Work Text:
“A house divided against itself cannot stand.”
That’s what Simon has told Harry since he was tall enough to reach the jam jars stored in the larder. He says that if nothing he teaches Harry ever sticks, then Harry is only to remember that one phrase. A house divided against itself cannot stand.
Harry thinks that all things considered, if their abbey had more than two beings living in it, that phrase might bear more weight. But as he walks the cavernous stone corridors alone, he thinks how ridiculous it is.
Simon, he assumes, is thinking back to the days he likes to tell Harry about; the days when the abbey was teeming with life and community. They needed to be a united force then, surely. But now— now it’s just the two of them. Simon in charge, having raised Harry since he was a wee thing, abandoned at the gates, and Harry at his side, keeping the abbey in one piece as best he can.
“A house divided against itself” is a phrase easy enough to follow when there’s only two of you left, and Harry’s met no one else.
—
Harry isn’t ever allowed to go to town.
Simon tells him it’s because he’s better with sales, knows how the market is arranged and knows how to pick the choicest produce. And anyway, he says, they can never leave the abbey unattended. Just anyone could come in and make a mess, he tells Harry, so it’s important that Harry stays put.
Harry sort of questions that, sometimes. But a house divided cannot stand, and all that, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.
He’s able to go foraging in the woods around the abbey when they need it, loves the feel of the tall grass at his knees and the wind through the ancient oaks that tower around him. He’s very good at picking the choicest mushrooms and wild berries, and the burbling stream that winds its way behind the abbey is full of fish that he’s decent at catching. He likes to sit at the bank and his packed knapsack of cheese and bread and listen to the sounds of living things in the underbrush.
His ears are nearly half the size of his face, after all, and excellent at picking up the smallest noises.
Simon tells him it’s because he’s a mouse, and then goes on to explain that he himself is a rat. He explains that at one point the abbey was bustling with mice and voles and hedgehogs and sometimes even a badger would come through. Harry’s never met another mouse, never met anyone else like him. He gazes into his reflection in the stream and wonders what other mice might look like. His own hair falls in curls around his shoulders and his large ears stick out the side of his face covered in a fine fur, while the rest of him is just peachy skin. Green eyes. Large teeth and crooked smile and pink lips. He wonders if Simon meets other mice in town when he goes. But he never asks.
Life at the abbey is quiet and peaceful when Harry’s finished his chores of the day. He tills and waters the vegetable garden out front, picks the fresh zucchini and squash. Indoors he dusts and cleans and repairs, tries to keep some semblance of the grandeur he assumes once used to reflect on the abbey. The tapestries are so faded he can barely make out what they once were, and the pages of the books in the library are brittle and crumble if he’s not careful.
Still, when he’s done what he can for the day, he likes to explore down the dark tunnels. See what’s been hiding in the back of the cellar or find books in the library he’s never noticed before, read about things that will never happen to him, places he’ll never go and people he’ll never meet. He mostly leaves Simon to do his own work, writing letters to people Harry will probably never meet and grumbling about things like finances and repairs.
—
When Harry’s routine is finally interrupted, it’s late at night and he was supposed to be asleep hours ago.
He actually was asleep hours ago, but so accustomed is he to the silence of the forest and the cold abbey walls, that as soon as something new and different reaches his ears (flattened as they are against the pillow), he’s pulled from slumber in a moment.
There’s a cart coming.
Harry sits up and scrambles over to the high window in his room. The moon is shining bright in the sky, illuminating the dewy grass in the courtyard below. Why can he hear cart wheels? Has Simon been off somewhere? Why is he returning so late?
Eventually the cart itself comes into view just on the other side of the outer wall, lumbering through the forest. There’s two figures pulling the cart, and Harry can’t for the life of him make out their faces in the dark but he’s never seen anyone who isn’t Simon approach the abbey walls, so whoever it is, at least one of them isn’t him!
He doesn’t know whether to bound out of the room and go looking for Simon or to stay rooted to the spot. Simon would likely tell him that this is none of his business and to go back to sleep, and Harry doesn’t want to chance that. He needs to know what’s going on, there are others here.
After the cart reaches the front entrance there’s silence for a time, but Harry picks up the noise eventually of Simon’s footfall, and sure enough there he is— hurrying toward the gate and undoing the lock. Harry watches with fascination as Simon ushers the two men with the cart in, their wheels creaking under the weight of whatever is inside.
