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If there had been one boon to the way Barling’s relationship with Richard had ended, it was that the moment his back hit the floor, he’d been sure that he would never be with his witch. As difficult as it had been to come to terms with it, depressing certainty was easier to deal with than fruitless hope; and besides, it meant he would not risk feeling unduly drawn to a man again, should his witch be one, which for someone with his obvious weakness of character too easily led to muddled feelings.
When he met Hugo Stanton, Barling found out that twelve years ago, he’d mistaken love for fate.
The realisation had not endeared him to the young man and, in truth, he feared that some of his initial callousness towards him had been an attempt to drive him away, convince himself that he was wrong, erase any speculations Stanton might have in the direction, leave them both too much at odds to ever even contemplate such a bond.
But Stanton was endlessly likeable with his reckless bravery and sense of justice and easy smile and eventually, over so many days and months, Barling was drawn in – like one of the maids at the taverns we rest at, he chided himself, whenever he caught himself looking the young man’s way, trying not to smile at some joke he’d told or get distracted by the sight of his handsome face or remember Stanton’s arms around him when he’d lifted him out of the coffin. He did not love him because he was his witch but because he was Stanton. It was almost worse that way.
Still, he could be his teacher and his friend without being his familiar, he told himself. There was no reason to open that door. Perhaps Stanton’s full potential would only be unleashed with Barling at his side, but in the end, many familiars never found or at some point lost their true witches and certainly Stanton should be able to take up with any number of them and still be a very competent witch. It would be better for him than to be tied to someone who could not separate the pull of the familiar to his witch from a feeling of affection that should not be between men. It would also allow Barling to spare himself watching his witch fall into a girl’s bed at every turn of the road and eventually find a wife, no doubt as sweet-tempered and likeable as he was, while Barling was bound to him body and soul, trailing behind them as he grew old and bitter.
Those were his thoughts, orderly as the facts he collected on every case, setting him on a path carefully chosen to be the most reasonable and least painful for everyone involved. They flashed through Barling’s head as he gripped the iron bars and pulled at them, more out of desperation than in hopes that he could move them. They were let into the stone of the cave on the ceiling and floor and the door was shut with an iron chain.
“If it’s as you say and Lord Malcolm has the only key, then there’s no hope,” Barling said, gritting his teeth. Perhaps if had he known about it sooner, he could have slipped into his quarters as a mouse and searched for it. However, Lord Malcolm’s men would be on their way soon. Barling had heard him give the orders as he himself escaped the yard of the small castle in search of his apprentice.
“A hex could help, maybe, but...”
But Stanton had no familiar and this would need a lot of focused magic. Barling stared at Stamton in the cell, fingers white-knuckled around the bars, a bruise growing on his forehead where he’d been beaten down before they had dragged him here.
It was the only way.
Out of the bag he wore, Barling pulled one of the hexes which he regularly drew with meticulous care and carried with him for the benefit of the witches of the royal court. It was a heat spell, the sort that could burn through stone if need be. He wrapped it around the iron chain and wedged it close to the lock.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He’d never meant anything more in his life. “If you become my witch then I can save you. I can do no better than that.”
Reluctance was written all over Stanton’s face. Barling did not blame him. Since the monastery, Stanton knew the depths of Barling’s wrongdoings. How could he want to be connected with him? He’d probably hoped for much better, optimist that he was. Still, at least Stanton would be alive.
“It’s the only way, isn’t it?” Stanton said quietly.
“Yes.”
Reaching between the bars, Barling took hold of Stanton’s wrist. Stanton closed his eyes and Barling placed Stanton’s hand on the hex. He could feel Stanton’s magic running through him, as kindling held to flame, and gave back his own energy like blood flowing from an open vein. It was easy, but Barling had known it would be, and it was powerful. It was meant to be.
There was a sizzling noise and a whisper of flames and Stanton tore his hand back. They parted as they moved away from the door, immense heat filling the room in a flesh as the chain, its lock, and half of the iron bars glowed white-hot and started to melt like ice, dripping away. As the first heat subsided, Stanton gave the door a kick. It opened easily, remains of the chain clattering to the floor.
“Quickly now,” Barling said, breathing out with relief. “We must leave before Lord Malcolm’s men arrive.”
