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The sun hardly rose in Kier. Its eternal winter forbade the sun from reaching that sweet spot in the sky where the ice would melt and peace be across the land. No, it was as if Kier Eagan himself reached down from the heavens to obstruct it.
When it was not snowing, it was raining, a continuous storm, a perpetual darkness coupled with fierce winds. Hails and hails of cold droplets pelting towards the ground, a mud clearing never growing dry - never fit for grass. Soils drowning, no grass left for livestock. The cows grow hungrier as they scavenge for vegetation near the trees they seek shelter under; they will be okay, they always are, but in these moments their farmers rush indoors with paper umbrellas atop their heads. They may slip on their way, tripping over the roots of a tree that had fallen moments prior.
It was a perpetual winter in Kier.
They would paint Kier coming towards his final temptation, right before he tamed the tempers, at the top of a white mountain. Lambs would rest at his feet and fade into the distance as if they were his noble followers. They would paint him like this in order to bring meaning to their eternal winter. If they saw Kier conquer it, they could see themselves push through too. A fiction that became so embedded in the town’s day to day life that it became fact - if Kier were there at this one moment, he would tell them to go on. Those who opposed or brought studies from other cities, of science, of art that the paintings of Kier had been recanonicalised as, were banished, exiled, or even hung or imprisoned with the name ‘witch’ plastered upon their heads.
But no matter what, people remained happy as long as Kier was in their sights. The town would pray to their shrines and turn a blind eye to their own suffering in place of a staunch belief that the Eagans have and always will bring them the best life they could possibly have. This was the life that the Eagans had given them. No one was sad, everybody was happy. Kier had blessed them and all was well in this everlasting downpour.
Despite the downpours, storekeeps and tradespersons still kept their doors open; taverns and tailors followed suit, opting to keep their business available while knowing that they would much rather store their wares indoors and away from the wind’s harsh whip. The thought of packing up for the day was shot down in fear that Kier would smite them for disobeying his words around the spirit of industry. They must soldier on and remain cheerful that they were alive, Kier had given them another day - but how much longer could one go on chasing his words?
One such storekeep found a way to display his goods. Paintings never mixed well with the rain or snow, he had learnt that early enough in his almost seven year career selling art, and thus, he opted to display them in the window. All along the walls of his store were paintings of their Lord and all those who came after him, all the way to Master Jame’s dear daughter Helena.
Each of the Eagans from all corners of the scripture surrounded all that came to visit this store. Patrons would be met with the crackling of fire, the sweet smell of candles and the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock that stood not too far from where the owner would sit with a book in his hands. He would adjust his glasses every now and then and place the book down to speak to his coworker, a former curator retired from the Master’s home. Felicia and Burt enjoyed each other’s company. The two were lovers of the craft and made it their duty to have the most welcoming art store in all of Kier, expecting their collection to span more of the scripture than any of their competitors.
They knew that Kier would be proud of them for their dedication.
It was less windy than most days although snow had fallen overnight and left a crisp twinge in the air, freezing all that passed through and cold enough for Burt to justify wearing a hooded tunic atop a long sleeved, cotton shirt, and a pair of leather boots lined with sheepskin. A pair that cost him an entire month and a half’s savings and frugal payments on food. A few extra paintings sold on the day he had bought them meant that he could finally buy a nice block of cheese and the ingredients for a fresh loaf of bread. Two items that he had been thinking about for weeks on end, but the goal of purchasing boots that would not cause his feet to freeze obstructed. Leather belts hung from his hips holding books and pens for easy access, perfect for leisure squeezed in between work, a rarity that he had to savour whenever the chance arose.
It was the start of the day. Right at the peak of coldness for the day. Felicia was inside brewing a pot of tea while Burt set up the awning leading to the front door. He had just finished tying the last knot and hammering in the last stake when he heard the sounds of metal footsteps against the muddy path coming from the distance, seemingly getting closer and closer. A jolt of fear always hit him when those sounds were heard, a fear that the taxman was coming for his money with the justification that Kier willed it. He was always willing to provide if Kier had guided Jame’s mind to make that decision, but he was already struggling and could only provide so little.
