The Beginning of It All
Amelia lifted her leg and struck the side of Jackson’s foot with her boot, having found him exactly where she thought he’d be.
The stable whistled with modest sound, as the horses snorted in their sleep despite the daylight, having long grown used to the schedule of their owners. Jackson had tucked himself into the small opening at the back side of the stalls, squeezed by the outer wall, where perhaps only a few would be able to find him. The smell wasn’t entirely pleasant, but the ground was cool, the midday sun held at bay. Amelia squinted as she stepped around to where his shoulders were propped against a scratchy pile of hay, and knelt down.
“I know you aren’t asleep,” she said, without bother to mute her voice.
Jackson had a wide-brimmed hat resting atop his face, one that he often wore on their missions, although it was not uniform issue. He was allowed the deviance since their numbers were good, the best, according to the Lieutenant.
Amelia detected a wriggle behind the hat, as though the man beneath it were chewing something. Or silently cursing the interruption of his nap.
She smiled and plucked the hat from his face.
“Don’t you find your dalliance unbecoming of the guild’s finest?”
Her partner let out a deep, gusty sigh. His eyes fluttered open while he stretched his arms above his head in a long movement, no different than if he’d been laid out in his bed. “I detect a curious lack of gratitude from you,” Jackson said through a yawn, peering at her.
“I greeted Nora when I came in.”
“As you ought’ve.”
“She looked the same as she always does.”
“I think her coat was shinier.”
“A sign of a good owner,” Amelia teased.
“Or an attentive groomsman,” Jackson countered, snatching his hat from between her hands before he sat up.
Amelia watched him retie the hair wrested into a bun at the back of his head, which was splintered with straws of hay except for its taper. She stood as he grabbed and reattached his sword, extending an arm to aid. “If only I could ever find one,” she said as they clasped hands. Together they moved back to the main area of the stable, their cloaks rustling about them, their black boots spattered with mud.
“How unfortunate that isn’t true,” he grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eye. He leaned against the side wall of one of the stalls in a watery slouch, somehow lazy and yet completely alert. “But I guess I left you with the worser task. How was the meeting with the sir his Lord?”
“As you’d expect,” she said, pulling over a stool. She, too, was exhausted. The weight of the letter in her pocket seemed to rest upon her soul. Carefully, she pulled it out and waved it in front of him. Jackson understood it for what it was.
“Where to?”
“The ward,” she replied. “To calm his ceaseless fears. Certainly they have a kit waiting for me already, as they must always whenever I return under his watch.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said, shaking his head. Amelia nodded to him, grateful. “We’re all supposed to, anyway, after an outing. Most of us never do because it’s tedious.”
“And the medics have yet learned to be gentle,” she added, listening to Jackson’s hum of approval. She lowered her sight to the letter in her hand. “Afterwards I immediately depart to Sinah.”
“The south?”
“I alone,” she continued. “You are to sojourn with the fifth watch until my return.”
“When will that be?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t know.”
Her companion, which he had been for the past thirteen years since she was assigned to that place, surveyed their surroundings. He seemed to take stock of the horses, the buckets lying around, the large metal tools upon the wall, the sagging weight of the ceiling, the single spot of sunlight that fell to the ground because of an old hole up there. “What a madness this is.” He never questioned the orders of the guild, even despite his obligatory dislike of the Lieutenant. This was as close as he had gotten.
“Every man is guilty of the good he does not do,” she smiled wryly, looking up to meet Jackson’s eyes.
“Sure,” he said, turning to her a similar grin, that was not altogether convinced. After a great reluctance, he took a deep breath. “Will you have another partner there?”
“I don’t know.”
“I should be going with you.”
“You cannot.”
“Then you should stay,” he said pointlessly.
“I cannot,” Amelia replied.
They looked at each other. The beam of sunlight was just past her knee, with nostalgia she thought she could almost feel the heat of it. One day, she spoke within herself, moving slightly away.
Jackson, in the end, resigned himself to her task. With one last sigh, he straightened his shoulders, offered her a nod and a word in parting. “Good luck then, my friend.”
Waltz of the Damned, the nearly chronological adventures of one Amelia van Reichter, vampyre hunter.
The-Bleu-Bivouac 