Chapter Text
“Woo, Cvet,” Derek murmured as he approached the light brown mare.
She had sidestepped at his sudden appearance from over the crest of the steep hill, but quietened at his voice. Derek approached her at the shoulder and reached to pet the side of her face as she turned to regard him. The late-morning sun was glinting off her sides in bright hues of amber and copper.
She whickered lowly, allowing him to smooth his hand over the sun-warmed hair of her coat before lowering her head and continuing to graze on the grass, lush and vivid green in its springtime newness. Derek quietly petted his hand over her shoulder and untangled a small branch from her mane, simply enjoying the sun on his face, the fresh mountain air in his lungs, and the familiar sounds of his horses grazing calmly around him.
“Are you well, Cvet?” he asked softly as he continued to brush his hand over her smooth coat. “You look well, Mamma,” he continued after a short pause as if he had waited for an answer for her despite none forthcoming.
“Your coat shines with good health and your belly swells with your foal’s growth,” he said, not caring about the pride so evident in his voice. Cvet was his princess, or so his sisters would tease. He would glare sullenly when they good-naturedly griped that he loved his horses more than his own family. Obviously, it wasn’t true, but up here in the hills of earth and stone, with the mountain breeze at his back and the sun warming his face, calming scents of foliage and horse filling his nostrils, where the forests and pastures kept him hidden, Derek could be open. This was his home, this was his sanctuary.
He and his family had nothing in excess, knew nothing of what a life of lavish truly looked like. They went to sleep late at night with aching joints and woke early the next day with more work ahead of them, but they were happy. Derek loved his life, loved his home, loved his family –loved it all. There were hardships, there were fears and pains, but their home was filled with laughter and love. Besides spending time in the hills with his horses, his family’s late meal before bed was Derek’s favourite thing in the world. Everyone gathered around the open fire, firelight dancing off the familiar faces of those he loved, his belly pleasantly full of his mother’s and sisters’ cooking, laughter and teasing in the voices he’d known since he was a babe, the smell of campfire smoke and tobacco wafting through the crisp night air, and listening the oft-told legends and stories shared by older family members, stories that had grown so familiar over the years he could speak them word for word as if they were his own –these were his cherished memories.
The only thing Derek thought he could possibly love more were these quiet, stolen moments of solitude here on the hillsides with his band of horses.
Derek ran his hand down Cvet’s shoulder and across her side. He closed his eyes and stepped closer to her, leaning down to press his ear against her round barrel. He held his breath as he listened. Cvet’s heartbeat was regular and rhythmic, lazily beating its life-giving song. It was the second beat that Derek was truly listening for, though. That fast-paced tattoo, already so enthusiastic for life though the little body inside Cvet’s belly had yet to even experience the sun –that was what Derek craved to hear each time he came up the mountain to check his horses. Cvet, daughter of his father’s stallion, Proroc, was with her first foal and Derek lived in constant anticipation of the blessed day the foal would come forth into the world.
He listened longer to the rhythm of the unborn foal’s heart rate before straightening and smiling softly at the mare. Giving her side a few more strokes, Derek then turned to regard the rest of the band. They were all at ease; grazing peacefully, tails whipping back and forth at the flies strong enough to be bothersome even in the growing breeze. He walked amidst them, his presence mostly ignored at its familiarity, horses only pausing in their grazing to glance up at him or flick their ears in his direction as he approached each of them, speaking their name lowly and running a hand over their shoulder, side, or neck. He catalogued their appearances and movements, looking for anything unusual or problematic. Astru had branches of a wild rose bush tangled in his tail which Derek carefully dislodged and Pomdo, the oldest of the band, seemed to be walking more stiffly than the last time Derek had checked the horses, but it was to be expected at his age. Otherwise, the band was in excellent condition and good health.
It was then that he heard it; a voice on the wind. It was calling his name. Derek tilted his head to listen to the distant call, his unusually keen ears straining against the echoes of life on the mountain to pick out the voice.
It was his sister, Cora.
Derek turned and hurried to the edge of the hill where it dropped like a cliff (though the ridge was rounder and the side covered in grass). He rested a hand against the grey and bleached-white boulder and leaned out over the edge, peering down the steep incline across the thin treetops to the stream and village below. The breeze was a full-fledged wind here, and he closed his eyes to listen again.
“Derek,” called Cora over the breeze, again. “Come home, Derek.”