But it wasn’t the taxman at all. No, no, no.
It was something much worse.
A four man troop of soldiers walking in a single file line drew nearer. Their heavy, black armour clink clanked as they passed through the marsh, water splashing in all directions as they tred through it. The closer they got, the easier it was to identify the delicate, blue detailings carved on parts of their armour - a colour indicative of the Eagan family. Behind the leader of the troop, the Lady of the land, Helena, was positioned, taking part in the noble duty of being part of the army that each hier had to undergo.
Helena was known by the common people as not unlike her father; a staunch believer in Kier. One who had the unwavering opinion that nothing was wrong in her hometown and that everyone was at peace. She was pointed in her words and, above all, nothing but the perfect person to take her father’s place when he succumbed to his revolving.
At times she appeared kind.
But something lingered in her eyes that left servants and the likes averting their gaze.
She was terrifying.
To the three she travelled and worked with, however, she was kind. Rebellious as she was, she was nothing like the rumours had said, nothing like her father had trained her to be. That, however, did not change the fact that her presence scared Burt in this moment. Just as he ws preparing to bow to her and speak his salutations, she was in front of him, a hand raised to stop him from speaking and a gentle smile on her face.
“At ease, sir,” The man at the frontmost position ordered, a gentle tone to his voice coupled with kindness in his eyes, “Just passing through, so nothing for you to worry about.”
He gave a small nod, gesturing for them to be on their way. Not long after, they were. Burt watched them leave, letting out a gentle sigh of relief as he turned back to his awning where Felicia had placed a few signs underneath for him to place outside the store. It was then when he noticed that one of the soldiers had stayed behind; his eyes transfixed on one of the paintings in the window.
Noticing that the art dealer had spotted him, he bowed his head in apology, “I must pardon myself, I was admiring the beautiful work you have here,” He flashed a smile as he pointed to the painting, his metal gauntlet making a gentle tapping noise against the glass, “I would be remiss not to mention that this is one of the finest scenes in the Kier scripture. Not many people paint it.”
“I did not paint it,” Burt responded almost too fast, “I know people who painted for the Master who now sell their works to me. I am only but a dealer..” His hands shook slightly as he moved towards the soldier, taking notice of his finely carved facial features. Not unlike one of the many statues he had seen in his lifetime.
“Well, it is beautiful nonetheless,” He turned to face the other, their eyes finally meeting and a silence engulfing them both, “I’m Irving. Soldier of Kier.”
“Burt. An art dealer, as you can see.”
A comfortable silence filled the air between them. The kind that only seems to develop between individuals who know each other well enough to be happy with nothing but presence, that fills the surrounding area with warmth despite the absence of a fire. It was so, so still. It was as if no one was there but them.
They had just met, and yet it felt like there was a bond of some sorts between them. An eternal flame.
Ambiance.
Disrupted by the leader of the troop calling out for Irving. Calling for him to return to them.
Irving offered a small bow of his head before running off.
Burt watched him leave.
-
The air was damp at the campsite. Dank smelling and awfully moist, the area that they resided in was nothing short of a foul place to stay. Musty winds came from the south leading them to the north where the swamps resided, but for this afternoon, the four had to set up camp before it became too dangerous to continue on. They should not be heading towards the swamp, anyway, but Lady Cobel had told them to follow the winds. The winds would guide them to the point in which they needed to go.
Due to the wet conditions, they had to rip pieces of fabric from their undercloths to start their fire. From there, dry pieces of wood were scavenged until they finally had a fire that could keep the four of them warm.
“Told you guys that our clothes would be the way to go,” Dylan chided, wanting to take credit for the fire’s success, “Wool doesn’t catch fire but everything else does.”
Irving scoffed as he shook his head dramatically, seating himself atop of a mossy rock, “You were the one who thought to burn pages of books in the first instance. It was only when I said you couldn’t burn my copy of the scripture that you turned to our clothing.”
