pigeon’s wings, preceding the landing of its owner on the windowsill. When he saw Charlie, the night the penitent had lived through, suddenly lost all meaning for him, for his heart was filled with inexpressible joy, and all the pain, as well as the cold wind that came into the room through the open window, seemed not to affect his already sorrowful soul. 

"Did you bring me a letter today, too, Charlie?" Albert asked in a sweet tone, saying each word with increasing relief. 

Setting the candlestick down on the chair, he stretched out both hands towards the pigeon to stroke its little head and beautiful wings, then reached out for the tiny capsule at its leg and opened it with the intention of reading the letter. Like hundreds of others before it, this one did not contain many words; against the pale paper, tiny but perfectly legible letters stood out, forming four short sentences, because no more could fit on a small fragment of the page: 

"Dear Albert, I can no longer suppress feelings that I thought I was incapable of feeling. Days without you are like hours of total eclipse, and though the sun never sets on the Great British Empire, for me it set with your departure into the cold arms of the Tower. I would not change your mind, so I would not ask you to leave prison, even though you already know my opinion anyway. I will await your return, not because I feel obliged to do so, but because my heart is drawn to you. M. ". 

Albert's heart tightened in a pleasant embrace, as if something warm had been wrapped around it, and the inside of his body warmed like a fireplace where the flames consuming the wood create their own dance. In an instant, all the worries that had plagued him that evening vanished; he ceased to care about the frosty air surrounding his scantily clad body, and all he could think about was the sender of the letter, who was probably now waiting for his charge to return. A short letter would not have been able to persuade Albert to leave prison, nor would it have destroyed the plants of despair, sorrow, and doubt that had sprouted in his heart, but it might have calmed his raging thoughts for one night, and thus prevented him from dwelling on the past. 

For a long time Albert had suspected that something more than physical desire had developed between him and Mycroft, but they were both afraid to mention it, knowing full well that any more tender, more lasting feeling could affect their cooperation; Albert, however, acknowledged its existence to himself, silently knowing that as a sinner he did not deserve to have such a beautiful flower of love grow in his heart, to endure the hardships of being aware of it; he was silent as confessions of love pressed upon his lips, and he paid attention to his words as he fell into Mycroft's arms like a falcon into a snare and found himself in situations he should never have found himself in. He felt so happy about the other man's confession that he could not stop the liquid crystal from appearing in his eyes, giving them a glassy glow, then running down his long eyelashes onto his pale cheeks, where it left only a wet trail, before falling onto a small fragment of the page and, soaking into the text, smearing the small initial. 

"Will you wait until I write my answer, Charlie?" Albert whispered, moving his thumb and stroking the animal's head. 

The pigeon cooed in response.