He didn’t answer. There was no need. He could tell something was wrong and there was no use wasting time responding when action was the required response. He hoped it wasn’t his uncle acting out again. He hated having to put his once-beloved uncle into place.
Another voice came up to him on the wind; his mother, his alpha.
Eyes glowing blue, teeth and nails elongating, brow growing, tips of his ears sharpening, Derek turned into something more feral than human and sprang down the side of the cliff. He ran across the rocky fields and dashed between trees, leaping and landing on all fours when necessary. He had to get home. Something was happening and... he had to get home.
------------------------------------------------
“Watch yourself, lad,” called out a gruff voice and Stiles quickly stepped to the side as a large man stalked past him slightly stooped under the weight of the large gear balanced across his shoulders. Three other men followed, each carrying large sprockets of their own –though none were as large as the first.
Stiles watched them for a few beats while grinning excitedly. He was finally on site after what had felt so long waiting for a chance to put his newly acquired knowledge and his long-poured over designs to the test. He shuffled his arms to get a better hold of the handful of rolled papers he had under his right arm, all the while careful not to lose his grip on handle of the overfull case in his left hand. Once sorted, he started forward again. The acrid smell of coal smoke, stagnant water, and human sweat filled his nose as he made his way through the crowded construction yard, but it was not an unwelcome smell – no, it was the smell of progress!
Stiles moved quickly, albeit somewhat awkwardly, dodging busy workers on his left and right and making sure not to drop his papers or lose his brand new bowler hat every time the breeze picked up. The small office on the corner of the yard nearest the river was his destination.
“Heave! Ho!” shouted a large group of men working together to move a heavy bundle of metal pipes catching Stiles’ attention for a moment. He paused to watch them struggle, a small grin working its way from the corner of his mouth to fill his whole face. They were pipes for the hydro centre of the dam that was being built. And that was it; that was why he was there!
“Mister Harris, when you have a moment...” sounded a female voice through the cacophonous noise of men working. Stiles turned to see a beautiful, smartly dressed woman with fiery red hair piled atop her head walking at a hurried gait alongside a trim, well-dressed gentleman with beady eyes and a sour look on his face. “...changes to look over in your office before we move forward,” she continued.
Stiles started in their direction at a hurried pace.
“Miss Martin,” replied the gentleman with a note of exasperation, “the driveshaft is a perfectly via—“
“With all due respect, Mister Harris,” insisted the red-haired woman, cutting the gentleman off without hesitation. “My changes will greatly improve the passage...”
“Watch it!” exclaimed someone to Stiles’ left and he leapt sideways only to smack directly into a broad chest and nearly fall onto his backside in the mud. With some flailing, though, he managed to keep himself upright –even if only just.
“Excuse me, sirs,” he panted as he scrambled to keep hold of the papers under his arm.
The man he had run into had an angry look on his face as he took a step toward Stiles. Shit. He braced himself for yelling, or, possibly a punch, but someone grabbed his bicep and pulled him to the side and out of the sudden fray. Stiles let out a squeak of surprise, but went willingly. They stopped beside a large stack of sheet metal and a few spools of cable that stood at least twice as tall as Stiles. He frowned in confusion, looking up at the round-jawed, stern young man with a dark complexion.
“You don’t quite look like you belong, sir,” said the man in a voice roughened by years inhaling industrial smoke while giving Stiles the most judgemental once-over Stiles had ever been subjected to –and that was saying something, because Stiles had been on the receiving end of plenty a judgemental look in his life.
“Thanks... uh, I... yeah,” stammered Stiles in a pitchy voice before letting out a sheepish laugh. “I’m here to see Mister Adrian Harris for an apprenctiship. I have drawn up some schematics for his dam that will completely change industry as we know it! ”
The man raised an eyebrow.
“He already has an apprentice,” he said, simply.
“Yeah, well, I... er...” stammered Stiles feeling slow under the man’s scrutiny. Nervously, he touched a finger to his multilensed glasses, pushing them up his nose.
“I’ll take you to Mister Harris,” conceded the man with a roll of his eyes. “Come with me.”
He turned and strode back into the the hopefully-somewhat-organized chaos. Stiles struggled to follow after him, grabbing awkwardly at the handle of his bag and holding tight to the rolls of papers under his arm.
“I’m Przemyslaw Stilinski, by the way,” he managed to say when he caught up to the man.
“Vernon Boyd,” replied the man. “Just call me Boyd, though.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Boyd,” beamed Stiles before tripping over a cord and nearly face-planting were it not for Boyd grabbing his shoulder.