“Hey, if it weren’t for my big brain we would be freezing to death out here,” He patted Irving’s shoulder, pretending not to notice that he had rolled his eyes at the gesture.
Mark’s hands hovered atop the fireplace, listening to the ambient sounds of his friends’ bickering and horses running in the distance, the trees swaying gently in the wind and the absence of birds. That was one thing about Kier - there were no birds. Birds never flew anywhere near the land for no reason in particular other than that there was something greatly wrong with the town. The birds never came to sing their song, for their songs were nothing Kier would have taught them.
Helly slumped against Mark’s side. She nuzzled into the crook of his neck and made herself comfortable there, finding more warmth in his side, his now armourless body, than the fireplace could ever radiate. The two had been fraternizing in secrecy for the past few months. They both knew it was wrong for two members of the army, let alone two members of the same troop, to rub shoulders - and to make matters worse, Helly had the extra layer of being the hier to the land. Everywhere the two went, the watchful eyes of the population, and Helly’s father followed them. Kier would punish them for their sins, Mark would have said at the start, but Helly would shake her head and say that a dead man would not come to hurt them.
Their troop would keep their secret.
Despite Dylan’s initial protests.
Master Jame Eagan never knew of his daughter’s rebellious side; the side that opposed the religion and wanted nothing but to be happy with Mark. This was her home, here with these three people, not back there in a pristine home where she was only in the army as a duty. Not because she believed she could make a difference there.
It had been a few moments until Helly interrupted Dylan and Irving’s quarrel, “Where are we heading to, anyway?” She had pulled away from Mark’s neck to look at the two across from her, a slightly puzzled look on her face.
Both Dylan and Irving looked to Mark in hopes of an answer.
After tripping over his words to find the best point to start, Mark eventually shared the puzzled look that Helly’s face adorned, “Lady Cobel told us to follow the winds….”
Helly raised an eyebrow, her chin now resting on Mark’s shoulder, “And you just believed what that old witch has to say?”
“I mean.. She’s our boss, we have to follow what she says.”
“And you could be leading us to our death right now. And you’re fine with that? You’re fine with that, Mark?”
A deafening silence engulfed them all like a bubble.
“Look. I don’t know where we are going and I think that seems to be the case for a lot of our journeys, but I’m not sure that this one will be the end - and if it is, we make it out, right? We run.”
“We die on the battlefield like Kier would have wanted,” Irving spoke like a preacher; proud and strong.
Helly gestured to Irving with lazy hands and in a voice so sarcastic that it felt convincing said, “Praise Kier.”
-
A bell chimed. Sound rippled like crashing waves, like the effect of a pebble thrown into a pond, the light dancing atop the disturbance.
It had been Felicia’s idea to install the shopkeeper’s bell. She decided that in their old age it could be far too easy to get distracted by one task, even if it was just staring out the window in the hopes that the sun will shine on them again someday, and not hear a patron entering their store. That would not be good for business, now would it? She would pester him from days on end, weaving her words in such a way that it felt like part of the natural progression of the conversation. It never was. Although, in the end her efforts were not in vain. The bell was purchased.
Felicia had greeted the customer as they entered, leaving Burt to sit in his spot looking through lists and lists of paintings that were not on display with a piece of parchment to his left with scrawls of ink outlining what paintings should go out when. The Ambrose rotation could be next, but perhaps that was suited for a different time of year? The Youthful Convalescence of Kiermust simply be put up next. It had been a while since it had been on display, after all.
Eventually, he looked up from his paper, up and above his half-rimmed glasses that sat perched at the very end of his nose to the point where they threatened falling off. When he raised his head to get a better view of the man that Felicia was speaking to, he had to push his glasses up a little, although, due to his hyperopia, he did not look through the lenses. It was clear to him who she was speaking to. The man from a few days prior; the soldier who was in awe of the portraits in his window. He had come back yet again, and in his spare time, too, dressed all nicely in navy blue layered with blacks and pale blues, soft, soft cottons by the looks of things. He looked far too nice to be in a store this far from where he supposedly would live, being a Soldier of Kier.