In the courtyard, after the gate is shut behind them, Simon discusses with them in a low voice. Harry picks out bits of it — things about payment and keep him here and alive, you dumbass, he has to be alive.
It’s starting to feel like something out of a fairy tale. Harry blinks in fascination, watching the two men, looking at their tall, triangular, tufted ears that sit up high on their heads. Harry wonders what they are; not mice, surely, not with ears like that.
He wonders if they know any mice. Maybe he could go down and introduce himself and ask. Surely Simon wouldn’t shoo him away if he were already in conversation with the strangers.
He’s almost worked up the resolve to do it, when one of the men hands over a heavy looking bag into Simon’s hands. It’s clinks and clanks in a way that makes Harry think it’s gold. It’s payment for something.
Then the men leave, and they leave the cart there. Just walk right out the gate like they’re in some great hurry to make it through the woods even though it’s well into night time and they’re just leaving their cart there! They’re paying Simon to take the cart? None of this makes sense.
Harry leaves the window just as Simon is latching the gate behind them and hurries down the empty, echoing halls of the abbey to find him. He has to know what’s going on.
Simon’s never had as good of hearing as Harry, but he turns when Harry makes his way out onto the grass. “Ah, Harry,” he says. “Should have known you wouldn’t be able to leave things well enough alone.”
“What’s in the cart?” Harry asks, too preoccupied to care about Simon’s remark. “Why did they leave it with you? Who are they?”
“All important questions,” Simon says. “But not ones to be answered now. Come, help me bring it inside. I am old and my bones are brittle and not made for carrying such heavy things.”
Harry huffs. Of course Simon would put him to work. He grabs at the two handles at the front of the cart. It’s a bit tough to pull across the grass, but once they’re in the abbey itself, it bumps along across the stone flooring at a good pace. “Where?” he asks as Simon walks in front, holding his bag gold with both hands.
“Up to the third floor, I should think,” Simon says. “Come now.”
Harry groans at the idea of taking a wheeled cart up two floors. It’s not as large as the one Simon takes to market when he’s selling, but it’s big enough to at least fit someone inside if they folded themselves up a bit. And it’s heavy.
Still, he grips the handles and pulls, ascending up the spiral staircase, bumping the wheels against every step.
Simon disappears above him almost immediately, and it’s only by the time Harry’s reached the top that he appears again.
“In here,” he says. “Come on now, keep up. You’re going to be terribly low on sleep tomorrow at this rate.”
Harry curses under his breath and Simon shoots him a look. He brings the cart through to the room Simon specifies, and finds it to be one of the old dormitories, emptied of its beds.
When did Simon do that? Last time Harry had been in here, there had been near a dozen bunks.
“Now Harry,” Simon says, suddenly putting on his business voice, the one he uses when he’s about to give Harry a lecture. “If you’re going to be a part of this, I’m going to have to know that I can trust you where it counts.”
“A house divided cannot stand,” Harry recites, because that’s usually what most of these lectures come down to.
“A good starting point, yes,” Simon dismisses. “This is going to be your first glimpse into the family trade, though. You’re going to have to walk in my footsteps and not take stock in what others may say. There are many out there who try to tell lies, to deceive. You can’t be taken in by them.”
“Am I finally going to get to go to town?” Harry asks, perking up.
“In due time,” says Simon, waving his hand. “Tonight, this is just about the transportation of… merchandise.”
“Like clothes and things,” Harry says.
“Yes, like clothes and things.” Simon agrees. “Here, go down to the larder and fetch the chains that we use to secure the ale barrels.”
Harry huffs. “So you’re just looking to make me do more work,” he says.
“ Go,” barks Simon, “Or I’ll send you back to bed and you’ll see none of this at all.”
“Fine,” Harry mumbles, leaving to race back down the spiral staircase to the cellar and find the chains. He wonders why this couldn’t wait until daylight.
—
After a total of six sets of stairs, three of which carrying a heavy amount of thick chains, Harry reemerges into the room. Simon’s bent over a spot on the floor where he’s removed a stone block to reveal, underneath, what looks like a metal ring.
