Chapter Twenty-Five: Empty Nest

Chapter Twenty-Five: Empty Nest

Tom walked down Wayrests main boulevard with a growing sense of trepidation. If he was to be exiled to the Hunters, he would at very least need his meagre possessions before he left. Entering the Deep with no weapons, no food and no clothes was passing foolish - it was suicide.

There was only one issue. Entering his fathers house after his display in the Council Chambers was just as suicidal.

Tom slowed as he approached the gate to their compound. It was just before noon now, and the foot traffic this far into the Noble district was light.Updated from novelb(i)n.c(o)m

No point delaying, he thought. Better to get this over with quickly.

And with that, he unlatched their gate and made his way in. Eyes forward, he nearly ran straight over Mart, their familys butler, who drifted out of one the gravelled garden paths.

Young Master. I am glad to see you before I leave. I am taking leave of my employment immediately. If you value your life, I suggest you leave right now too, Mart said.

Mart, whats going on? You cant be serious, Tom said, flabbergasted. Mart had been omnipresent in Toms life for as long as he could remember. Him saying he was leaving was like the roof of the house suddenly saying, goodbye and toddling off.

Im afraid I'm deadly serious. Ive heard the news. I must express my most heartfelt congratulations on your manifestations, and my deepest condolences on your sentence. If it brings you any comfort in times to come, know that at least one person knows exactly why you manifested Suffering, and still thinks youre a good person.

Tom felt his eyes burning again. He gulped as Mart continued, Your father is wild. Absolutely out of sorts. As soon as news spreads, even the few acquaintances he has left will drop him. This is it, for the Cutter House, I think.

I think you might be right, Tom said, his throat feeling thick. What will you do?

There are always Nobles in need of butlers, dont worry about me young Master, Mart assured him. The real question is: what are you doing? I would suggest turning right around. Theres no telling what your father will do. He is an unreasonable man at the best of times, and he is completely besides himself. Drowning men will thrash all about themselves with no care for who they might drag under with them.

It was sound advice. Thank you Mart, for your concern. I plan on being straight in and out again. With any luck, I wont even see father.

I should hope you dont, Mart said. Best be quick about it then, you know as well as I hes not likely to get any milder.

Mart patted him on the arm, but Tom pulled him into a brief, stiff hug.

Thank you Mart, for everything youve done for me. For us. It cant have been easy.

No need, young Master. Merely doing my job. Good luck out there. I will think of you. You are a good lad. Keep your head about you, and youll do fine.

They shared a brief look, knowing it was the last time theyd see each other. Then Mart composed himself, straightening, and set off towards the gate at a brisk stride. Tom turned his eyes to the grand double doors.

The house was deathly quiet as Tom eased open the door. He slipped through and closed it behind him, ever so gently.

He didnt need Marts warning to know how serious the situation was. His father almost beat him to death on a regular day, and today Tom had caused the downfall of his House.

He had two options from here: he could go up the main stairs and along the hallway to his room, which would require navigating directly past his fathers study, or he could go through the dining room, into the kitchen, and up the servants stairs, which opened onto the second floor right next to his room. He picked the second, and padded silently across the foyer to the dining room doors.

Sweat prickled his neck as Tom cracked the doors, quietly as he could, and slipped through. He took a single step, and then froze.

The dining room was enormous. Like the rest of their house, it was a holdover from when they were held in esteem by the peerage. Intricately carved and subtly gilded panels decorated the walls. The windows, set high in the walls, sat behind closed curtains of heavy velvet. Lamps cast flickering shadows about the room. The grand dining table could seat a dozen people to a side. Presently, it sat one.

Lord Cutter glowered at Tom from his seat, his eyes fixated on him. Six swords and a glass of wine were arranged neatly on the table before him.

I thought you would come, he said, quietly. Ive been waiting. Toms instincts screamed danger at him. His father was many things, but he was rarely quiet. Nor could you say he was a man who liked waiting.

Into the Deep with no weapons or armour is a death sentence, isnt it? His father swirled the glass of wine. We cant have that can we? That would almost be like your exile is a punishment.

He threw the wine back, a violent, spasmodic action, and placed it gently back on the table. He caressed the round foot of the glass.

The Cutters take care of their own, he continued. Come, boy, havent you always wanted a proper sword..? Lord Cutter gestured to the lengths of steel lying in front of him on the white silk tablecloth.

Tom still hadnt moved. A bead of sweat traced a long line down his back. This was exactly what he hoped to avoid, but there was no avoiding confrontation now. If he declined, his father would either call him a coward, or find insult in him spurning their namesakes, or both. Anything he said would be used as a pretext to beat him. If he tried to retreat, his father would leap upon the weakness like a feral dog. If he said nothing, his father would back him into a corner. And if he approached, meaning to take a sword, his father would beat him for daring to think himself worthy.

The saddest thing was that this was not the first time his father had put him in such a position. Not even the first time he had been in this exact situation, more or less. They had played it out, he and his father, to every one of its conclusions. More than once. More times than he could count. He saw all the many variations spin out in front of him, and suddenly he felt so very tired of it all.

So Tom did something he had never done before.

He straightened. He looked his father in the eye. He reached his hands to the buttons of his coat, and as he worked them free, he began to speak.

You are a fool, Lord Cutter, he began. A blind fool. His coat came open, and he shrugged it off.

Seventeen years, give or take. Seventeen years you spent chasing smoke. Sniffing around vainly after past glories. He unbuttoned his cuffs, started rolling his sleeves.

