Chapter Text
An oddly matched duo sat before a chess board in the general store, a small crowd gathered around them. The first was a young boy, about six maybe, with short brown hair and grey eyes. His eyes skimmed over the pieces as he surveyed the board, a thoughtful pout on his face as his small hand ran through his hair. He pushed a piece forward, confidence a mantle over his small frame as he sat on his knees on one of the barrels someone had moved so he could see the board. The second player was a middle-aged farmer with weathered clothes, dark hair peppered with small streaks of grey, and a look of disbelief on his face as he looked from the boy across from him, who was now looking at him with a glint of mischief in his eyes, to the board, where he'd been systematically picked apart.
"Told you Rowan," said one of the oldest men in the small crowd, pulling his pipe out from between his bearded lips, "Lad's got a winning streak here."
Rowan looked at the chessboard again, then shook his head slowly. The old timer was right, he saw that now, the lad was good.
The boy smiled, "It's your move sir," he said, gesturing to the pieces.
The man looked over the pieces, seeing no way out of the trap the child had laid. He shook his head, "Looks like you've won," he said simply, a hint of respect creeping into his voice as he looked at the unassuming little boy again, "What did you say your name was again?"
"Mark," said Mark.
Rowan held out his hand, "Good game, Mark."
Mark shook it with a solemnness beyond his years, "Good game, Mr. Rowan."
"Yes," said the older man, before picking up his hat from where it sat behind him and walking off.
Mark jumped off the feed sack on top of the barrel that had allowed him to see the board, and smiled at the old man who'd teased Rowan, "That's seven, isn't it Grandpa?"
Ben chuckled and ruffled Mark's hair, "So it is lad," he said with a smile, before looking around the store, "Where's your father? I'd hoped to speak with him."
Mark pointed to the far side of the shop, to where a brown-haired man spoke with the owner, "He's looking at wheat seeds."
Ben stood slowly, he old steps following the light and quick ones of the young boy. As the pair made their way over to Mark's father, a man with an easy smile and kind eyes, Ben looked down at the lad in front of him with a fond smile.
"You finish that book you were talking of?" he asked.
Mark nodded energetically, "Yes! Pa says that when he was six, he couldn't read though. Could you?"
His grandfather shook his head as a no.
Mark's father had finished his conversation by this point, and smiled at his son, "Another one for the streak Mark?"
The boy nodded, beaming with pride, "Yeah! Mr. Rowan didn't think I was any good, and I beat him! He told me it was a good game."
His father ruffled Mark's hair as he mirrored the smile before looking up at Ben, "Pa, good to see you. How's the farm doing?"
"Better Grant, finally got Josh's cow out of my field. She was getting in through a hole in the fence," Ben replied, before gesturing to Mark, who'd pulled out a small paper from his pocket, along with a lump of charcoal, and was writing something, "He's going to be a sharp one, that lad. Already beating everyone at chess."
"I was thinking of sending him into Bern City for schooling," said Grant quietly, "He'll grow beyond my knowledge yet."
The words hung in the air, Ben's face registering surprise as his eyebrows raised, "Bern City? Pricey. Not many here have the funds for that, son. I know you don't."
"I'll manage."
Ben smiled, "We'll manage you mean. Mark's bright, and if you intend to give him schooling, I'd be happy to assist with funds."
"Pa, you don't have-"
A hand held up silenced him, "Oh I don't have too, sure, but I mean too," the old man gave a quick jerk of his head, then moved to leave, "Keep him at it, Grant, and give my love to Elaine."
The old man left, leaving his son with a smile on his face. Grant's grey eyes fell on Mark, who was still scribbling away, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, "Come on Mark, time to go."
They were met at the gate of their small, one-room cottage by Elaine, Grant's wife and Mark's mother. She was not a beautiful woman, but there was something in her that made you think she was. She had laughing, deep blue eyes, a face that was never without a smile, and her hands, worn with work, always were at the ready, helping and soothing those around her. Her black hair was up under a handkerchief, curls coming loose around her face. The scent of stew drifted to the two returning home, and as she meet them at the end of the dirt path, Mark with a hug and Grant with a quick kiss, her very presence made the lad smile.
"Well Mark?" she asked her son as he took her hand, leading her inside, "How'd you do?"
The small boy told her a tumbled tale of his day, starting with the farmer they'd helped with his roof, (meaning Grant had assisted while Mark played with the other children), to the chess game at the end. As he animatedly told the tale, Elaine bustled around, listening intently as she dished up supper. The meal was a cheery affair afterwards, as his parents talked together, their voices a familiar rise and fall, Mark pulled out the coveted gift his father had managed to get ahold of awhile back. It was worn book, large and heavy, dog-eared in places, but to the young mind who devoured the tales over and over with joy, it was his greatest treasure. He cuddled up with the cumbersome book by the hearth, where a small fire burned against the chill of the night. The flickering firelight danced across the pages as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration. The words were complex, long and difficult, but Mark wasn't one to shy away from a challenge. He mumbled some of the more difficult phrases under his breath, tracing the lines with a small finger. When he got stuck, his small hand drifted up to run through his hair, pushing it back, only for it to spring forward in a spiky, unruly mess that stood on end. The habit was one of his father's, and Mark had copied it without knowing he did so. His mother found the the gesture adorable, and smiled warmly at the familiar motion echoed by her small son.
"He's a bright lad," she said to her husband with pride, "I'll miss him terribly, but if you believe we can manage sending him to Bern City Grant, I think we should do it."
Her husband smiled, "It's a long ways off yet."