Allegiance

William Brighton’s study was a reflection of the man himself, John decided.

It gave the outward appearance of being imposing, unwelcoming, and unassailable, yet the longer one spent around it, the more it became apparent that there was more than meets the eye. The room was furnished with polished oaken panelling, and quality leather armchairs were placed before the desk which sat at one end of the room. A similar pair of chairs were beside the fireplace at the other end of the room.

The longer he sat in one of the chairs by the fireplace, the more aware he became of a strange warmth and comfort that permeated the room, not unlike John was used to from Christmas decorations. That sense of cosiness felt unusual without the weight of decoration that would usually stifle it... The leather was softer, and the room more welcoming and warmer than he’d thought it would be when looking at it, much like Lord Brighton, John suspected.

Just like the room, the man had become more comforting to be around as time went by, what little time had gone by. He’d appeared as they reached the study, and allowed them in, then politely requested they wait while he sorted some paperwork on the gargantuan monstrosity of intricately carved and polished oak that he referred to as a desk. But without the intimidating man saying anything of note to the pair, he had steadily revealed himself, in small ways, to be much more understanding of normal people than John had assumed initially.

Eventually, he heaved a satisfied sigh and placed a last packet of papers in a drawer of the desk, leaning backwards into the equally ridiculously ornate leather office chair, looking around. His eyes stopped on his guests, waiting upon the seating at the other end of the study, framing the unlit fireplace. He drew his brows together in thought, then snapped his fingers lightly, startling those who waited and drawing their attention as a side effect.

“Yes! I must apologise, to the both of you, for making you wait so long. I had forgotten that the documents awaited me, and could not put them off any longer without some repercussions. Now, however, I wanted to ask the both of you for an account of the incident that happened yesterday, if you are willing. Are you well, young Lady Velvet? I understand it was most discomforting.”

That was an understatement and a fucking half. Velvet was very light and polite in her response, however, “Yes, Lord Brighton. I’m alright. Thank you for asking, however. My father sends his greetings.”

The big man’s expression clouded slightly as he replied, “Ah, yes, how is the… Peacekeeper General?” John picked up that the man had planned to say something else and stopped himself from doing so.

“He’s well, and apologises for interrupting the Warden’s extraction mission.”

“Yes, I imagine so.” He shook his head, the cloudiness of thought seeming to go with it. “And, I believe, I was to offer you, Mr…?” The man trailed off, looking at John with open, yet unreadable eyes.

John realised that he needed to answer “N-Newman, Lord Brighton. John Newman.”

The intimidating Lord-Protector stared for a moment longer, and then a smile appeared on his face and he chuckled. “Mr Newman, please. While I appreciate your respect, you’re not one of the Order, unless you’d like to request admission. There’s no need to call me Lord in such an informal setting. Mr Brighton, or even William, will suit just as well. That, of course, applies to you as well, Lady Velvet.” He shook his head slightly, still smiling slightly. “As I was saying, I believe I was to offer you a standard Writ of Protection, as you’ll be working with the Order. However, first, if you would, I wish to hear yesterday’s tale.”

John took a deep breath and began telling the story.

“How interesting.” Without seeing the man, John would have thought that response was sarcastic, considering the extremity of the story he had just told. Lord Brighton, however, seemed genuinely interested by what he had said. “Allow me to recap, then, as I understand the order of events.” John nodded in assent, and the large man interlocked his fingers as he spoke. “So, you encountered an ongoing **** of the Lady Velvet here, and, rather than seek the mundane police as most others would have in your shoes, you decided - with zero prior training or understanding of the Abyss - to attack the men in an attempt to rescue her, because you were worried that calling for help would allow them time to escape?”

John flushed, realising how foolish it sounded when explained that way. He was about to defend himself when Lord Brightion lifted a hand to ask for his silence, and then continued speaking, “And, then, upon the failure of this rescue, you not only went with her rather than fleeing, but protected her as you might? Then, when opportunity presented itself, you chose to embrace a power you didn’t fully understand in order to ensure Lady Velvet’s virtue was defended, regardless of the possible consequences it could have, and has had, upon you since?”

This time it was Velvet that flushed pink at the Lord-Protector’s clear summarization, which made her realise the reasoning of the choice John had made, which she clearly hadn’t fully considered yet, if her reaction was an indication. Yet John barely noticed that, instead looking at his hands, loosely held in his lap, and quietly speaking, “I… couldn’t just… I knew if I didn’t take the risk, if I sat there and listened-” The last word was almost spat out, as if it held a rancid taste.

Then, John lost the anger that had been building as he finished his thought “...it would have been wrong. Another man might have been more clever and waited for a better advantage, but I couldn’t. I don’t know what that makes me. Brave? Or stupid and impatient?” He fell silent, no more words providing themselves to him.

There was a quiet moment, broken only by the gentle ticking of a clock upon the desk. Lord Brighton spoke, “Mr Newman, forgive my bluntness, please. To speak honestly, your actions were foolhardy, brash, and verging on stupidity… and yet also some of the most heroic, selfless, and impressive things I have heard of, considering your unique circumstances. If you were a knight under my command, I would be uncertain if you were looking for a sainthood, or if you were begging for a reprimand and punishment, and yet, despite that, I know that I would happily sign you to the Order’s number.”

