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drabbleitout · 5 years ago

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The Last Line Excerpt: Prequel

(7 years before book 1)

The infirmary was both a prison and testament to his failure.

Becker had spent the last month here, detained by a wound that he couldn't even manage to die from. Perhaps it was punishment. Lying and listening to everyone else suffer around him. The night before he heard the man in the bunk beside him slip away with a rattling wheeze.

The rest of that night, Becker lie awake, staring at the rafters, wondering why he was still alive when he didn't deserve to be.

Days were spent waiting. It's all he could do. As he healed, the Council bickered over what to do with him. Death, probably. They had already sent an officer to explain his rank had been "temporarily" removed. It didn't matter. There weren't enough of his men alive to have rank anymore. If anything, he felt badly for the nurses, wasting their time and resources on trying to heal him.

A figure moved past the dead man's empty bunk, approaching his corner. Becker looked up from his bandaged hands and instantly away. "Good, you're awake." Møller said, bundled in his wool coat, as jaunty as ever. With his right arm belted in a sling, Becker tipped his head forwards in an alternative salute, paining his back. "Don't worry with that, son. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," he sat up, continuing to stare at his hands. Møller had come to see him before, with the Council's officer, but this was the first he had come on his own. It was an awkward moment of silence.

"Your request is here."

"Finally," Becker sighed.

"And I may have twisted a few hours out of the Council for you to come out and see it." Becker looked at him, mouth open. He searched the old man's face, trying to find a lie. The Council would never, not for anyone, risk having him bolt before they could get him to the noose.

No one except Grandmaster Møller.

"R-really?" He had to have something to say. Møller nodded, smile causing more wrinkles to break out across his dark complexion.

"Would you like to go now?"

"Yes, sir." He hurried to pull the covers away, careful in twisting himself to the edge of the cot. Møller reached for the slacks at the end of the bed, "I've got them." Becker assured, holding his breath as he stretched to get them. It was a jolting hot pain, down his right side and into his spine. The arm was most likely ruined. Leaning back, Møller filled his cap between his hands, struggling not to help. Merely getting the dress slacks on was painful. Gritting his teeth against hitching breaths he managed his legs in.

Møller stepped closer and Becker grunted a warning. With the waist in one hand, he groaned to his feet.

"I should order them to move you closer to the fire. It's far too cold back in this corner."

"It's fine," Becker mumbled, finishing with the buttons to sit back down. He took a moment, scraping back his hair. Next were his boots. They were a feat with his less dominant hand, struggling to get his slacks tucked inside them. Møller huffed, cap tossed to the bed. "Don't," Becker warned, "don't help me."

"There's no wrong in receiving help, Becker."

"I don't deserve it." He hissed, tucking the slacks in a little at a time before lacing the boots. Fuchs had shown him how to tie a knot one handed, but it was still tricky. After the first was finally done, he started on the second. "You should have sent a messenger ahead of you." He was somewhat breathless and somehow chilled.

"If there's anything I do have, it's time." Møller wasn't good at hiding emotions from his voice. It was his one downfall as the Althing's right-hand man. It was sadness –not what Becker expected. He focused instead on lacing the boot and catching his breath. Standing he considered the dress shirt and decided, with his arm in a sling, he couldn't get it on. The undershirt would have to do.

Møller ignored Becker's detesting as he lifted the long, black coat from the footboard. "I don't want to hear it. You need to be careful with that injury. It could come open."

"I've healed more than you think." Becker stared at the floor as Møller pulled it over his shoulders, fastening the first few buttons to help hold in place.

"There's no reason to be stubborn. Don't you know that brother of yours gives me enough of that?"'

"Fuchs should be back in the South by now."

"He's refused to leave unless emergency calls." Møller stepped away, letting Becker out into the aisle. It was the farthest he was allowed to go since being brought in. Moving felt good, tiring but good. He carried his cap, only able to watch the floor in front of him, terrified to look up and see any of his men. The guards stopped him at the exit, having to wait for Møller and his leisure stride for permission to let him leave.

A prison.

