By a Horse's Hair

Several minutes passed with nothing but the rumbling of the Humvee’s engine to accompany John’s thoughts. The interior of the vehicle was uncomfortable in almost every way possible. John rode in the rear passenger seat, a seat with not enough cushioning and even less legroom, separated from Reginald by the largest center console he’d ever seen. It was cold, chillier than it had any reason to be, and John could feel goosebumps rising on his skin. He shrunk into his seat as much as possible, painfully aware of the ever watchful eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

Attempting to start a conversation was all but inconceivable to him. Even if his company was amenable to the idea, he couldn’t think of where or how to start for the life of him. An amicable driver might share a few words to get things rolling, like a cab driver, but Reginald was anything but. The only worse companion John could think of was Wentworth.

That thought gave him a moment of respite. He considered how unnatural the idea of Wentworth driving a car felt, and briefly considered the idea of her flying across a starlit sky astride a broom, pointy hat and all. Yeah, that felt way more natural.

The Humvee bounced as it crossed the threshold to the outside, suddenly awash with the light of day. The warmth of sunlight brought John back to reality. He couldn’t help but lean to the side and crane his neck to see as much as he was able. He’d never thought he’d ever be so grateful to see something as ordinary as the sky. It, like every other scrap of comfort he’d found thus far, was short lived. They pulled into a garage, where sunlight was replaced by the dim, yellowish glow of incandescent bulbs. They illuminated what looked like dozens of military-grade vehicles, all neatly parked in rows. John jumped at the booming thud of the garage door sliding shut and instinctively reassessed his surroundings. He realized that theirs was the only moving vehicle around. The Brightons had pulled away while he was distracted, most likely to park in a cheerier environment before leaving the keys with a valet. John’s sense of isolation felt just a bit heavier.

The Humvee rolled to a stop in an unoccupied space nearest to a sturdy looking metal door. No sooner than he cut the engine did Reginald exit the vehicle. His movements were so practiced and precise that they bordered on mechanical, including when he swung John’s door open and gestured for him to exit. He did so in a comparatively oafish manner, barely squeaking out a, “Thank you,” as Reginald shut the door behind him. The sudden sense of exposure set John even more on edge than he’d already been. He came to realize that parking garages like this were a great place to get murdered.

Nevertheless, Reginald did not **** John. He opened the metal door leading out and once again held it open. John stepped through, timid as a mouse, into a short hallway made of concrete. It looked much like the bunker; only an ordinary, featureless door stood at the other end. He was almost sent toppling over as Reginald brushed past him in order to lead the way. They didn’t actually make contact, John realized as he straightened himself out, he just felt innate alarm at Reginald passing by so closely. The butler had reached the opposite door and opened it by the time the shivers had finished running through John’s spine.

Thus did their uncomfortable dance continue. For every door they approached, Reginald would hold it open, wait for John to cross, then glide past him with nearly silent footsteps to lead the way again. It took only another doorway to reach the manor interior proper, at which point they crossed so many doors that John hadn't a clue as to where in the manor they were. It was labyrinthine, and the two had to go through the exchange for each door they went through. Open, hold, step, pass. Open, hold, step, pass. Every. Single. Time.

Soon, but not soon enough by John’s measure, they encountered staff besides Reginald. Save for the maids, John could only guess as to their purpose. Each wore some sort of uniform attire, but they ranged from formal serving wear to velvety looking white and crimson robes. The main unifying element was that each person bore a golden rose somewhere on their person. They were likewise unified in politely ignoring John, not even giving him so much as a glance. Despite being among others, John’s sense of isolation continued to dominate his thoughts.

Things grew ever so slightly more comfortable when he and Reginald reached the familiar sight of the entrance hall. Though they did not stop, he took a moment to admire the massive portrait of Moira’s mother hanging over the split staircase. Her motionless gaze felt soothingly maternal. John supposed that was the intent, but he also wondered if one day Moira’s portrait would replace it. What would he feel if it was her staring back down at him?

Thankfully, only two more doors remained between John and the study. It was the same study he’d visited on his first trip to the manor, when he had been grilled about Nazrinn and his connection to Wentworth. The fireplace crackled with a gentle heat that John did not feel. Unsurprisingly, Lord Brighton sat at his desk with a dour expression on his face. Moira, likewise, sat in the same chair she had been in on that day, leaving the remaining seat for John. She had cleaned up and changed into fresh clothes, a loose, off white, button-down blouse with a high waisted, houndstooth skirt in shades of brown. Her hair had been tended to, but it was still haphazardly uneven after John's hack job.