“Took you long enough,” Simon says. “Come on, we’ll attach the one end here.” He grabs the loose end of the chains and locks it into place, then motions for Harry to drop the rest of it.
“Remember,” Simon tells him, moving back to the cart. “You can’t let yourself be taken in by what strangers might try to tell you. I have never lied to you before, and I won’t now.
Then, he unlatches the cart and tips it sideways, and a body falls out of it.
Harry gasps.
The body falls onto its side and rolls face-down.
“Is it dead?” Harry squeaks.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Simon chides. “He’s no use to us dead.”
He kicks the body, rolling them face-up and Harry sees the face of a young man about his own age. He stares in — horror? Fascination? Worry? — as Simon grabs the loose end of the chain and pulls it over, wrapping it around the stranger’s neck and locking it in place.
“He is not to leave this room,” Simon says. “Until the party that’s paying for him arrives. You’ll be in charge of delivering meals and making sure he stays here.” He levels Harry with a look. “He makes any trouble, you let me know immediately. I can make sure he doesn’t speak, if needed.”
Harry gulps. The man looks rather dead right now, so speaking doesn’t seem currently like an issue, but he nods just the same.
“This is what keeps us in business, Harry,” Simon says. “I’m doing this for your own good, to make sure you have a future in this crumbling old place.”
He stands with a groan, hands heavy against his knees. “Get to bed,” he tells Harry. “You’ll regret this in the morning as it is. He will be fine here tonight, I’ll bar the door behind me.”
Harry nods, eyes not once leaving the stranger’s face. He doesn’t think he can sleep at this point.
But nonetheless, Simon stands at the door expectantly, so Harry leaves.
Down on the floor below, climbing into bed, he wonders if he’ll ever sleep again.
The man looked Harry’s age, feathery dark hair and a tunic and trousers, so different from Harry’s own dark olive habit that he wears day to day. He looked like he had been bruised up in a fight, possibly, although it could just be the dark shadows in the room. But Harry had been most struck by his ears. Large and pointed and sticking straight up, but almost bare, with just a thin coating of dark fur at the base.
What animal was that?
—
Harry doesn’t sleep much, but he does manage to pass the night without seeking out the stranger again, which is a win against his inquisitiveness.
What Simon calls his curse of curiosity.
Still, at first light he’s out of bed and down like a shot, hurrying to get through his duties in the garden in the hopes that Simon will have him deliver breakfast to the stranger. That’s part of his job, right?
He just wants another look, is all.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” Simon notes when Harry rushes into the kitchens with his basket full of freshly pulled cabbage.
“I’m just ready for breakfast, is all,” Harry defends. He pulls out a skillet and starts the process of lighting the wood stove. “Butter ‘n’ cabbage broth with toast and jam?” he asks.
“You have an obscure taste in cooking that you’ve no doubt learned from those recipe books you’ve found,” Simon says. “But sure, butter ‘n’ cabbage broth could be palatable.”
“I’ll make enough for the— the person upstairs?” Harry stutters, trying to sound calm and not like it’s all he’s thought about.
Simon levels him with a look that says he can see right through Harry. “Just the broth,” he says. “No need to waste the good bread on someone who won’t appreciate it.”
Harry nods, finally catching the wood alight. He feels bad not sharing the bread, but if Simon thinks they won’t have enough…
Harry’s butter ‘n’ cabbage broth is delicious anyway, though, and he’s been working hard on improving on the recipe that he found in one of the cookbooks in the library. What’s done the most good is the little brown mushrooms that grow in the darkest parts of the forest; they add a full bodied flavour that makes it filling and delicious even when Harry’s run out of spring onions for the season.
He slurps down the broth while Simon drinks his almost mockingly slowly, his ears (slightly smaller and rounder than Harry’s) twitching at every movement Harry makes as he waits impatiently to be dismissed from the table. The broth will be cold by the time he delivers it!
The bread and jam sits next to him at the table, and Harry explains when Simon glances at it that he’d like to take it with him down to the river later. Simon simply rolls his eyes at that.
“Alright,” sighs Simon after finally finishing every last drop. “Take a bowl up. But remember; he speaks only in lies. He is in chains for your own protection, you cannot trust him.”
“Right, yes,” Harry says. A thrill goes through him at the danger of it all. But he’s never been able to speak to another person— and now there’s one in his own abbey!