Burt hopped up from his seat, having to take a moment to do so, before making his way down to the two in conversation, “That painting used to hang near where the nurses resided, near where your comrades would patch their wounds,” A small chuckle followed his words, both Irving and Felicia turning to face him, “Or so I have been told.”
Turning back to the painting for a moment, Irving responded, “It did. It’s a rather calming image, isn’t it?”
The two storekeeps nodded in agreement.
“Though I have to admit that I do miss it,” Irving fidgetted with his fingers, picking at what appeared to be dirt gathered under his split fingernails.
Felicia looked between the two, excusing herself by pressing a gentle hand to Burt’s shoulder, returning to the back where she busied herself with administrative tasks. Echoes of frames and paper fading into earshot soon after.
“I had wondered where it went…. They replaced it with a much less calming piece.”
“May I ask which that was?”
“A portrait of Imogene,” Irving averted his gaze once more, focusing on the weathering of his leather boots; the material dyed navy to match his attire. His hands fidgetted once more, out of time with the frames Felicia was stacking out back.
The air was dense. Not musty like where the troop had stayed nights prior. It was dense.
It took a few moments, but not too many, for Burt to notice the cuts all up Irving’s fingers. The bruises at his neck, purples and reds fading to a dark grey splash which scattered up his jawline. A worried expression took hold of his face, a gentle cock of the head to look at him in a different light in the hopes that the light was playing tricks on him.
“Was this from yesterday?” His voice wavered more than usual, a twinge of disturbance knitted in between his words.
Irving frowned almost immediately and instinctively tugged at the collar of his tunic; an attempt to hide the remnants of his work.
“I am going to take that as a yes. I do hope that they take care of you, what with all the nurses in the manor and everything…. They must patch your wounds and not simply leave you to look at a picture of Imogene.”
A laugh radiated from the other man, his head dipping forward as a form of habit when he laughed, “I assure you, we do. My troop goes on tough missions, so my wounds never truly fade,” He turned back to the painting that acted as a backdrop to their conversation, “But I must say, seeing this piece again has lifted my spirits more than any picture of Imogene could.”
Their eyes met, both kind and soft like the setting sun. Long, long seconds passed before Irving reached to place a hand to Burt’s upper arm; a gentle gesture that left Burt in disbelief, that a soldier could place such a gentle hand to his person, “Thank you, Burt.”
A gentle smile was offered in return.
Irving left. The bell dung to signal his exit.
-
He had taken him for a walk one afternoon.
The soldier had taken a detour on his way home to say hello, but that had quickly turned into shooing him out the door and onto the path; his armour making crunching noises as his legs scurried to keep himself upright.
They had walked only a short while - two minutes south of the store, and then down past the frozen lake until they reached a row of trees in the shape of a horseshoe, and then not too far past rotting, rank-smelling carcasses and remnants of places people had slept for the night, and then they were there.
A beautiful remain stood taller than the two of them stacked atop each other. An old building crumbling as if it were turning to snow as time passed. Melting in the air and turning to nothing but snowflakes - delicate, delicate pieces. Parts were completely covered by snow, a cold blanket covering and preserving the building for all time.
The two did not speak a word to each other - Irving awestruck at the sight.
It was a scene that could appear in a painting. Something so beautiful in the same place rotting animals lay.
In order to have darkness you must have light.
Burt reached and grabbed Irving’s armoured hand.
Irving squeezed the other’s in acceptance.
-
Typically, the soft ticking of grandfather clocks seemingly found in the corner of almost every room would be calming; they'd tick and tock in just the right way, not too loud and obnoxious and not too quiet. And when the hour passed it would sing a little song. A little song that differed between the store and his home; the clock in the store sounded much different to the one at home. Different songs for different auras. Often, he'd enjoy the little song. He had memorised the exact tune each of them possessed, although, the one at home slowly running out of breath with every vocalisation; the texture of the exterior becoming more and more like the bark of an old, dying tree.
