Chapter Text
Light filtered into the great hall slowly, cautiously, padding along the dusty grey tiles like a weary animal. No matter how far it got though, it did nothing to fight the gloom of the room. It was still dark, dull, and boring
Patrick smothered a yawn behind his hand, rocking on his feet.
He would have loved to stop staring mindlessly at the floor, but there was nothing else to look at, unfortunately, and nothing else to do, leaving the light his only form of entertainment. Lovely.
The quiet scratched at his ears, and he cleared his throat just to hear something, if only for a moment. It echoed through the sprawling room for one, two, three seconds, and then silence fell once again, It was always quiet here. Silent, empty, and still…except for when his highness gifted the place with his presence.
If summoned by Patrick’s thoughts, the man stalked into the room, an envelope in his hand.
Lord Howl was a tall figure, made of imposing sharp edges and angles, frown so cemented on his face it often looked like he was a statue carved of stone, incapable of expressing anything else. His hair was getting greyer by the day, colour chased away by time, stress and age, and his eyes were like the blade of a tarnished sword.
"Patrick," he greeted, a sour twist to his mouth like he'd just eaten a particularly tart fruit.
It had taken an entire year to wean him off Butcher , and Patrick wasn't sure it was worth the energy to try for Pat . Especially since he knew he’d never succeed.
"My Lord."
The man took his place on the throne, back straight, brow pinched. He looked like a little kid sitting there, the chair still too big for him even now, the beautifully engraved back twice his height and the seat a few inches too wide.
Once, when he was young, Patrick’s mam had snuck up to a window, hoisted him up onto her hip and pointed it out to him. She'd said the Howls of old were giants , that's why the throne was so big. As an adult, Patrick supposed it was that big just because it could be, to show off how much money they had, how easily they could, at the time, throw away thousands.
It was still a bit of a disappointment when he finally met Lord Howl though. His Lord was tall, but not that tall.
" Blast ," Lord Howl cursed.
The man was trying and failing to open the envelope in a display boarding on pathetic, the wax seal proving to be very stubborn. It was white with a cow skull in the centre. That’d be Lady Button then, not that he needed to see the seal to know that. Who else would it be?
When it became clear his Lord was not getting anywhere, Patrick took his hand off the grip of his sword, reaching into his pocket for a letter opener. It was always a good idea to keep these sorts of things on you.
"Need a hand?"
Lord Howl glared at the blade like it had just personally insulted him. He looked at most things like that, including Patrick himself.
"I think I can manage to open a lette r by myself," he sneered.
Patrick fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Course you can, my Lord. Said nowt of the sort.”
God forbid someone try to help the bloke, be nice . Still, he knowingly kept his palm held out.
Eventually, his Lord decided accepting the help would be less embarrassing than losing a fight with an envelope, so took the offered item. He did not say thank you, and thrust it back into Patrick’s hand the second he was done with it as if it’d somehow infect him if held even a second longer.
Being Lord Howl's Hand was something that required bloody ridiculous amounts of patience and grace. How Patrick had survived four years, he didn’t know. How he’d survive several more was an even bigger question, and one he didn’t like to think about. It was too early for a headache.
Patrick cleared his throat, and didn't grin at the way his Lord jumped at the noise, of course not…but it was a close thing.
"What's this then?"
His Lord scowled, holding the letter to his chest. "Is it addressed to you?"
"Probably not.”
"Then I don't see how it's any of your business.” He seemed settled after that, his first proper snip in of the day as crucial to him as breakfast, and conceded. "It's an invitation from Lady Button. She wishes for an meeting of all the nobles at Thorne Guard."
"Why?" Patrick asked. "It’s still a month to go until the Summer Solstice. Surely that’s a bit too early, even for her.”
It defeated the point of celebrating the Summer Solstice if it wasn’t, well, the Summer Solstice yet, if you asked him.
"For why, Lady Button has found herself an heir."
That was news to Patrick. She'd only had one son, and he’d had made a run for it as soon as he could, unwilling to take over. He didn't blame Richard, to be honest. The title was more hassle than it was worth. The only one left to inherit the thorne, last he checked, was baby Heather and, well…
"She has? Blimey, who?"
His Lord squinted intensely at the letter, clearing his throat. "A distant relative - I'd be more specific but the, ah, ink is smudged - Alison?"
Patrick idly scratched his bearded chin, trying to jog their memory. Alison, Alison, Alison…
"Can't say I've heard of her," he admitted.
"Nor I. But either way, she has requested we all gather now so this Alison can be handed the title sooner rather than later."
Their Lord hastily tucked both envelope and letter into the inner pocket of his coat, a fine thing the colour of sage with gold embroidery around the sleeves and down the labels, poppy flowers and ferns. It didn't match with the simple workman trousers he wore, nor his cracked leather boots, but that was the reality of most nobles these days. Slowly by surely, they were being worn down to the level of surf, joining them all in the fight to survive.