He does wonder if they’ll even be awake.
He takes the stairs two at a time… and then one at a time, because he barely misses spilling broth all down his front. By the time he reaches the third floor, his heart is about to beat out of his chest, it’s like he’s on one of the adventures he reads about in the ancient pages of the library.
Unbarring the door, he pushes it inward slowly, but no one yells or lunges at him. Broth in hand, he tiptoes around the door into the room.
The man is sitting against the far wall, as far as the chain around his neck will allow him to go, under the tall windows. He’s glaring straight at Harry.
Harry gulps.
He’s definitely got a black eye, and a number of scrapes across both cheeks. There’s a knick in his left ear. Harry wonders where he’s from, what happened. He wonders why he’s here.
But if there’s one thing Simon would kill him for doing, it’s asking the stranger questions.
“Hello,” Harry says.
The stranger remains silent. His knees are bent, his palms firm on the floor on either side of him, and he seems tense, ready to… do something. Fight, maybe.
“I brought butter ‘n’ cabbage broth,” Harry says, motioning to the wooden bowl in his hands. “For you, I mean.”
The stranger still says nothing.
“I’m just going to… leave it here,” Harry says, leaning down to place it on the floor, close enough that the stranger could get up and get it, within range of the chain. Still faced, with silence, Harry stutters, “I made it myself. Been working on the recipe.” He puts a hand to the side of his neck self consciously. “Not that you… needed to know that. But it’s got mushrooms! Good ones.”
He takes a step backward and… trips. Catches himself. Feels his face flush. “Um. Bye!”
He turns and races out the door with all the grace of a dying salmon.
In retrospect, he hopes the stranger understands English.
—
Harry does take his bread down to the stream.
He eats half of it. Exactly half. He breaks it in half first to be sure. When he manages to catch four fish, he figures that’ll be more than enough and ties them up to bring back, keeping them carefully separate from the napkin of bread that he puts in the pouch of his habit at the last minute. He just wasn’t that hungry today, he tells himself. Butter ‘n’ cabbage broth is filling.
That’s what he’ll tell Simon if he asks, at least.
When noon comes, he prepares slabs of bread and cheese, and bowls of fresh berries. It’s late summer so everything is delightfully in season, ripe and red and delicious.
“Don’t bother with the cheese,” Simon says when he notices Harry preparing the third meal. “I paid a high price for that at market, I don’t want to see it wasted.”
Harry nods, slipping the wedge back into the beeswax cloth he took it out of. The bread and jam from this morning weighs heavily (and stickily) in his pocket.
Harry’s always been good at daydreaming through mealtime, but now for the second time today it stretches on forever. He waits impatiently until Simon dismisses him, and then runs for the door with the bowl of fruit and plain bread.
(He can take the stairs two at a time without broth).
More confident this time, he pushes the door inward and only hesitates a moment before opening it.
The stranger is under the window again, although when he sees Harry enter he untenses just a little this time. Harry sets down the bowl of berries and bread, picking up the emptied bowl from the morning.
“Hello,” he says to the stranger. “I’ve brought lunch.”
The stranger nods at him.
“It’s just berries and bread. Sorry. Simon says I shouldn’t share the cheese.” He mentally slaps himself. “You probably didn’t need to know that. You didn’t need to know you were missing out on cheese.”
Something happens to the stranger’s expression, it screws up like he’s concentrating very hard. Harry doesn’t know what that means, so he backs up.
Then he remembers the bread and jam in his pocket.
“Actually,” he says. “This is— I mean.” he pulls it out and carefully unwraps it. “This is from breakfast. I mean, since you didn’t get any. And I know it’s like, you already have berries there. So you don’t need jam. I mean.” He feels stupid. What a stupid thing to offer. “I already ate half. So it’s not a good present, probably. You don’t have to eat it.” Still, he places it in the bowl on top of the other bread. “But it’s the good bread, the kind we buy at the market, not the stuff I make here. Although I do try…”
The stranger’s ears twitch and Harry gets scared, stumbling out the door with the cabbage bowl in hand.
He bars it behind him, even though with the chain the length it is, the stranger shouldn’t be able to reach it. Harry wonders, as he goes back down the stairs, what he’s done to land himself here.