“If you mean to stay, you might want to work on that,” said Boyd before starting forward again.
Stiles followed him to the office on the far side of the yard where he had originally planned on heading before he had detoured. It was much easier to get through the bustling yard with Boyd leading the way. It was as though he were Moses parting the Red Sea for how everyone seemed to instinctively move to the side as he approached, not even pausing in what they were doing in order to do so.
Boyd rapped his knuckles against the door when they arrived and the mobile office. It opened only seconds later to reveal the red-haired woman from before, her eyes narrowed and her noticeably plush lips pulled down.
“Yes?” she asked curtly.
“Mister Harris expecting this lad, Ma’am?” asked Boyd before tilting his head in Stiles’ direction.
That had the woman’s sharp gaze directing itself onto Stiles and it took some effort for him not to flinch under it. He swallowed nervously, but managed to keep his shoulders straight under her scrutiny.
“I don’t believe so,” she finally said after what felt like eons, “but...”
Instead of finishing the sentence, she opened the door wider and stepped to the side. Her command was clear in the gesture. Stiles nodded and weakly smiled his thanks to Boyd before hurrying past him to clamber up the metal folding stairs and step inside.
The red-haired woman closed the door behind him and Stiles juggled the things in his arms so he could take off his hat. Ahead of him was a large mahogany desk that didn’t look like it could have possibly fit through the office door and behind the desk sat the trim, sour-faced gentleman he had seen with the red-haired woman before.
“Mister Harris,” spoke Lydia, “this young man is here to see you.”
The gentleman nodded, his lips quirking in a minute expression that Stiles wasn’t certain the meaning of. The woman stepped past Stiles to stand at the head of the room, just to the side of the large desk.
“I’m Przemyslaw Stilinski, sir, I believe my father wrote to you on my be—“
“Ah, yes, the boy called Stiles,” spoke the gentleman, not bothering to stand up from the desk though it was the gentlemanly thing to do when being introduced. Stiles tried not to feel annoyance. At least Mister Harris had even read the letter. “You have come for an apprenticeship, correct?”
“Yes, sir, I—”
“I already have an apprentice,” said Harris, cutting Stiles off while glancing fondly over at the red-haired woman. “Miss Lydia Martin is one of the brightest minds in all Europe.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the woman, not without a certain smugness.
“Like I wrote to your father,” said Harris, turning a sour expression onto Stiles, “I’m working on the biggest project of my career and don’t have the time for any sort of hand-holding.”
“I know, sir,” said Stiles before stepping forward and pulling a few rolls of paper out from under his arm to spread across the wide desk. Stiles’ painstakingly drafted designs were so resolutely curled that he took a moment to grab a few items from Harris’ desk to use as weights at the papers’ corners. “But, if you’ll hear me out, I have designed something that I believe will greatly—“
“I don’t have time for this, boy,” cut in Harris, standing abruptly. The rolls snapped shut at the movement, leaving Stiles standing gaping with Harris’ heavy, ceramic ashtray in hand. The rustle and snap of the papers rolling back shut caused everyone to pause for a millisecond, but Harris was the first to break the sudden quiet. He let out an annoyed huff of breath and said “I’m expecting...”
He trailed off when another rap came at the office door.
“That is most likely them,” he said, a small smile curling the corners of his frown in a strange upward motion that could possibly indicate delight, but mostly looked disconcerting. “Miss Martin, please see Stiles out, I have something to attend to.”
The red-haired woman nodded and then Harris was walking swiftly past Stiles and leaving through the small office door that, even with his extensive schooling, Stiles still couldn’t possibly decipher how a wide mahogany desk could fit through. When the door fell back shut behind Harris who had immediately began speaking with the person waiting on the other side, Stiles set down the ashtray and turned his attention back on the red-haired woman.
“Miss Martin, right?” asked Stiles.
“Yes,” she confirmed emotionlessly.
“Perhaps if you have a moment, you could look over my designs before I go,” he asked feeling panic that any chance at working under Harris was quickly slipping away.
“I’m sure they’re ingenious,” she said, her tone saying she believed the quite opposite, “however, we are rather busy building the world’s largest dam, perhaps you could find someone not quite so... in demand as Mister Harris to look over your... sketches.”
“Sketches!” sputtered Stiles, eyes widening in disbelief and outrage as he glanced between the red-haired woman and the roll of detailed schematics the desk between them. “Do you even know h—“
“I know a great many things, Mister Stilinski,” she cut in. “For example, I know that if you don’t pack up your things and leave the premises immediately, I will have to call Mister Boyd back in here to do it for you.”