"Speaking of your brother," Møller paused just outside to fit his peaked cap over the long coils of his salt and pepper hair. "He wants to know if you've received any of his letters?”

"I have." Becker flopped his cap on as well, struggling to get it right. "Does he expect me to write him back?" Møller swatted the hand away, fixing the cap properly.

"He knows your condition, hence why he hasn't left. He only wants you to be aware of his thoughts." They squinted in the gale of snow. It was well into winter by now, the distant rumble of the ocean silenced by ice. "The Code of Lipany is what's preventing him from visiting. I had to give word to the Council you wouldn't cross paths."

"I understand." Becker squared his shoulders with the frown, eyes set of the main bridge.

"The surgeon tells me good things about your recovery. It shouldn't be long now until you're released."

"I doubt the surgeon has much to do with deciding that." Becker bit, gripping the edge of his jacket to keep it from sliding open over his right shoulder. Møller didn't argue or retort, cementing his thoughts. The Council was deciding what to do with him, if he was worth the rope.

"Becker," Møller placed a hand on his good shoulder, stopping them. His rusted brown eyes seemed to look through Becker, searching and sorrowful. "We all know Dresden wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was." Becker lifted his chin to be eye to eye with the Grandmaster. "I was the commanding Earl, the superior of the fortress. My leadership caused Dresden to fall– nothing else."

"You were outnumbered and no one—"

"I take responsibility." He continued on for the stables, back muscles burning.

"Sir Becker," the stable hand called, stuttering with a salute before finally deciding to do so. "Grandmaster Møller," With his hand still at his brow, he turned to Møller, dipping in a bow. "I'm glad to see you both. Come in from the snow." Becker waited for Møller, but was waved to enter first.

It was warmer inside, following the man into the dim internals. It was filled with a strange sweet and foul stench, each stall housing a horse, some two. "We just received a shipment in this morning. The boys just left so you picked a good time." He kept turning around, excitedly checking the faces of the officers.

"I'm curious to know what you requested." Møller muttered, leaning away from any steed that poked its head out in curiosity. They arrived at a seemingly empty stall, the stable hand grinning ear to ear.

"Tell me what you think." Becker stepped closer, peering inside. He didn't see it at first, crammed in the far corner, blending into the shadows.

"A horse?" Møller was disappointed, one of the only military leaders to never use one. Untrustworthy, he said.

"Every respectable officer deserves a horse of their own." Becker didn't bother looking back at them, able to sense their scowls. No dead man needs a horse, they were thinking. Instead he leaned on the gate, studying the black foal.

"This was the only thing the traders had close to what you requested. From somewhere in the Romanian wilds." Becker unlatched the door and slid inside. "Sir! I'd be careful. It's very much a wild horse." Ignoring him, Becker shut the gate behind him, needing to make sure there was no brand.

"Girl? Boy?"

"Uh, girl. I think."

"Does she respond at all to handling?"

"Only if you have a rope to drag it on." Becker frowned over his shoulder. The filly shakily got to her feet, head tilted to watch him.

"There are several other fully trained horses that came in from Estwick this morning. They practically saddle themselves."

"No," Becker pressed a hand into his middle as he crouched down, drawing a breath before nodding. "I'll have this one." Reaching out towards her, he waited. She drew back, shaking her head with a snort. "No living thing should be branded. I won't accept anything that is." As she backed into the corner, Becker withdrew his hand. Unbuttoning his jacket he removed his cap, dropping them in the floor to sit.

"Becker?”

"May I have an hour, Møller?" he looked up, feeling sweat on his brow. The Grandmaster hesitated, glancing to the stable hand.

"Alright, I'll send for you in an hour." He glanced to the foal, and then, "Be careful." With that he ushered the stable hand away.

As their voices disappeared, Becker sighed, grimacing as he rest his head against the wall. His back ached, muscles quivering in pain, a grating in his shoulder causing his entire arm to hurt. Cradling the sling he drew his knees up, trying to focus on his breathing. The pain would stop. Eventually. He would just have to ignore it. Slowing his breath he finally opened his eyes.