—
Simon’s job for Harry today is to get to work on the dining hall. Not that he and Harry have ever used it, but still, he always tells Harry how important it is to keep things clean, lest they “become a forest of filth” as he calls it.
Harry spends hours on his hands and knees, scrubbing at ancient stains left by people he’ll never meet. By the time dinner comes around he’s tired and ready for bed, especially after last night.
Beetroot ‘n’ chutney soup is on the menu, though (since he makes the menu), and that’s one of Harry’s favourites to make. He loves simmering things. It’s so rewarding.
He adds an apple tart that can be split between them, because the first of the season are finally ripe.
“I’ll need to go to town tomorrow,” Simon tells him while they eat. Harry’s head snaps up.
“You only go on the first of the week,” he argues. “You always go on the first of the week.”
“This isn’t a market trip,” Simon tells him. “I’m there about the… merchandise upstairs. I need to contact the buyer and alert them that it’s arrived.”
Harry feels cold at the idea of calling the stranger an ‘it’, but he knows better than to cross Simon. “Alright,” he says.
“I want you working on the dining hall again,” Simon tells him. “Don’t go slacking off just because I'll be gone.”
“Of course not,” Harry pouts. His soup is too hot and he burns his mouth trying to sup it.
“If you’re good I might stop by the market and bring you back some fresh honey.”
“Yes please!” Harry can do so much with honey. He really wants to try a recipe he’s found for honey cake.
When he cuts slices of the apple tart, Simon looks at him strangely. “It’s just the two of us,” he says.
“I—” Harry stammers. “Okay.”
He shares it between the two of them.
When finally dismissed, he dashes carefully up the stairs with the soup.
Opening the door to the room, Harry jumps in surprise, as the stranger is halfway out the window.
“Oh,” Harry exclaims, sloshing soup everywhere.
The stranger only has his legs out, on further reflection. The chain is taut from the floor to his neck, and there’s no way anything past his legs would reach. He turns, the angle awkward and his grip tight on the edge of the window, to glare at Harry.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “You startled me. I don’t think you’re supposed to do that, it doesn’t look safe.”
“Safe,” growls the stranger.
It’s the first time Harry’s heard him speak, and his voice is… clear. Melodic. Cutting. His teeth are sharp, though, and even with this brief glance, Harry sees his canines longer and sharper than he thought was possible. It’s a little frightening.
“I mean,” Harry stutters. “You could— well, you can’t fall. But you could probably get stuck.”
He busies himself with switching out the bowls, face heating up at how ridiculous that sounds.
“I am going to die,” the stranger tells him. “Safety is not my concern.”
Harry gapes. “Don’t say that,” he says. You’re not going to die, you’re young!”
“You’re as naive as an otter kit who’s never been to land,” the stranger sneers.
Harry would like to think, that with all the books he’s read, he’s a little less naive than that. “I study,” he argues. “I know some things, like arithmetic.”
The stranger kicks his legs and turns back into the room, landing on the stone floor. “Sure,” he says. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Arithmetic doesn’t help Harry sleep at night, as far as he’s aware.
“Simon told me you’d only tell me lies anyway,” Harry says. “I guess I should’ve listened to him.”
He hurries out of the room. He feels hurt, even though he shouldn’t. Simon was right, of course he was. Harry shouldn’t have been trying to play nice with this stranger in the first place.
—
Simon is gone before breakfast.
Harry makes carrot cakes, because that’s what he’s pulled out of the garden. He feels nervous today, going up to deliver food. He hadn’t been afraid of the stranger before and… is he afraid now? Apprehensive, yes. Afraid? Maybe.
He eats his own carrot cake with a dab of butter on top, straight out of the oven and hot. He considers giving the stranger his without the butter but, well, it is meant to be eaten with the butter, and just because he said Harry was naive doesn’t mean he shouldn’t get to eat a nice buttery cake too. Harry’s not a monster.
He unbars the door and opens it with one hand, striding in and assuming the stranger will be under the window like always. The next thing Harry knows, he’s flat on his back, the plate with the carrot cake clattering to the floor as the stranger straddles him, hands holding his arms to the floor, squeezing his wrists.
“The cake!” Harry squeaks at first, because he worked hard on that and it’ll have landed butter-side-down.