The man turned slightly and opened one of the desk’s drawers, pulling out two sheets of parchment and placing them between himself and John. He turned piercing blue eyes and a friendly smile on the Gamer, and tapped a finger on one of the sheets of paper. “This document is a Writ of Protection. It grants you the standard relationship with the Order, as if you were an independent contractor working within Springfield that sought us out. We agree that we shall provide assistance in the case of attack or danger, and access to certain contacts you may find useful. In return, we ask for the occasional utilisation of your services as we require.”

He then tapped the other sheet. “This document, however, is a Writ of Allegiance. It officially joins you to the Order as one of our warriors. In your case, you would be beginning as a squire, or a novice in their early knighthood. This allows you full access to all services available to the Order, with all required equipment and training, alongside room and board, provided free of charge, and, in your specific case, you would be the most likely candidate to take Miss Carpenter’s role within our ranks, due to her upcoming… absence.” He locked his eyes on John, patiently waiting for a response.

John leaned forwards and met the man’s eyes, then gestured at the contracts and asked, “Can I…?”. Lord Brighton nodded, retracting his hands and sitting back into his chair as John quickly skimmed over both contracts. He could see the appeal instantly. All his gear, training, food, even a place to stay, simply given to him for signing, with promise of a quick rise in the ranks. He would never have to worry about being preyed on so easily again, as he would be one member of what seemed to be a powerful organisation.

Even the standard one promised significant aid and access to existing private and exclusive contractors of the Order, which John had seen to be quality already throughout the manor. And the offer of protection was the same, in that many would be put off preying on him due to his position underneath the Order’s umbrella. And yet… Eion’s words stuck in his mind. Either contract required him to give up his independence and agree to serve someone else’s cause, their wishes. More than Eion’s advice was the simple fact that he… couldn’t find the willingness to submit like that within himself. He felt he was being overdramatic about the whole matter, since it was less than a day old, but he knew he was unlikely to change his mind on this any time soon.

No matter how noble the cause, John couldn’t help but feel that to tie himself to someone else’s leadership was a bad idea, regardless of the benefits. And, despite his best efforts, no matter how golden and shiny it all seemed, the requirements that he submit to another’s authority made the memory of cold steel cuffs biting into wrists and ankles flash to mind. A cage made of gold and furnished in velvet was still a cage, and a hunting dog kennelled in the finest housing was still a dog. Never again would he be a chained hound.

The Gamer raised his eyes to meet those of the imposing figure that sat behind the desk. “I’m… sorry. I-I can’t sign either of these.”

Moira’s hair whipped around her head as she sharply looked at him. Velvet’s features scrunched slightly in confusion. Lord Brighton simply leaned further backwards and tilted his head slightly, looking at John. Then he held a hand to stop his daughter’s incoming outburst and asked, “Why is that?”

John was surprised at the strength with which he responded. “I can’t - no, I won’t let myself be under another person’s command again. Not until….” his conviction trailed off, and it began to sound more like he was trying to understand it for himself than to explain it to the paladin, “...I find myself? I’m not sure…”

Lord Brighton stared for a long while at John over steepled fingers, clearly seeing more about John than John knew himself, an insight born of decades of experience. He let out another sigh, and tugged the documents back to him, placing them in a drawer once more. “This is highly irregular.” He paused for a moment. “However… I understand my daughter wishes to aid you, and I, myself, feel like you may be a rare breed. There has never been a day that I do not wish there were more who so greatly desired the world to be better as you do. I shall allow you to use the services my daughter deems to offer, despite you remaining unsigned to our cause, out of respect, both to you and her.

“Understand this, however, young Mr Newman.” His eyes became sharp, and hard, as they met John’s. “The Order will brook no nonsense from independent entities, and tolerates disrespect most poorly. Do not make me regret my decision, Mr Newman. You may leave now…” he softened slightly to finish “...and I wish you both luck in your training this week, however long that may take.”

With that, he turned back to his desk, and a sheaf of paperwork he removed from yet another drawer. The audience was clearly over as Moira stood and prompted John and Velvet to follow her out the room. The door closed with a soft thud and a gentle click.

Immediately, Moira rounded on John, her eyes as lit aflame as her hair. “What on earth was that, John Newman?! I go out of my way to ensure that you’re given a kind welcome, and then my father even offers you a full entry into the Order without any first-hand knowledge of your ability, or your morality, or your-” She stopped to pull in a massive breath, and John held his hands up in a show of peace.

“Moira, I know, and I’m really, really thankful, but I can’t. I…I just can’t let someone have that much authority over me right now. Frank, Vannessa, Toby - they all **** their authority over me, and I can’t risk that it could happen again. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Thinking of it makes my chest feel t-tight, and my hands clench, and I feel like I’m gonna throw up, and, I don’t know, maybe it’ll change, but, fuck, Moira, I can still feel the knife-” John cut himself off, realising he was rambling and had said more than he’d intended.

He raised his eyes to look at Moira, to find her looking back at him, her irate and antagonised attitude gone entirely and replaced with eyes that oozed empathy. “Oh, John… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. If only…” She trailed off, at a loss for words.

Pushing away the anxiety that had welled up at the conversation, as well as the unreasonable anger at her pity, John **** a smile and not-so-subtly changed the topic.