“But... you... I...” stammered Stiles, flailing.
The red-haired woman simply crossed her arms over her chest, shifted her weight to cock a hip, and lifted an eyebrow. Somehow, it was menacing. Stiles snapped his mouth shut and quickly gathered his things.
------------------------------------------------
“I told you he already had an apprentice,” said Boyd as he walked Stiles back to the yard’s front gate.
“I know, but I figured if he’d just look at my designs...” sighed out Stiles. “If he looked, he would see that my invention could make this dam so much more useful and then he’d have to take me, y’know?”
“Did he look?” asked Boyd, sharply.
Stiles groaned.
“No, not even a glance!”
“Fortunate for you,” said Boyd which had Stiles stopping abruptly to give Boyd a rather sharp look of surprise.
“What do you mean?” asked Stiles.
Boyd looked around shiftily before leaning closer to Stiles.
“He’s more likely to steal your design than hire you for it,” said Boyd, shaking his head. “You ought to get your designs copyrighted before showing them to anyone if you haven’t already. This is a cutthroat industry and stealing ideas is much less expensive and troublesome than hiring young go-getters right out of university like yourself. I’ve seen it happen plenty. “
“I...” started Stiles feeling suddenly stricken, “I never thought of that.”
“There’s a courthouse three blocks west of here, right in the large city centre,” said Boyd, “I suggest you head straight there with those scribbles of yours.”
“Yes, of course,” said Stiles, nodding and straightening to go. For some reason, Boyd calling them scribbles was a lot less offensive than Miss Martin calling them sketches. “Thank you, Boyd,” he said with finality and tipped his hat.
“G’luck,” said Boyd, his face blank save for the small twitch on the corner of his mouth.
“Thanks!” exclaimed Stiles one last time before hurrying off.
------------------------------------------------
Derek glared furiously down at the manacles tightly holding his wrists together. It had been a long ride in the cramped carriage with an officer glaring across the small space at him. His shoulders and back had grown stiff from both the confines of the horse-pulled vehicle and the lack of movement afforded him with his wrists shackled. Now, the city bustled around him, horses pulling carriages and coaches alike trotted past. People were everywhere. Noise was everywhere. Voices echoed off the stone buildings, movement surrounded him, and the air was heavy and barely breathable with its stench. Derek wanted to go home.
He had done nothing that should have had the gendarmerie looking for him, yet they had arrived at his home just that morning with their uniforms and guns and their stoic faces. They had spoken confusing words accusing him of things he didn’t understand before taking him away as his family called out in dismay. They had walked him down the rocky path away from his home, put him in a carriage that looked more like a fancy coffin, and driven him to the city. Derek’s mind was exhausted from trying to understand.
The carriage had finally stopped and the officer sitting on his left opened the door and stepped out. Derek was motioned to follow. With some effort, he managed to climb out of the vehicle without his hands. Now here he was in the midst of an overwhelming onslaught of movement, acrid smells, and noise –so much noise.
The officers directed him across the wide, circling cobblestone street to the grand looking building with flags flying across its front. Derek squinted up at the words carved into the stone above him as he passed through the first arch of the building, but they were in a language he did not understand. It was much quieter inside the building, but the walls, tall as they were, made him feel claustrophobic in their looming.
There were only a small number of people inside –at least who could be seen. The large desk that stood at the head of the open space seemed to cut off much of the other side of the building from both entrance and view. Derek tried to take everything in as he walked forward, following the officer ahead of him. He needed all the information available to be able to understand what was happening to him. He felt wild in this city, wilder than he ever did out in the mountains of his homeland. He felt like a caged animal; his muscles tense and his chest tight with an unvoiced growl at the ready.
A young man –more boy than man, but dressed like a ‘civilized’ gentleman was sitting on a bench with an overfull bag at his side and a pile of rolled paper on the seat beside him. The bench was near the large stone desk. The young man looked disgruntled and impatient as if he had been made to wait. Derek understood all about the frustration of waiting by that point.
The young man stilled –not that he had been doing much moving, but it was an obvious thing that he had frozen under Derek’s gaze. His bright eyes went wide behind his strange glasses and his mouth opened slightly. Yes, Derek was sure his own profile was a sight to anyone from this city. He definitely didn’t belong here. He glared at the young man as he walked past before turning his attention elsewhere in the large, ornate room.
“We have the Romani,” said the lead officer to a man standing behind the stone desk.