“Where to?”
“Back to London. We are not arresting him here in his castle with his knight surrounding him. They are loyal. I know that means giving up on this for now.”
It irked Barling beyond anything that Lord Malcolm would get away with two murders, but they had to avoid becoming the next bones buried in a field for a peasant to find in the spring. Chances were that if they fled now, they would never manage to pin these killings on him, but as with the bond, they had very little choice if they wanted to escape at all. Staying alive at least gave a small option that they might find another point of attack.
“Perhaps not.”
Stanton reached under the long, roughspun shirt he was wearing and lifted it. Under the hem of his breeches, several papers were clamped, barely high enough to look out, but held up by the belt.
“These are the letters Lord Malcolm received from his lover. They talked of getting rid of his wife and daughter.” He gave a grim smile. “I grabbed them before his men caught me. I’m a messenger. It might not count for much most days, but I know how to carry important letters so know one guesses I have them.”
With the sudden surge of triumph, the might of their bond still cursing through him, and fear pulsing in his body, Barling thought for a moment that he could kiss Stanton right now. He forced himself simply to smile in approval.
“Well done.”
-
The king’s justice descended upon Lord Malcolm and Barling was glad for it, but even when the reports were all given and the case laid into the archives, it was not closed for Barling. The bond between Stanton and him remained and would do so for life. It was for that reason that he invited the young man to his home after they had been released from their duties on the last day of the proceedings relating to the incident.
“We must talk,” he said.
Stanton looked apprehensive as he nodded his head, but he followed Barling without complaint.
By the time Barling closed the door of his home behind him, a feeling of dread had settled in the pit of his stomach. He watched Stanton amble around the room, shoulders stiff as he checked the shelf stacked with books and scrolls that Barling had collected over the years.
“Stanton,” Barling said to gather his attention.
Stanton straightened his back and turned to him. “Yes?”
“I must apologise. I should have been able to think of a better solution. It wasn’t my intention to bind us together like this.”
“I was the one who got captured. It should be me apologising!” Stanton said with feeling, stepping up to him. “If I’d been more careful, you wouldn’t have had to tie yourself to me.”
At the very least Stanton did not resent him for what had happened, Barling thought, though in a way it was cold comfort. It would have been easier if Stanton hadn’t been so understanding – certainty was missing, the one thing Barling had been able to hold on to for a decade now.
“But then maybe you wouldn’t have gotten the letters,” Barling admitted. “Although you should be more careful, yes. This was a close call. I would rather fail a case than lose you.”
Stanton smiled gently at him and Barling averted his eyes, pretending to search something among the books on the shelf.
“You gave a lot to save me,” Stanton said sternly. “I’m in your debt and I won’t forget it.”
Barling wanted to nod his head, but could not. It was not fair to let him believe that he had burdened Barling with something he did not want.
“It’s no hardship for me, Stanton,” he said quietly. “You are my witch.”
There was silence for a moment.
“What, you mean... I’m meant for you?”
“I used to believe it had to be Richard, but then I met you and immediately knew I had been mistaken. I adored Richard, but it was not the same.”
Barling felt little less pained than he had admitting his relationship with Richard to Stanton, though in truth there was nothing saying that a familiar had to fall for his witch and Barling had, after all, not asked fate to give him Stanton. Still, with his history, how could Stanton not guess that Barling’s feelings were not so pure? Why did I even mention Richard? Now he will know for certain. He is no fool, Barling chided himself.
Hands grabbed his shoulders and Barling looked up wide-eyed at Stanton, who was staring back at him in surprise.
“Why did you never say anything?!”
Stanton’s wilful innocence was hard to bear.
“Because I am not the sort of man anyone should bind themselves to,” Barling snapped. “Unlike Richard, I have never freed myself from these old desires. You are so kind and-”
His angry words died in his throat as Stanton dropped his hands from his shoulders and pulled him into a hug, just to press their mouths together.
It was too much, at the same time the culmination of both his hopes and fears, a sudden burst of feeling after years and years of denial. Barling could not bear it.
Stanton was left holding air as suddenly, Barling sat at his feet, only inches tall now in his form as mouse. With the shame and shock overwhelming him, he turned on his small feet and scurried away, along under the table and through the door into the bedroom, where he headed for the desk, hiding behind a leg of the table.
