Chapter Text
The night was warm, almost comforting, when James St. Clair eased the stone door open and stepped on the grass. A pale light illuminated his back and cast a shadow stretching towards the horizon, lengthening as he walked towards it. The sun had set hours ago, and the sky was blissfully and forebodingly dark.
When James reached the stables, the horses recognized him from scent alone. He picked one of the foals—a filly born last spring—but even she was too big enough for him to ride without someone to assist him with the saddle and stirrups. At eleven-years-old, James was barely four and a half feet, below the average height of his peers. He could use a mounting block. James knew where it was stored after all. But it seemed wrong. He pressed his check against the filly and sighed. He felt like he was walking to his death—or, perhaps more accurately, away from certain detainment and death to an uncertain but equally terrifying future. James stood there, amidst the stench of hay and horse excrement, with nothing except his memory to guide him. The darkness of the night pressed against his eye sockets, and it was fitting in a way—the golden boy once more forfeiting the light for the dark.
And so James scurried across the lawns, moving further from the place he once called home. His silver garments shimmered in the air, and the faint stench of wet earth rose with every step. He traced familiar paths around the treacherous pits of bog water. The squelch of mud never extended past his soles for these were well-worn Steward patrol routes. Even half-blind, he navigated the marshland with ease. He even scampered past the guard at the Gate with little difficulty, knowing the ins and outs of each bramble and brush. The Hall receded behind him as he stepped through the Broken Arch and into the Abbey Marsh. The Final Flame evaporated to steam when the Gate closed behind him.
He stopped at a willow tree on the outskirts of the Abbey Marsh. The rough bark scraped against his hands. Patches of moss caught on his calluses, and he was once more reminded of everything he was leaving behind. Unbidden, the clank of steel echoed in his ears. Bubbles of laughter burst around him, and he felt the warmth of Emery’s hand on his shoulder.
James whirled around, half-expecting to see Emery’s wide eyes staring back at him with awe and reverence. And hurt, too, probably. It had been a foolish thing to leave without goodbyes, but…That thing is not my son. His father’s voice rang clearer in memory. At the time, thick stone walls obscured most of his timbre, and James had to press his ear to the crack under the door to hear him and the Elder Steward talking. Even then, he only heard snippets. But that was enough.
The night was empty. No Emery. No High Janissary or Elder Steward. Not even the Final Flame flickered in the darkness. Only the depths of night and the hum of mosquitoes greeted James’ backward gaze. He righted himself and trekked, once more, forward into the night. In the darkness of a new moon—the unknown of a new beginning—James trudged towards the cacophonous glowing city before him. London: the open wound of England.
༻❁༺
The stench was overwhelming. Urine, feces, maggot infested meats, and whatever else rotted in the gutters of London assaulted James’ senses. Everywhere he looked was streaked with muck. Shades of grey and brown swarm in the pressing summer heat. People scurried down the street in the morning bustle of day workers and miscreants. A bucket of human waste splashed on the sidewalk behind him, and a cart full of wooden crates bustled past, likely headed to the docks. The driver whipped his horse with a black crop clenched in his hand.
The people stared at James, although that was hardly new. At the Hall, Stewards, Janissaries, and Novitiates gazed at him in the training arena and watched his measured movements when he ambled down the corridors. He was a prodigy. The son of the High Janissary, skilled and disciplined—how could they not admire his growing strength and prowess. These stares were different though. James knew how much he stood out. He was a dazzling speck of silver in a monotonous, plebian brown.
The crowds almost parted around James, and he almost didn’t notice three men watching him and speaking softly to one another. One staggered down a nearby alley when James’ passed, and the other two followed James through the winding streets. They blended into the morning street traffic, but the flash of their S brands were undeniable to a discerning eye.
James, of course, noticed immediately. He slowed his gait and tilted his head to gaze at the unassuming, nearly grotesque, landscape. The angle of his chin, he knew, allowed the sun to illuminate the plane of his face. His soft cheeks warmed in the sunshine. More importantly, it allowed the men to see him for what he was.
Anharion. The Betrayer. They wouldn’t recognize his face, not yet at least. But they would. Everyone would know who he was from sight alone. His heart seized in a timorous beat, but the thud of his heels steadied him. The smack of leather on cobblestone sent tremors up his legs and formed a pseudo-heartbeat, slower than the trembling pulse at his throat.
James was thrown to his fate with paternal vitriol and castigation, and who was he to reject it? The fates claimed every life, regardless of human will or resistance. In the end, we all fall. James St. Clair just fell younger than most.