The stranger glances over at the fallen cake and then back to him. “Where are the keys?” he growls.
Harry sucks in a breath, the situation finally kicking in, and the stranger’s face mere inches above his own. “What— keys?” he stutters.
“To the chain,” the stranger growls. “The one around my neck. Your Simon is gone, I saw him leave. Where are the keys?”
“I can’t give you those!” Harry argues. He tries to move his arms but the stranger is strong. “Simon would kill me!”
“Simon is going to get one of us killed regardless,” the stranger informs him. “Better you than me.”
Harry huffs. “He’s not going to get you killed,” he says, because yeah, Simon’s grumpy sometimes, but Harry would know if he was a murderer like in horror anthologies in the library. “He’s a rat, rats don’t do that.”
The stranger snorts. “Rats do that all the time,” he says. “Anybody has the ability to kill, it doesn’t matter what species.” He shifts, pulling his head back a bit.
“Why would he kill you, though?” Harry asks, genuinely confused. “We’re an abbey. We’re peaceful!”
“Your Simon is part of a group of rats whose whole profession is bounty hunting ‘dangerous species’,” the stranger says. “I don’t know how he managed to convince you he’s peaceful, but where I come from he’s notorious for how many he’s killed.”
“That’s not right,” Harry says, truly struggling for the first time. “No, Simon lives here! With me! He goes to the market once a week to sell wares and bring home fresh food! He doesn’t have time to— to be evil, or whatever!”
“He’s not going to the market you absolute fool,” the stranger shouts. “He’s trading in lives! Have you ever gone with him?”
Harry pauses. “No,” he says slowly. “But he brings home food. Bread and cheese and things to restore the abbey.”
“Which he buys with blood money. God, I knew you were naive but I didn’t know you were like this.”
Harry sniffs, feeling overtaken by embarrassment. “Well I don’t believe you,” he says. “Simon said you would tell nothing but lies and he was right! Now let me go!”
Oddly enough, the stranger does. He jumps back and lets Harry scramble out of the range of his chain. When Harry looks back, the stranger is giving him a look so full of disgust that Harry has to look away.
“Here’s your— your breakfast,” Harry says, tears burning his eyes. He kicks the fallen carrot cake over to him.
As he’s closing the door, the stranger calls out, “My name is Louis Tomlinson.”
Harry pauses.
“Find your Simon’s books. His records. He’s got my name down somewhere, I’m sure of it.”
Harry closes the door and bars it with a heavy clunk.
—
He works on the dining hall in a fury.
Furies do tire out very fast when one is doing manual labor, but Harry does manage to get all thirty of the chairs tightened so they don’t wobble anymore, and that’s going to be good enough for Simon to believe he wasn’t slacking off.
How dare the stranger — Louis — mock him like that? Make him question everything like that? Harry shouldn’t have to deal with this. He’s lived his whole life within the walls of this abbey, this place that is supposed to represent peace and sanctity, and Louis comes in and tries to tell him that Simon is, what, murdering people? It’s ridiculous.
It’s so ridiculous.
It’s downright laughable.
Harry finds himself suddenly standing in front of Simon’s study, the heavy oak door intimidating in a way he’s never felt before.
He never goes in Simon’s study, but it’s not because he’s afraid, or because Simon’s ever told him no, it’s just that he’s never cared. Simon likes to talk about the charts and notes and whatever he’s always putting in order, it’s always sounded quite boring to Harry.
Simon’s gone, Harry tells himself. It’s fine. He won’t know.
And why would he even be scared? Louis’ not right, Harry’s just going in there to prove him wrong.
He pushes open the heavy door, the loud creak of it making him jump, suddenly feeling as if Simon is there, looking over his shoulder.
(Harry glances behind himself — he’s alone).
Slipping inside, Harry takes in the walls of bookshelves, filled with records of the abbey. It’s not a large room, by any means, the desk in the centre taking up most of the space.
Harry tiptoes over, glancing around the scattered papers, quills and inkwells on the desk. Simon’s always had terrible handwriting, but since he was the one who taught Harry to read and write, Harry’s become pretty good at deciphering it.
He finds a number of pages that seem to be mostly lists of numbers with labels that don’t make any sense, and Harry tosses them aside (but only mentally — he’s careful to keep things where he found them).