“Thank you, Reginald,” Lord Brighton said. “That will be all.”

“By your leave, Lord Protector, Lady Warden.” Reginald lingered only long enough to bow before exiting the room. John couldn’t help but notice that, rather than lower his gaze, the butler’s eyes remained fixed on Moira until the door shut.

John swallowed his nerves, or attempted to, and waited to be addressed.

“Sit,” Lord Brighton said. It was a command and it was delivered as such, firm, loud, and terse.

“Yes, sir,” John replied. He had been cowed by a single word and he knew it. Accepting his place in the hierarchy, John slinked towards the chair beside Moira and sat down. Rather than chide himself for his meekness, he chose to celebrate the fact that he had suppressed the urge to begin sputtering apologies the instant he’d stepped into the room.

Lord Brighton was not eager to break the weighty silence his presence demanded. An uncomfortable length of time crawled by, second by nerve-wracking second.

“My daughter has given me a summary of the events of the last few days,” he said at last. “She informs me that your excursion into the Abyss was purely accidental, that you conducted yourself in a gentlemanly fashion, and that you proved both capable and cunning during the trip home.”

John risked a glance towards Moira to try and get a read on the situation. Even in light of everything that happened, he hadn’t expected her to give such a glowing review. He dared to hope that maybe things would not be as bad as he feared, but Moira’s expression was not even remotely relaxed. Behind her stony stoicism, however, was a degree of concern. Her eyes sent John a cautionary warning, one he understood without words. It read, ‘Don’t even think about lying.’

“I did my best, sir.” John replied, turning back to face his interrogator. Lord Brighton once again took the measure of John in silence. He folded his hands atop the desk and let out a heavy breath. Not even the tiniest of muscles in his face so much as twitched.

“I’d like to believe this matter to be that simple,” he said. “But, unfortunately, things are rarely so straightforward in this line of duty. The position I am in means that anything short of utmost prudence would be foolishness bordering on recklessness. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir.” John said.

“While both of you have returned to us unharmed, the fact remains that you **** a Warden of the Golden Rose. That is an act of betrayal that simply cannot be ignored. It would not be unreasonable for me to disregard your intentions, however accidental. A less understanding man than I would have been within his rights to perform a summary execution the moment you emerged from the gate. Such is the severity of your crime.”

John felt the suffocating pressure of Lord Brighton’s presence closing in on him once again. Every time the sensation happened felt as bizarre as the first. To feel so thoroughly crushed was alarmingly incomprehensible. The paradox confused even his instincts, sending endlessly contradicting signals through his mind.

Anger welled up from somewhere inside John and joined the miasma of dread in his brain. He wanted to object on his own behalf, to rail against the oppressive authoritarianism being directed his way, no matter how awful an idea it was. That fact gave John something solid to hold on to, however. A familiar, understandable feeling to use as an anchor to help weather the storm. He held fast to it, tempering it into something stronger, and bit his tongue to keep from speaking out of line. A glance over to Moira showed that she, too, was holding something back.

“I understand, sir,” John said, as calm and direct as he could muster. He had countless snippy comments he could have appended to the statement, but he kept them in reserve and locked the door.

“Good,” Lord Brighton said. “Let us start at the beginning, then. What exactly were you intending when you kidnapped my daughter?”

Loaded question much?

Annoyance aside, Lord Brighton was right. John had to accept the reality of what he’d done. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile the fact that Moira was both the leader of a holy order of magical knights and just another girl going to the same completely ordinary school as him. In the Abyss, he’d come to see her a little more clearly as Moira the person, not Moira the Warden. But here, in this manor, Moira was the most important person in the world. She was as untouchable as she was precious, and he had stolen her from them.

What sort of answer could he give that would satisfy their enmity? Was there any way to explain his behavior that they could accept? Clearly, Moira accepted his reasoning, but she knew him. To everyone else, he was a villain, and that’s all they needed to know.

If innocence is impossible, and guilt means ****, then I need a new option. Think, John. What would Liam do?

“To be frank, sir,” John said, “I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking at all. I let my emotions get the better of me and I did the dumbest thing in my life.”