You want to know why our House has gone to shit? Look in a fucking mirror, Tom said, his temper rising. Youre an awful man, a terrible husband, and an even worse father.

Tom jabbed his finger at him, as if he could pin him to the wall with it. This is all your fault! You caused this! Seventeen years, and the only thing you ever fucking taught me was suffering! And now youre surprised when I manifest it?! Youre a fucking joke!

At his last word his father snatched up one of the swords. Tom knew he would. He was only surprised it had taken this long. Lord Cutter shot to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the marble floor.

I think you must have me mistaken, b-

Im not interested in listening to shit dribble out of that asshole you call a mouth! Tom screamed at him. Fucking fight me!

His father hesitated for a second, shocked, and then Tom saw it happen. He snapped, as he always did when he was at his worst. Went past the shores of reason and into the land of red, red fury. Tom was counting on it. It was the only way he could win.

Well, at least you were good for something in the end, Tom said to his father. A slightly louder sob was his only response. The new skill had myriad applications, and hed need time to parse through them all. Tom strode for the servant stairs, and from there, his room.

It took him bare minutes to pack. He didnt have many belongings, and he wouldnt be taking much anyway. Several changes of clothes, thick woollens, and a spare pair of boots went into a sturdy pack. A thick, well made black cloak got packed away too - winter was on its way, after all. His life savings - a handful of gold coins that hed squirrelled away whenever he got the chance - went in too. Lastly, he changed out of his tattered formal wear and into some plain, but well-made black breeches and a soft white shirt.

He took one last look around the room that had been his only retreat for so much of his life. It seemed smaller. It no longer seemed to fit. He left without a second thought.

On his way back through the kitchen he appropriated two canteens, filling one with water and the other with wine. He wrapped bread and cheese and meats and dried fruit in waxed paper, grabbed a set of cutlery, and tucked them all in his pack too.

He made his way back into the dining room. His father was sitting now, his face streaked with blood and tears, staring vacantly at the wall. He was no longer injured though. Lady Cutter knelt beside him, one hand on his face, gently trying to cajole a response out of him.

Another wave of anger swept through him. His father had almost killed him, and his mother went straight to him to heal him and soothe his bruised pride.

Of course she did, he thought. Fuck her too then.

He would need weapons for his new life, and so he made his way to the training room. The sound of light footsteps pattered after him.

Tom, wait! his mother called to him. Stop! You cant leave!

He ignored her, pushing open the training room doors. She scurried after him as he walked to the weapons racks.

Your father will come right, you know he always does. Dont do this, Tom!

He selected their best spear, much like the ones they used on Reapings, but made all of a lightweight steel. Thin black leather wound down the length of the shaft for grip.

Tom, please!

He chose another leaf bladed short sword and buckled it to his belt. The last one had served him well in the Deep. He grabbed a breastplate, greaves and armguards, and a short, light mail hauberk too, juggling them as he sought to stow them properly.

You cant leave! What are you doing!? his mother shrieked at him.

His eyes lingered on the far wall. There hung the best sword they owned. Nameless, as their progenitor famously spurned ostentation of any kind, it was nonetheless beautiful.

Straight, doubled-edged, and thin, it was tempting to think of it as simple, but Tom knew if he got closer he would be able to see the fine, flowing enchantments engraved into the blade. He left it hanging where it was. Perhaps his father could sell it. The thought made him happy.

The stray thought gave him an idea though, and he quickly fetched several of their best swords and bundled them together, sheaths and all.

He turned, adjusting his pack, and looked at his mother.

Fuck you, he said flatly. She gaped at him.

Fuck you for enabling him. Fuck you for never doing enough. Fuck you for not saving me! he shouted at her.

For years - years! - he tortured me! All in the name of saving our House, and you just stood by, doing nothing. You have Healing! How could you?

Just fuck you, he trailed off.

He made to barge past her and she grabbed him by the arm. He immediately felt his wounds start to knit back together.

Im sorry, Tom. I wish I'd done more, I wish she started, tears running down her face.

Tom couldnt help but feel anger at this woman who had never tried to stop his father. But he also remembered all the times she had healed him, as she had just now, and couldnt quite find the same cruelty, the same contempt for her, as he had for his father. The mix of emotions left him feeling curious, both hollow and full.

His wisp, trailing along like a puppy, pulsed pink again. His eyes flicked to it, but he needed to be on his way.

No unfucking it now, is there? he gave her a sarcastic smile. Goodbye, mother. Im sure youll get along as well as you always have.

He knew, as he said it, that it was incredibly unfair of him. That she had been just as much a victim as he. But at that moment, after finally standing up to his father for the very first time in his life, after just having reclaimed himself, he had nothing else for her.

He was being juvenile, and he knew it. Somehow, he mustered enough energy to turn back to her.

Im sorry. I know youve been carrying this all for even longer than I have, he faltered. I

I know, Tom, she said. I know. And she grabbed him, pulled him into a hug like when he was a child, and held him.

After what felt like an eternity, she gently let him go.

Come back to me, young man. I hope for you to find a different woman when you do. Today has been too much. I see it now. Enough is enough.

Take yourself back from him, he said to her, knowing she would take it exactly as he meant.

She gave him a heartbroken smile. Im proud of you, Tom. I love you.

I love you, too, he said in a small voice.

And Tom turned, and he strode out the door. Consigned to a new life of hardship, but at least free of his old one. It had grown too small to fit him, anyway.

He was done wallowing. Done cringing, and cowering. Done with all of it.

Free.