The man’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he looked at Derek from over the officer’s shoulder and understanding quickly filled his expression. Derek wished for some of that understanding.
“Ah, yes,” said the man behind the counter, “just a moment.”
The man disappeared further behind the desk. Derek huffed in frustration, but remained obedient as he was led to a bench much like the one the young man with the odd glasses was sitting on further down the wall.
So, it seemed Derek would have to wait even longer to understand what crime he had committed.
----------------
“You want HOW many Gulden?” exclaimed a voice. Derek tensed at the outburst in the mostly quiet building. He had been drifting away in his thoughts to mountains and forests and the sounds of peaceful horses as he waited sitting in the large building. Frustrated and (if he was honest) frightened as he was to even be there, it had at least been nice to sit in the quiet for a time. This voice, though, cut through the air sharply and had Derek wishing his hands were free so he could rub at his temples. Derek glared across the room at the young man he had seen waiting earlier now standing at the front desk.
“That’s outrageous!” snapped the young man with the strange glasses and all the papers, before finally seeming to notice the silence in the rest of the room and lowering his voice to a quiet hiss. Unfortunately, Derek, with his keen ears, could still hear him just fine. “You really think I have that kind of income? That’s more than my own father would make in half a year –and, he’s not a pauper, excuse you.”
“I’m sure he isn’t, sir,” said the man on the other side of the desk, looking more bored than dismayed by the young man’s upset. “In any case, this is the price of copyrighting a design such as yours.”
“How in the great bowels of hell do you expect me to pay this?” hissed the young man, pushing the small white paper back across the counter as violently as one could slide a piece of paper across a desk. “Do you at least have some sort of payment plan?”
“No, sir, it must be paid in full before it comes into effect,” replied the man behind the desk. “Perhaps you can keep it in a safe, secret place until such a time as you have saved up the money—“
“But my income will come from this project,” argued the young man, his shoulders slumping in his dismay. Derek figured he was beat, that he would gather his many scrolls and leave. Instead, though, the man suddenly straightened, a newly-determined stance taking over his form.
“No, you know what? This is completely unfair. I will have the money once I’ve started this project. However, I can’t use the plans for this project until they’ve been copyrighted,” he explained, his voice beginning to pick up in volume. He was clearly working himself up into a full-blown fit. “All this could work completely smoothly if you didn’t want to charge me a king’s wages just for something as simple as a copyright!”
The guards near entrance of the building were slowly making their way to the desk. The man really needed to calm down before he got himself in shackles similar to Derek’s.
“This is why poverty is so rampant; this ugly cycle right here!” The young man was right back to exclaiming just as loudly as his original outburst had been. “You don’t care about innovation! Just lining your pockets! You’re a bunch of thieves is what you are. Thieves!”
“Sir,” spoke a low voice, but it had a quiet boom to it that cut through the young man’s tirade instantaneously.
The young man froze and then slowly turned to face the two guards. It was when he turned that Derek got a real look at his face and it struck him how attractive the young man was. His skin was pale with red high on his cheekbones –probably from all the raving he’d been doing. The shape of his face had a unique aesthetic that was both curious and attractive, even when it was partially hidden by the strange, goggle-like glasses he was wearing. Derek wished he could get a closer and longer look at the young man. But, upset as the young man was, it seemed he wasn’t foolish enough to continue his rant with two men in uniform standing on either side of him.
“Err,” he stammered, bowing slightly in a show of submission that was probably more instinctual than on purpose. “Yes?”
“We must ask you to leave the building,” said the second uniformed guard.
The young man glanced between the two, swallowed heavily in a motion that moved his entire head and neck, and finally nodded his ascent.
“Right, of course,” he said before shakily turning back to the desk.
He gathered his things together from where they’d been partly sprawled on the counter and swiftly left the building, footsteps echoing lightly through the large hall. His stride faltered as he passed Derek; though his head was slightly bowed, their gazes managed to meet momentarily. Derek swallowed heavily, unable to look away though he felt caught. The young man turned his eyes away, his pace quickening as he continued on. Derek watched him go, finding himself appreciating the young man’s long gait and lithe form despite his own circumstances.
Once the man had left the building, everything went quiet and still. Derek took a deep breath and slowly released it. The young man had been a reprieve from his own troubles, but now they were all back at the forefront of his mind. He was sitting in a large, cold building between two officers who were more uniform than person, his hands in iron shackles, and the fate of himself and possibly his family completely unknown.