Since Irving had visited on this day, the clock had chimed twice. The two wrapped in conversation ranging from their lives growing up in the town, what Helena Eagan was like both as a person and as a brother in arms, and their personal beliefs in how Kier would bring them salvation. No matter how beaten Irving got in battle, no matter how hard it was for Burt to give the taxman a day’s work pay, Kier was always there to remind them of cheer, of verve.
The clock would not ring for another thirty minutes.
Irving had to leave, he had been at the gallery for far too long. Saying his goodbyes, he turned to leave, hand on the doorknob, bell tolling as he pulled it open.
And then it began to pour.
With no warning, the heavens opened, weeping as if one’s heart had been ripped out. Raindrops creating a tempo against the roof of the outdoors awning, harmonies against the signage, the windows and windchimes. It was a heavy downpour. One that would not let up for quite some time. An end was never in sight with these kinds of storms.
Irving stood at the door and gazed into the unknown. A once light day now almost black as night. His first thought darted to the stray dog he’d been feeding on his way to the barracks every morning, wondering if he had a safe place to stay when the storms hit.
The soldier was about to take a step forward when Burt’s warm voice halted him. Hailing from behind.
“Stay,” Was all he said. The single word held so much power.
“I can’t. I must retire to the garrison.”
“Nonsense! I have tea and a fireplace. Stay for a little longer.”
Irving pretended to think about it for a few moments; of Mark, of Helly, of Dylan, the three of them wondering where he had run off to. He was not one to run off, after all. Eventually, he turned, returning to the indoors where the promise of warmth resided.
-
“I paint in my free time,” The soldier spoke over his teacup, taking a sip of the lavender brew as a pause in the cadence of his words.
The store was snug. A bit too small for more than four people, especially with all of the antiques and paintings hugging all who entered; but Burt and Felicia made it work when more than two people at a time came to visit. At this moment, Felicia had left the two men to sit at the armchairs on one corner of the room while she stayed at the desk, focusing on cataloguing that Burt had left unfinished prior to Irving’s visit; the two sat across from each other, the soldier slowly but surely leaning closer to the other as time passed. What surrounded them were the eyes of the Eagans. All encompassing in their holiness watching them with eager eyes - the walls were lined with them, frames sometimes overlapping others and it becoming less and less clear what the original colour of the walls was. Old, ancient, paintings intermingerling with new. It was everything that Irving could dream to have. In the few times he had visited, more times than he could count on one hand, felt as though the room grew larger in piety. A small room in physicality, sure, but it was the kind of room that could bring even the least devout follower of Kier to tears; just as it had almost brought him to tears upon each visit.
It was much too small for company, but Burt was not going to let Irving leave this time.
The fireplace crackled in front of them. Burning embers smelt akin to amber.
“I could have met you earlier, had you become a painter…” A hopeless tone enveloped Burt’s words, “Your paintings could be on the wall as we sit here.”
Irving felt as though his heart had been split in two. Another man was upset at the fact that they had not met earlier. He wondered how much longer it would be for him to grow tired of him.
But, oh, how he didn’t want to run away from him.
He was just as tender as the fire in front of them. All Irving could have wished for, all he wanted to wrap his arms around and have someone to come home from battle to, just like Dylan did. Just like Mark and Helly fighting side by side. He could have that.
He wanted that. He wanted it so much.
A cough came from him in a poor attempt to pull his head back into gear, “Father wished for me to follow in his footsteps…” He trailed off, “I would have loved to be a painter of our Creator… To have met you earlier.”
The storekeep nodded assertively, yet gently. It was only a matter of moments before his hand reached over to Irving’s, letting it rest gently atop.
A knowing look was shared between the two of them. It was as if their one true wish had been granted, someone who understood them at the most microscopic level. Someone, within all the slop that resided outside of the four walls they were between at this very moment, who could act as a guiding light. It was everything to them.