Under all those is a large, thin book. Harry moves aside the papers on top and flips it open, this time confronted with page after page of lists of names.
Jill Archer
Jack McCreary
Toby Fairbrother
Lily Pargetter
In the next column are species; Bobcat, Stoat, Crow, Bear.
And the final column looks like… prices.
Every name is crossed out.
Harry flips through the book, each page with near thirty names on it.
He gets to the last page that’s been written in, and at the bottom of it;
Louis Tomlinson.
Vampire bat.
30,000g.
Harry stares at the page. He feels dread creeping up in his stomach, feels ill. There’s Louis’ name, just like he said.
But what is he supposed to do?
A house divided against itself cannot stand. If Harry— if he goes against Simon now—
They’re the last two holding this abbey up, holding it together. If Harry betrays Simon, then what? Surely that’s— that’s the end of the only life Harry’s ever known. He’s never been anywhere else, hasn’t been out of the woods that surround this place, doesn’t know how to survive out there.
But— but Louis is here, and it looks like he won’t survive at all.
Who does Louis have? He must come from somewhere, must have somewhere to get back to, some one to get back to.
Harry doesn’t know when Simon will get back.
Usually it’s around supper, when the sun is setting. But he doesn’t know for sure, doesn’t know if he was planning on going somewhere different, if that would extend or shorten his trip.
Climbing the stairs to the third floor, Harry’s legs feel like lead, like every effort to move them is a feat of strength. He unbarrs the door and throws the plank aside, pushing the door inward so fast it slams against the wall.
“Tell me what to do,” he says to Louis, because he— he can’t make decisions right now. He’s clearly been following a monster his whole life, how can he trust his own judgment?
Louis is under the window again. The bruises and cuts across his features feel more prominent somehow. How did Harry not care enough before, about why they were there?
Because it’s easier to live knowing that you’re safe than to question the only person who’s ever been there, his mind supplies.
Louis looks surprised, at the very least. “Let me go,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
“I—” Harry runs a hand through his hair. The key, right. “Hold on.”
Then it’s down the stairs again, down to the cellar and the larder where the ale barrels are kept, to the ring with a single key that unlocks all the locks because these are meant to hold barrels in place! They’re not meant for nefarious things! This is a place of peace and safety!
Or it’s supposed to be.
Back up to the third floor, his legs are beginning to burn. He left the door open, just strides in again, and pauses before he gets to Louis.
“Where will you go?” he asks, voice small.
Louis scoffs. “Away,” he says. Harry keeps looking at him though, and eventually he continues. “I have friends,” he says. “In the woods. We move camp often so we’re not caught. I was unlucky.”
Harry nods. He bends down, feels the heat radiating off of Louis’ skin as he unlocks the chain around his neck, watching it fall to the floor. “Do you need anything?” he asks, desperate to help, to appease in some way. “I have food? I can pack you meals.”
“You’ve done enough,” Louis says, and Harry doesn’t know if it’s an accusation or an acquiescence.
“I didn’t know,” Harry whispers. “I’m sorry.”
Louis stands, massages the ring of red skin around his neck, glances around the room. “How do I get out of here?”
Harry motions to the door. “Down the stairs,” he says. “You can follow the hallway through to the courtyards.”
He doesn’t look Louis in the eye, but can feel his gaze.
“Hey,” says Louis, and he grazes his fingers against Harry’s shoulder, over his habit. “You’re doing a good thing.”
Harry nods, and then turns his back, waits for Louis to retreat down the stairs. He stares at the long sleeves of his olive green habit, thinks about all of the books in the library, with the history of the abbey, how it was built as a place of peace and safety, a shelter from the dangerous world and a place to do good.
He watches from the window as Louis leaves through the open gate, the only entrance and exit of the high, solid stone walls that fortress the place.
Then he goes down and shuts it, bars the door and begins to gather sticks, logs and stones from around the green to stack against it.
—
The people in town speak of a fire.
They say it burned all around the abbey hidden deep in the forest, that one could see the smoke and flames all the way from the edge of town, that Simon, the old caretaker and sole resident of the abbey, had just returned from a trip into town, and that that was the last anyone saw of him.