The filly snorted, tail flicking. Becker didn't speak or move, merely watching. Her wide, dark eyes were set on him, at the ready if he were to move again.

"Far from home, aren't you?" He whispered, her ears flying forwards at the sound. "That makes two of us." With a shake of the head she inched forwards, ears pinning back. "Don't try anything funny," Becker warned. She stopped, ears still back and watching. After awhile, when he hadn't moved, she began making a wide arch. Back and forth. Gradually getting closer.

He wasn't sure how long it took for her to get close, still scared to move and spook her. She sniffed at his boots, knees, freezing when he lifted a hand. "Easy, easy," he whispered, softly rolling his tongue behind his teeth. She sniffed at his hand, making soft noises. He inched his hand closer, carefully touching her cheek. She flinched but didn't back up. He dust fingers along her muzzle, up and down from her forehead and nose, rhythmically humming. She stayed.

"Do ya know what you're doin’?" She rushed backwards at the husky voice. Becker craned his head back, hitching at the pain before fully looking up. There stood the dishonorably discharged Troy Hudson, wrapped in his greatcoat that no longer held rank.

"No sir," it felt wrong addressing the former Earl any other way. In a way, Becker sympathized, possibly joining him. He looked back to the horse to avoid awkward staring. In the quiet, she returned to the corner to lie down.

"The Council still tryin’ to decide what to do with you, huh?" Becker didn't respond, picking straw from his slacks. " Fuggedaboutit, there's nothing they can do. They wanna scare you." Hudson whispered, his drawl and peppermint musk whispering into the stall. "Any regiment outnumbered against a storm isn't blamed on the leadership. What could ya do? They had more men than you."

"I appreciate it, Earl—" Becker sighed, "Sir Hudson, but the extermination of an entire regiment is unacceptable."

"Because Lexikon wouldn't lift a hand? So, you should take the fall?"

"Lexikon was busy." Becker glared at the far wall, struggling to hold it from his voice.

"Not what I've heard." At Hudson's whisper, Becker tilted his head. "Beatrice, down in Brostwick, said Lexikon hasn't been around his men in a month. No one in the garrison has seen him." The former Earl leaned over the gate. "I think he's runnin’ military time without taking leave, an’ he don't wanna admit he wasn't there an’ get caught."

"There's no proof."

"And you'd cut ya own head off if the Althing told you to, wouldn't ya? Lexikon or one of his Earls should be just as responsible as you. It was their fortress to begin with. What I think is Lexikon wants this all pinned on you, an’ who better to whisper in their ears than their favorite Gedriht?"

"Watch what you say," Becker hissed. "My ruling isn't decided by me or Lexikon. I was responsible for my men. That is that." He stopped there to keep his voice from breaking.

"That's what I'm sayin'– there's nothing for you to worry about. I just came from a hearing. Your men were there, talking to the Council themselves." Becker froze, turning with a wince to look at him. Hudson smirked, full of himself.

"You're lying. Why would they ever—?"

"Every. Single. One of ‘em threatened to opt out of the ranks if those old bastards even thought about demoting you." He couldn't believe him. Fuchs had said in his letters only twelve survived. Critically injured but alive. Why would they ever go to the Council on his behalf? Wouldn't they want to see him hang for what he caused, for how he lied?

"After three hundred, what's a dozen more, Troy?" He slouched back on the gate.

"A dozen men with Brogaldan experience, that's priceless to ‘em. Not many forces have experienced a storm an’ lived." Hudson snickered, door creaking with his weight. "Besides, rumor has it you went blade to blade with the Brogladan High King."

"Where... where did you hear that?"

"So it's true, eh?"

"I didn't say it was. I'm just asking where you heard it."

"Can't say," Hudson hummed, "don't have a good source to confirm. So, you tell me, Becker.” He stared at the far end of the stall, having already replayed what went wrong countless times in the infirmary. Noise sounded from the other end of the stable, voices. Møller and the stable hand.

“I did,” He gripped the sling. “I just wasn’t fast enough, Troy.”

#TLL #The Last Line WIP #my writing #amwriting #Becker OC #Moller OC #Hudson OC

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