༻❁༺
James was at the harbour when Simon Crenshaw first visited him. His small legs dangled off the jetty, and he watched men carry crates of goods into a tanker across the dockyard. He pried lichen off the wooden docks with a fingernail and inspected the green specimens before flicking them into the sea. The air stank of salt and coal. Soon, the sun would set, and darkness would once more claim the land. James hadn’t thought of where he’d sleep tonight. Already, tiredness tugged at his lashes, and he felt his head lurch on more than one occasion. He had to find a place to lay his head tonight, even in this world strewn with filth and muck. A part of him yearned for the gleaming white architecture of the Hall, its polished floors and clean furnishings, the fresh scent of grass and dew.
A hush rippled across the docks, and the working men pushed their heads down further than they were before and scurried with heightened haste.
“You’re far from home, little one.” The voice was low, almost soft. A man in his twenties loomed over James and peered down at him with a calculating gaze.
James’ mouth twisted. Home. He wanted to spit the word out.
“Or perhaps,” the man continued. “You’re here to find a new one.” He squatted beside James and followed his gaze to the dock workers. Waves lapped at the wooden pillars beneath their feet. His suit was well-tailored, and he held himself with the comportment of someone of importance. James knew who he was. He knew what he wanted. And James—fortunately or unfortunately, he had yet to decide—knew that at eleven, with meager attempts at magic and no real power to his name, he was unable to stop Simon from snatching what he coveted.
“They don’t appreciate you, do they? The people in the Hall don’t understand your gifts or power. They only see their own fear reflected back on them. But,” he said, humour glinting on the edges of his teeth. “I am not afraid of you. I see your potential, and I know you are a bright and capable boy. I can give you all you ever wanted. And more.”
Possibility opened like a gaping jaw, and James stared, transfixed. All you ever wanted. His father’s scornful sneer loomed in the recesses of his mind.
“Are you Simon?” James asked, knowing the answer but too tentative to assert it without confirmation.
He gleamed. “And look. You know me already."
༻❁༺
Simon’s carriage carried them to a townhouse on St. James’ Square. James held his hands in his lap, discreetly picking dirt and lichen from under his nails, and tried not to wince at every bump the wheels hit, the seat smacking upwards. By the time the carriage eased to a stop and a footman opened the door, James was happy for solid ground that didn’t shift and bounce under him. He hopped down.
“Lord Crenshaw.” The footman bowed his head as Simon emerged from the carriage. “Should I prepare the room?”
“Young James here is our guest.” Simon patted the back of James’ head with a leather glove. “Ready the blue bedroom.”
“As you wish.”
Simon’s gloves slipped from James’ hair and gripped his shoulder. “Follow,” he said. It was not a request, and Simon strutted to the entranceway without a backward glance, expecting James to trot after him. He did.
The blue bedroom was located beside Simon’s on the second story. It had a window overlooking a small courtyard, and a bed draped in luxurious, royal blue silks. A portrait hung beside the door, and she seemed, in James’ young mind, to survey the room. The painted woman was plain with dark hair and round black eyes, and a choker nestled a sapphire in the hollow of her throat. The gem was dark, nearly black, and gleamed like the depths of her eyes. Further in the room, on the same side, was a fireplace, with a leather-covered chair at the side of the hearth nearest the door, and a coalscuttle. The fire was already lit, and there were earthenware bedwarmers hanging over the flames ready to be used.
“Old Aggie will assist you,” Simon said. He had not followed James into the room and was now motioning someone forward with a nod. An elderly maid stepped through the doorframe and busied herself with the dresser on the far wall. She withdrew a bundle of silks and laid them on the bedcover.
“I hope you will find your stay pleasant,” Simon continued. “I have no doubt a young boy such as yourself has tired after your journey, and I have no desire to weary you further. We will speak tomorrow. We have much to discuss.”
“Thank you.” The words were automatic, but James paused, uncertain whether to call Simon by his given name or his title. He was an imposing figure, especially now that he stood to his full height. James’ head barely reached Simon’s chest, and Simon’s tanned thick-veined forearms were the same size as James’ neck.
“Goodnight, my little one.” Simon’s countenance was cool and severe, and a bundle of fear wormed its way under James’ tongue.
James responded.
“Goodnight, Lord Crenshaw.”
༻❁༺
Many years ago, he had not stolen away in the night. He was not on foot, nor was he a scared child grasping at the only lifeline he had left. No. He was a grown man, leaving the Hall forenoon on horseback, with his chin high and his sword in its scabbard, tapping against his thigh as he rode towards the Dark King’s abode.
He knew what they would whisper about him, those gaggling Stewards in the Hall. They would say he was tricked or corrupted, that the Dark King polluted his mind with dark magic and untoward influence, but they were wrong. The dark recesses of the fortress consumed him when he entered, darkness slithering beneath his clothes and gathering at the base of his neck, the curve of his jaw, the soft skin of his inner thighs.
A low voice breathed in his ear. “There you are, my shining star.”