“Barling!”
He could feel the vibrations of Stanton’s feet on the wooden floor as he ran after him. Barling cursed himself for his cowardice, but just as the animals whose form he took, he sometimes had moments where all he seemed to be able to do was sit motionless in fear and so he remained where he was, whiskers quivering as Stanton, tall as a tree, followed, treading carefully as he looked at the ground.
“I didn’t think... I know just because I’m a man or your witch it doesn’t mean that you would prefer me. Please, Barling, let us talk-”
He interrupted himself as he spotted Barling sitting in the shadow of the desk and went down on one knee.
“My apologies,” he said, contrite.
Barling stared up at him, trying to sort through his panic-addled mind. It would have been right to reject Stanton for the man’s soul could still be saved. But then – they had been decreed by God to be familiar and witch. That connection was hallowed in its own way. Would it be a sin to deepen it? Besides, once upon a time, Barling had thought love was redemption and some small part of him had refused to let go of that idea. Richard had never loved him, but Stanton might.
He tarried for a moment before he could finally convince his small, shaking limbs to move and stepped out of the shadowy corner. Stanton regarded him. Barling was not like the sharp-clawed cats with golden iris or majestic ravens flying on night-coloured wings; he was like every mouse out in the fields, with a dirt-brown coat and black eyes like buttons. Self-consciously, Barling wrapped his tail around himself.
“You will be angry at me for this, but you are adorable,” Stanton said, smiling slightly.
He held out his hand for him and Barling dared to climb on it, curling in his palm. It was strange to sit here. He avoided the presence of humans in his animal form, easily crushed as he was, but he didn’t mind being in Stanton’s hand. The man brushed him very gently with his thumb. The fear that kept Barling constrained to the small form eased at that and the relief he saw on Stanton’s face.
Barling slipped off his hand, but he did not run this time. With a thought, he returned to his human body. They kneeled on the ground together now and before Stanton could speak, Barling placed a clumsy but heartfelt kiss on his mouth.
“My apologies. Mice are not known for their overwhelming courage,” Barling said, heart beating fast in his chest.
“It’s all the more impressive, then, the men and women I’ve seen you stand up to already,” Stanton said with a lopsided grin. “I shouldn’t have been so forward. It was just that I had been thinking about you since you spoke to me about Richard – in truth, I probably had before, I just could not put it in words.” He dragged his thumb over Barling’s face again, as he’d dragged it over his fur when he sat in his hand. “When you spoke, I just hoped that perhaps you felt the same.”
“You were right,” Barling admitted, to Stanton and for the first time out loud to himself.
When Stanton pulled him close, he could feel that crackle of power between them again, the confirmation that this was meant to be, should be, that they were made for each other like a key and a lock. It had been so many years that Barling had felt like he fit anywhere as well as he did in Stanton’s arms. They sat on the hard ground together until the sun slanted red through the window behind them as night sank over London.
-
“You’ll see, I can get us there in three days.”
“Just make sure not to get thrown off. You don’t need to break your neck or fall on top of me.”
Stanton laughed. The spring sun caught in his golden hair and had painted some freckles on the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. Barling could have looked at him all day, but they had work to do.
“I don’t fall,” he said.
Barling rolled his eyes at so much confidence. However, Stanton was the best ride he’d ever known and he was exceedingly grateful that he would not have to sit on a horse on the journey to the next incident they had been asked to look at.
“We should get going before the morning is over,” he said and with that shrank down until he was at height with Stanton’s scuffed, mud-stained boots. Before they arrived at their final stop, he would have to make sure his pupil wasn’t dressed as slovenly as this in front of Lady Henshire...
Stanton picked him up from the ground and, after looking around to make sure no one was with them, placed a kiss on Barling’s head before he let him escape into the pocket he’d sewn onto his shirt for this purpose. Barling held on to the front of it with his paws as he pulled himself to look out while Stanton swung himself up on the horse with a natural ease that Barling had never even dreamed of when trying to accomplish the same task. Stanton cupped the pocket for a moment, a gentle press like an embrace, before he grabbed the reins of his horse.
“Onwards, then,” he said, grinning down at Barling.