John’s stalling and contrite self-deprecation reminded him of a conversation he once had with Liam. He couldn’t remember what show they were talking about, but Liam was complaining about some trope he thought was overused. It was one of those philosophical razors, the one coined by some guy named… Hampton? Something like that. Whoever he was, he advised that it's more likely that someone does something wrong out of stupidity than out of malice. Liam was tired of villains always getting away with things by taking advantage of it and playing dumb. Much to his friend’s chagrin, John found that strategy to be his best shot.

Wait, does that make me the bad guy? Shit. Wait, nevermind that! Survival first, moral dilemma later!

“Go on,” Lord Brighton said.

“Just before it happened, Moira had stepped in during training with Erica to help teach me an important lesson. It was harsh and I took it personally. It felt unfair, like I was being deliberately picked on. I know that wasn’t the case, but back then I snapped back at Moira like a bratty child.”

John chanced another glance at Moira, but she didn't return it. If anything, her anxious, tight-lipped stare grew tighter.

“She rebuked me with a few truths I wasn’t ready to hear. I responded poorly. I can’t rightly say what I was thinking, but I know what I wanted. I wanted to escape. I wanted to run away, and, stupidly, I reached for magic I don’t really understand to do it. I wanted it to be flashy, to make a statement. What that statement was, I couldn’t tell you.”

So far everything John had said was true. He wouldn’t have agreed at the time, but the unflattering perspective of his retelling was more accurate than the version where he was the powerless victim. As for his escape, he truly didn’t know what he expected to accomplish, all he knew was that he wanted to do something big. He didn’t need to reach for Limit Break to make a Barrier, but he did anyway. A reasonable person wouldn’t test something like that just because they were angry.

“And this led you to drag my daughter into the Abyss,” Lord Brighton said. He remained as stone-faced as ever. Moira, on the other hand, at least showed some scraps of emotion. Part of John read it as pity, but another saw in it sympathy.

“Yes, sir,” John replied. “I’ve been experimenting with making Barriers in my free time. I’m making progress, but I don’t really have the hang of it yet. I put everything I had into casting the spell to make one, every bit of anger and dumb little hurt feeling. It felt different, but I didn’t realize what it would do. I never expected I would take Moira with me.”

“I see,” Lord Brighton said. “And that use of negativity led to you opening a portal to the Abyss instead of creating a Barrier.”

“Exactly, sir.” John said. “Moira tells me that sometimes **** emotions can alter spells. That’s our best guess as to what happened.”

John knew he had to choose his next words carefully. Getting through this meant telling the truth without letting either of them know about Limit Break. If they knew he used it on purpose, he’d never get out of here with his freedom.

“Why did you not simply cast the spell again to return home?” Lord Brighton asked. John could feel the man’s scrutiny intensify, but he was prepared for that question.

“I tried as soon as I realized what happened,” John said, hastily adding, “sir,” when he realized he’d missed using it. “The problem is… I don’t know how. Moira said I should be able to, since I’d already done it before, but I truly, honestly don’t know how to cast that spell at will.”

“My daughter’s explanation should stand true,” Lord Brighton said, leaning forward slightly. “If a mage unintentionally unlocks an alteration of a spell, a grasp of that spell should come with it.”

“I understand, sir,” John said. “I tried remembering exactly how everything felt and doing it again. Moira tried to explain to me how to replicate the way my mana flowed, but none of it made any sense to me.”

“If I may add, Father,” Moira said, “I believe him. I could feel him trying, and he clearly didn’t want to be trapped in the Abyss any more than I did. I cannot explain it, but it simply did not work.”

“I didn’t ask for your input, Moira,” Lord Brighton said, finally taking his eyes off John to cast her a scolding look. Moira stiffened in her chair, contrite, but she did not apologize. John took advantage of the silence to speak up again.

“I don’t claim to get it, sir, but I have a feeling that my mana doesn’t work like most people’s. Any time it comes up in my reading, the book always talks about feeling this and sensing that. I’ve always thought I was either too new or too stupid to realize what mana feels like. Moira talked the same way, but the thing is, sir, I don’t feel anything. I can tell my mana is there and I can make it move, but I can’t feel it moving. I never have.”

It was an unintentional revelation, but John realized it was true. Something always felt off when people talked about mana. Hell, Liam had already worked out what the equivalent of 1mp was through feel and a little math. What made John different? Why was he, once again, an outlier who could not relate to others?

“It would not be unheard of,” Lord Brighton said. He chose not to elaborate further. Instead, he leaned back into his chair, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes in deliberation. Rather than stew on his own thoughts, John turned to Moira and tried to silently ask how things were going. She responded with a tight smile. As far as he could tell, she thought he had a chance.