Patrick brushed away the thought. "Is Lady Button not well?"
She'd seemed in good health the last time they met, and struck him as a stubborn thing, likely to hang onto the title for another few decades out of spite if nothing else.
"No, but she isn't exactly young now, is she?"
"Well, no, but she's only sixty . Plenty have been on the throne longer than her."
" Patrick ," his Lord said pointedly, glowering, "I do not know why she's done this, so do stop asking."
He shrugged, crossing his arms. "Well, I just thought you might know if it's summat serious, that's all. You do talk."
"About our state of affairs. It's nothing personal."
Nothing was ever personal with his Lord, Patrick thought with a huff. The man didn't seem capable of personal. Not anymore, at least.
"Not my fault I didn't know that, is it? Just thought I'd ask..."
"You're not here to ask questions," Lord Howl shot back. The tips of his ears were starting to turn scarlet and his lips curled into a dog-ish snear, threatening to bite.
"I'm not here to do much of anything," Patrick said. "What's there even to defend y'us from? A particular strong beam of light?"
The sun had finally reached them, warming Patrick’s thighs and the tips of his Lord's boots. Hardly a terribly foe if it could be smothered by a decent curtain. Granted, there were no curtains to smother it, but the point still stood.
His Lord rolled his eyes, the sneer fading. "I'm sorry, would you rather I was in mortal peril?"
Sometimes, Patrick thought he would. But that was a horrible thing to want, even for a man as bloody horrible as Lord Howl.
"No. I'd just rather do summat other than stand here all day."
His Lord sighed deeply, as if this was some impossible request. "Most would be grateful to have such a position, you know.”
Patrick pressed his lips into a line and said nothing.
“...If you're that desperate to be occupied, however, you may help me pack."
Patrick’s mind came to an abrupt halt. "You're coming ?" It came out high-pitched and loud, and his face warmed dizzingly quick.
Lord Howl never went to the Summer Solstice, never . And Patrick would know since he was always sent in the man’s place. That proved how pointless this job was, Patrick thought, if he could bog off for three weeks, no problem. But as long as he got paid, he didn't mind... much .
"It's a handing of the throne, my presence is mandatory."
"It usually is, throne or not, but that's not stopped you before."
His Lord's lips twisted into a grimace beneath his neatly trimmed moustache, fingers clawing at the arm of his chair like Patrick had said something amazingly stupid and not just pointed out a very obvious fact.
"I think Lady Button would quite literally have my head if I dared stay behind this time," Lord Howl said slowly. "She has already complained numerous times about my absence, and this would surely be the drop that breaks the dam. So yes, I am going. And yes, you are coming too."
So there was really no escaping it, he was well and truly stuck. And having his Lord there meant there'd be no fun for him. If there was one thing his Lord despised above all else, it was Patrick having run. Just to add insult to injury, there’d be none of the fun of the Solstice. Still, there had to be a bright side to all this. There had to be.
"Alright then...do you actually need help packing-"
"No, obviously not. Though if you are that bored, you may assist me." His Lord rose to his feet slowly, joints creaking loudly as he did so, and marched off, cane drumming against the tiles.
A part of Patrick wanted to stay where he was out of spite, but honestly, he was that bored, so followed after, through the halls of Howl Guard.
The place was well and truly hollowed out, left bare like the bones of a corpse after nature had picked its fill of the meat. The sounds of their combined footsteps echoed loudly, bouncing off the walls and disappearing somewhere above them, lost in the high ceilings. The only ornament to be found was one singular plague bearing the Dyfed coat of arms, one half green, bearing a sword, the other silver, bearing a rearing white stallion. Underneath the shield was something in Latin, a motto that had long since been out of use, so much so that Patrick didn't even know what it meant.
He knew his Lord signed off every letter with those words, but he never wanted to ask. The satisfaction of knowing wouldn't outweigh the embarrassment of being thick, nor how bloody, annoyingly smug his Lord would be about knowing something Patrick didn't.
Sometimes, he wondered what it must have looked like in its heyday. If the throne was any giveaway though, the answer was gaudy and necessary.
The pair entered Lord Howl’s bed chamber, and the man used his cane to pull a trunk from under his bed.
"If you are going to hover, you might as well be useful. Pick that up, would you?"
Patrick did, hoisting the thing onto the bed, a cloud of dust billowing up into the air. He ducked back and coughed, shaking out his hands. It was a big, cumbersome thing, and he was going to have a hell of a time getting it in and out of the carriage. And it would be him because who else was there to do it?
Lord Howl cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, made a peculiar noise, closed it, and tried again. "Good. Now, open it while I fetch my clothes."
"Did I hear a please or thank you in there?" Patrick asked.
His Lord had already turned heel, going to his chest of drawers. That was a no then. Shocker. Still, he opened it. It was something to do, if only for a single second. When that was done, Patrick leaned against a bedpost (the bed itself big enough for ten), watching as Lord Howl began picking out his clothes.