They say that the abbey is haunted now, that hundreds of years of members of the abbey walk the corridors at night, their ghostly green lanterns lit as they patrol to protect against anyone who would dare to harm the abbey. The residents of the town warn their children, that anyone who would try to explore will not come back alive, that it should be left well enough alone.
The abbey is left to rot.
—
Harry’s making cheese and leek turnovers in the kitchens. He’s brought out the strawberry wine that’s been in the cellar since last summer, and has an apple and potato stew simmering on the hob. It’s enough to feed an army.
He turns from his ministrations to see Harris in the doorway.
“You almost ready?” he asks, his hair hanging down in artful locks around his red pointed ears.
“Give the stew just a few more minutes,” Harry says, “But you can start bringing the turnovers to the table. Just make sure the children know not to be too greedy, we’ve got guests coming and they’ll be here any minute.”
There was a time when he’d be able to pick out the noise of visitors as soon as they were in the surrounding woods, but now… There’s little ones running up and down the halls at every hour of the day, voices in the library and the garden and fish being caught in the stream that was once his own. There’s more noise than Harry’s ever heard before.
“Oh, they’re here,” Harris says. “Just came through the gate.”
“What?” Harry shouts, almost dropping his spoon in the pudding he’s stirring. “Oh my god, oh. Oh my— okay.” He turns in a circle, his spoon splattering everywhere uselessly. “Can you—?”
“Yes,” Harris says with a laugh, going over and taking it from him. “Go.”
“Thank you,” Harry says. His heart is in his throat as he tears off his apron, his green habit old and patched under it. He hurries up the steps and around the corner, through the winding corridors, passing a little stoat child who almost falls over in surprise.
Out in the setting sun on the green, Harry spots them; a whole troupe of strangers, heavy packs on their backs, looking worn and tired but cheerful as the gate is closed and sealed behind them.
Harry looks through them anxiously, a group of new faces he’ll have to learn, people to provide for. He doesn’t recognize anyone and his face falls, the feeling of hope in his stomach turning sour.
Until a hand taps him on the shoulder and he whirls around, coming face to face with a man he didn’t think he had the hope of seeing again.
“Louis,” He breathes. “I— I, uh…”
Louis’ face has aged a few years, but with it the scrapes and bruises are gone, the nick in his ear all that remains. He gives Harry a warm smile Harry doesn’t think he deserves.
“I heard there was room,” Louis says. “For a group of nomads looking for safety.”
Harry nods dumbly. He wants to say something, but words escape him. The man who changed his life, who exposed what a shell of a life he was living is here, and Harry doesn’t know how to thank him.
Louis, however, doesn’t seem to have such warring thoughts. He reaches out and, gently, grabs Harry’s hand. “Will you offer us protection?” he asks.
Harry nods again. “I— everything is yours,” he says. “Anything you need.”
“I need a warm bed and a bath if you have it,” Louis says. “And I wouldn’t mind a meal, I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re quite a cook, and I seem to remember a carrot cake I never got to try.”
Tears well up in Harry’s eyes. “Louis, I’m sorry—”
Louis squeezes his hand. “I think all of this,” he says, motioning to the many people in the garden around them, greeting each other and introducing themselves. “Is enough of an apology, yeah?”
Harry purses his lips to keep from letting the tears fall, and nods. “Supper is— I was just finishing,” he says. “Would you care to join us?”
“There is nothing I’d like more,” Louis says. Then he looks over Harry’s shoulder, raises their linked hands, and calls to his group. “Oi lads!” he yells, startling Harry a little. “This is the one! Makes the best stew you’ve ever tasted!”
A round of cheers and oi oi’s come from the group, and Harry’s cheeks grow warm. He leads them into the dining hall, where Harris has dutifully been serving the food.
Louis doesn’t let go of his hand, and they sit together at the end of the long wooden benches that Harry replaced the old chairs with. These are more practical, can fit more when the need arises.
The abbey is a place of safety, for those who need it, for anyone who is unaccepted by society for what they are. Harry understands now, in a way he never did before, as he reads accounts of what it was like in the past, bustling and busy and full of those who were in need.
It’s like that again now, and as the little ones grow up to someday take his place at the head, he hopes that’s what they know it as too. A home led by a mouse and a bat who spend their lives making sure that everyone who’s seeking will find refuge behind its walls.