“I understand now that I was too lax with you,” Lord Brighton said after several agonizingly tense seconds. John’s heart leapt into his throat. “Victoria was correct when she assessed you to be as much a danger to others as yourself. Something disastrous was bound to happen by your hand, one way or another.”

“But, sir, I-” John nearly got out of his seat to protest, but was shot down by a red hot glare from across the desk. Moira didn’t seem thrilled about his outburst either. Admittedly, it was a dumb instinct that he should have supressed, which was exactly why John let himself do it.

“As I was saying,” Lord Brighton continued, his tone continuing to harden, “it was my error to assume we would be able to shape you into an appropriately novice level before you did something reckless. This, I admit.”

John knew better than to relax just yet. The other shoe was bound to drop any second.

“But make no mistake, you and you alone are responsible for your actions. Abducting a Warden is among the highest crimes against the Order one can commit. It speaks to your credit that she was returned to us unharmed, but the crime remains all the same. It falls to me to deliver justice.”

“Does my opinion count for nothing!?” Moira shot out of her chair, speaking at such volume that John flinched. She leaned forward as if against a heavy wind, fists clenched so tight he half expected her to draw blood. Dumbstruck as he was by Moira’s sudden defiance, he still caught sight of how her fists trembled, hidden from her father’s view by the desk. The man himself remained seated, but he leaned forward to meet his daughter’s outburst.

“Your opinion,” he said, stretching out the word as if it merited some level of disgust, “is why Mr. Newman has made it this far alive. But opinions do not make laws, daughter mine, facts do. I would have thought you’d learned this already. Now sit down.”

“Then the fact remains that it was an accident,” Moira spat back, still standing. “Surely there must be an exception, or are we so barbaric as to remove the hand from a beggar for stealing a loaf of bread?”

John’s heart raced so quickly he could swear that it was impossible to distinguish the individual beats. He watched the clash with a white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair and his brain tumbling through a hurricane of thoughts and emotions. He felt, in every sense, as if he was only a fly amidst a brawl between giants, powerless against the current of their blows and liable to be smashed into paste at any moment. Equally oppressive was the notion that one of the giants was fighting on his behalf. It brought up something unfamiliar to him, a strange sensation in his chest that made him deeply, profoundly uncomfortable. He desperately longed for Moira to stand down. She did not.

Instead, Lord Brighton rose. He did so slowly, with both hands planted on the surface of the desk. His bear-like silhouette overwhelmed the room, making it impossible to look away from his dread presence. It was almost as if the whole room darkened, concentrating the weight of reality upon the Lord Protector. The desk, solid mahogany, creaked.

“Sit. Down.”

Each word was unto itself the blow of a hammer, crashing down on Moira’s shoulders. She withstood the ****, but only just barely. She took a single, shaky step back, and from the way she glanced down at her feet, John could tell she had been betrayed by her instincts. Moira tried to glare back at her father, but it was too late; she had already lost. With knees on the verge of buckling, Moira cast her gaze down and quietly returned to her seat.

John released an overdue breath while Lord Brighton sat down. He became suddenly and disturbingly aware of the fact that his own breathing was the only sound he could hear in the room. Reluctantly, and for fear of drawing a target on himself, John held his breath once more. Surrounded by silent tension and having no clue what he should do, John squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for the end of this horrible moment. Whether it did so on its own or because he passed out, he did not care.

Moira was the one to finally break the silence.

“Father, forgive me. I…” She faltered in her words. John opened his eyes and let himself breathe. The room felt exactly as it had before, only now Moira was pressing her legs together and peering up to her father with a sheepish and agonizingly uncomfortable expression. “I’ve been gone for some days now and I couldn’t… that is, with John present, I…” Moira trailed off, breaking eye contact to subtly rub her thighs together.

Lord Brighton’s face, normally brimming with the vibrance of life, lost all of its color in an instant. The rigidity in his posture deflated, and the unbearable weight of the room’s atmosphere dissipated entirely.

“Oh,” Lord Brighton said, barely more audible than a whisper. “Yes, of course, I understand.”

“No, my behavior was unacceptable, even if I-” Moira started again, only to be interrupted once more.

“The moment has passed, Moira,” he said, bereft of all gravitas. “Let us speak of it no more.”

“Thank you, father,” she said.