If there was one thing he could give his Lord credit for (he did believe in giving credit where ti was due, after all), it was that he didn't whine about having to care for himself as any normal folk would. He dressed himself, made his own food, dusted the halls- he was very self-sufficient. His Lord barely even asked Patrick to get involved, except for when he absolutely needed assistance. For instance, when something heavy had to be lifted or moved, or dropped items not easily hooked with his cane needed picking up.
Patrick wasn’t sure if that was an adjustment brought on by necessity, or if Lord Howl had always been tending to himself.
"Is the weather much different in Powys?" his Lord asked.
At first, Patrick laughed, caught off guard by how stupid a question it was. But then he caught his Lord’s eye and realised, no, the man was being serious. Gods above and below-
"The weather- it's barely an hour's ride away!”
His Lord bristled. "I haven't been there since I was a child, so excuse me for not remembering.”
And Patrick had never once crossed the border, and he still knew how bloody long it’d take to get there. That wasn’t an argument worth getting into though, so he let it go.
"The only land with odd weather is Mary- Lady Prudence's realm. Witches are aplenty there, and more than happy to make it snow in May. Go for something light and airy, and you're set," Patrick suggested.
A part of him wished he'd been born in the witch town, it sounded fun. He bet half the other fae from this land had moved there when it all went to pots. Maybe he should have gone with them…
“I know about the witches, I'm not completely hopeless. I just don't see the point of keeping track of distances to lands I never plan to see again,” his Lord said. He pulled out his clothes, one by one, and examined them with a keen eye. Any that didn’t meet his standard were given a disapproving glare and put back.
“I don’t see why. What’s so bad about them, or good about Dyfed that you refuse to leave?”
“Nothing. I just can’t see the point of travelling. It’s a complete waste of time, money, and energy. Now, I expect you to act the perfect Hand on this trip,” his Lord demanded. "You must behave, be polite and quiet, and you must dress in the house colours. No more yellows and blues or beiges."
That was a slight problem since most of Patrick’s clothes revolved around those three colours. "No one there is strict about colours. Not after the first day at least.”
Most of them were too drunk by that point to be strict about anything really.
"It doesn't matter how they are, what matters is how we come across."
If Patrick followed orders he'd come off as a prat, and he had no plans to ruin whatever friendships he had made over the past two years just to please his Lord. He was going to have to concede about the colours though. No doubt he wouldn't be let into the carriage if he didn't. He supposed it wasn't the end of the world, even if it did rather limit his wardrobe choice.
“Alright then, green it is.”
His Lord nodded sharply. “As it should be. Fetch my boots, will you?”
The pair of them worked in relative silence, fetching and folding clothes, the job finished barely five minutes later. It wasn’t like his Lord had much to pack, after all.
In fact, when he was done, it remained barely half-filled. His Lord rolled his neck, wincing as it cracked.
“Perhaps you need a smaller trunk,” Patrick suggested.
“Perhaps I do,” the man granted. “Unless you can use the extra space for your own gear?”
It was a surprising offer. Patrick almost wanted to ask are you sure my goods won’t contaminate yours? But unlike his Lord, he knew how to be nice.
“If you think my lot will fill the gaps, I’ll have to be the bearer of bad news. Wouldn’t mind using it though, so thank you,” Patrick said pointedly. “When are we leaving, by the by?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Blimey , that soon?” Patrick exclaimed.
“I believe Lady Button sent the invitation late.”
That didn’t sound like her. Maybe she had taken a turn for the worst. Patrick made a note to visit the shrine later and pray for her health.
“Right, tomorrow morning then.”
But oh, there it was, the bright side! Patrick knew he’d find it eventually. If they were arriving tomorrow, they’d be just in time to catch Cyntefin! Patrick wasn’t entirely sure how different the May day celebrations would be compared to the Solstice (again, their town wasn’t exactly one for fun), but he was sure he’d enjoy them.
Even with his Lord there...
_ _ _
Later that night, as he lay back in bed, listening to the sounds of Lord Howl huff and puff his way through his nightly exercise, the shine of that bright side began to fade. Three whole weeks tending to his Lord as the man ticked off all in attendance, gods. Maybe Patrick could feign an illness, or accidentally fall down the stairs and injury himself just enough to knock him out of action.
He let out a sigh. No, that felt a bit dramatic, even for him, and he did want to see everyone again. There, bright side number two. A chance to meet up with everyone early-
“I can hear you breathe ,” his Lord complained from the other side of the wall.
Patrick dragged his hands down his face. Gods, did he ever stop? “Well I’m sorry, sire , but unless y’us want me to bloody drop dead , I do need to breathe.”
“Not that loudly you don’t.”
Patrick made sure to breathe as loud as humanly possibly until his very last moments of consciousness.