Burt brought Irving’s hand to his lips after a few moments. A gentle kiss pressed there. A token, a trinket, a miniature piece of his affection.
It was an unspoken communication. They had only known each other for a short while, but it felt like they had been searching for each other for decades.
And they had finally found each other.
-
As far as the winds take you.
That is all they were ever told before embarking on a new mission.
Never do they know where they are going, who they are tasked to kill, for what reason they are to kill people for. All they know is that Lady Cobel sensed something, and when Cobel sensed something, it was best to listen to her, lest she make Sir Milchick travel with them in order to keep an eye on them; to follow them like a parent watching over their child.
None of them asked questions.
Or at least they do not anymore - not after Mark questioned why they were bringing bodies doused in goat blood many moons ago. No one dared ask why. All they knew was that Jame had made an order.
Helly, on occasion, asked. She threatened from time to time, but her father would be summoned immediately, spouting reminders of how she is not to spend her life in the military. This was only a rite of passage for her - she should not question what her ancestor had set up. She would lead the nation one day soon, expand to other towns, even.
Upset with her fate, she would stay quiet. Leaving her outbursts for when the four were alone. The four she truly cared about the most in this world.
Helly was the second person to catch on to Irving’s feelings for the art dealer they had passed a few weeks prior, Dylan being the first, and Mark the last. The four knew something was up, his sudden loosening of the reigns and loss of regimentation in place of a firey passion. It was as if he had finally, finally, found his place in the world. What he truly would be fighting for.
If only they knew what they were fighting.
But that wasn’t to matter when they were in the arms of those they fought for - Dylan home with his wife and kids, Mark and Helly stealing moments when people turned their backs, and Irving with his small steps towards what he hoped to be something special.
-
And then he decided to paint.
He had stored a few brushes and paints in his knapsack prior to this particular mission. In anticipation that they would be gone for more than a day, they would always pack a few things to pass the time - books, often, but this time Irving had taken a few things to paint with.
The four were situated around a fireplace once more, all in active conversation and laughter. Helly had just gone on a ramble about her recent teachings back home, discussing how part of her evenings now included an hour of ballroom dancing lessons. Despite how peevish she appeared, she jumped up and enthusiastically asked for Dylan’s hand. The two danced around the fireplace, earning a cheer from the two who sat as audience - and they danced, and danced, and danced. This moment here, a moment of freedom for Helly. Where she could be happy.
They were as happy as could be in each other’s company.
Idle chatter continued late into the night, late into Irving’s painting. He painted for hours and hours on end, not knowing what time it was when he finally finished, but never once stopping until it was complete.
And when it finally was complete, he smiled a smile that held every ounce of love in his body. He would take it to Burt when they returned to town, but for now, this tiny painting of a set of ruins asleep under a snowy veil would remind him of home.
-
“I painted you something,” Was the first thing he said when he saw Burt again. No hello, no how have you been? just that he had painted something and he was eager to pass it on.
The tiny painting of their special place lay in Irving’s cupped hands; hands that were battle-worn, cut and bruised, calloused and scarred. A beautiful, delicate painting rested in the palms of someone who had seen death more than once - a sight which Burt wished he would never see.
Burt’s eyes beamed as he looked at the painting, having to adjust his glasses only a little to identify the little details - the brickwork on the ruins, the little pieces of moss that somehow managed to grow in these conditions, their two shadows as if the picture was from their point of view, all of it.
“This is…?” He was at a loss for words, “Irving, you painted this? For me?”
Irving nodded. He hesitated for a moment, but soon bent down just a little to press their foreheads together, “For you.”
Burt leant into the touch and let his eyes shut as he enjoyed this small moment of intimacy. He would place it somewhere special. Someplace that everyone could see, but not everyone as this was not a piece for everyone to see. It was their special place, their little home away from home, their little place that they wished no one else to destroy.
He would display it someplace special.
The most special place in the room.