John stared at Moira slack-jawed and stupefied. Any attempts at thought were met with a wall of muffled static and a series of error tones in rapid succession. To the outside observer, one would likely assume John’s witless expression was due to an utter lack of comprehension. The truth, however, lay in the contrary. John understood precisely what had just happened. He understood, but his brain needed to reboot before he could even consider believing it.

Did she just lie? To her father?

Lord Brighton cleared his throat and adjusted his shoulders in an attempt to refocus the conversation. John picked his jaw off the floor but otherwise made no attempt to hide his confusion. It was easier to pretend to be a dunce when he didn’t have to act.

“Circumstances as they are, I’ll be brief,” Lord Brighton finally said, after Moira finished fixing her posture. His attempt to reclaim his earlier sense of authority was only partially successful. “John, you stand accused of **** a Warden of the Golden Rose. All facts considered, I have decided to be lenient in my judgment. Even so, actions have consequences, however accidental they may be.”

“I understand, sir.” John said, swallowing the dryness in his throat.

“At present, the only individuals outside of this room that understand what happened are Reginald, Ms. Carpenter, and Ms. Proctor. I intend to keep it that way. As far as anyone else is concerned, your trip into the Abyss with my daughter was part of your training, an exercise that was otherwise unremarkable. Do you understand?”

“Absolutely, sir.” John nodded. Lord Brighton had well recovered his dominion over the room and, with it, John.

“Good,” he said. “Then, until I decide otherwise, you will be kept under constant supervision any time you are on estate grounds. Reginald will see to it that your every move is observed, and any behavior he deems suspicious will be reported directly to me.” A moment passed before he added, “Even if my daughter believes otherwise,” with a firm jaw and a pointed glare at Moira.

“Yes, sir,” John said.

“Understand that, while I hold you in no contempt, the sword of Damocles hangs over your head, Mr. Newman. One misstep may well lead to your end. Loathe as I am to take a human life, I simply cannot risk harm coming to the Warden. There is no man, woman, or creature that I would not cut down in defense of my daughter. I would not hesitate to end my own life, should it somehow come to pass that I posed a threat to her. Consider this as you leave this room.”

John understood on an instinctual level that Lord Brighton was not merely posturing. There was a sharp and pristine clarity in the man's eyes, one tempered by unrelenting conviction. John had no doubt that Lord Brighton would leap into Hell itself if it was in defense of Moira. Prior to this moment, he would have thought such devotion impossible.

“I understand, sir,” he said, despite knowing it wasn’t entirely true. The intent was genuine, but John knew he would need time to fully comprehend the depths he now found himself in.

Moira caught his eye. Her back had relaxed ever so slightly and a sense of calm had replaced her earlier anxiety.

“Then you are both dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” John said, rising to his feet. Moira followed suit. He turned to leave, but stopped himself to offer a stilted bow to the Lord Protector. “T-thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, Father,” Moira said in turn. With a hand over her heart, she genuflected, then pivoted to depart in her oh-so-Brighton way.

Lord Brighton offered no reply to either of them. Harsh eyes met John’s, full of inscrutable severity. John felt frozen on the spot, as prey before a predator, until Lord Brighton’s eyes broke contact to flick towards the door - a curt reminder that it was time to leave. John all but scampered after Moira before it could shut behind her.

Safe on the other side, John's heart finally began to settle. He leaned back against the door and let out a heavy sigh of pure anxiety. With it went nearly all the remaining strength in his body. Despite a complete lack of physical activity, he felt every bit as exhausted as he did after escaping the Kobolds.

"Did that really happen, or am I dreaming?" he asked. Moira paced nearby with small steps, clearly shaking off her own nervous energy.

"Yes," Moira said. She stopped pacing and straightened herself out. "It did."

"Are you sure?" John asked again. "Because I hear some real wild shit can happen in your brain when you die, and this might all be a final hallucination while my head rolls across on the floor."

"John."

Moira shot at him the flattest, most scathing stare she could muster. It was a look that he was growing increasingly familiar with. It was a look that he was, for once, happy to be the recipient of.

"Okay, okay, you're right," he said. John's legs chose that moment to give out. He let it happen without resistance. "I just," he began, unsure where to go with his sentence. "I just… I don't know. That was so much and… you know? I can't even- I…"

John gave up and let out an exasperated sputter.

"Take your time," Moira said.

John took the opportunity to run a hand through his hair. Where to begin eluded him, lost in a forest of far too many things to process. And yet, in the brief respite, one insipid question itched at the forefront of his mind.

“Moira?” he started.

“Yes?” she said.

“Who is Damocles?”