how i became indispensable

Gerald Thorn

Franciso Gonsalves

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this is a misc. story!

this is a ship fic!

What had begun as an uneasy truce with the rising sun had somehow softened into something almost natural. Francisco was upright now; color returned to his face, and Gerald found himself staring at the proof of it like a miracle he still didn't quite believe in.

The thought sent a quiet jolt through Death's youngest son every time it resurfaced. The twins could barely whisper those healing spells without shaking and thinking of Father's gaze from across the divine plane. Hands that had never held a needle for anything more serious than altar linens couldn't possibly stitch a body back together. And yet... Francisco was here. The guardsman was even smiling a little.

That smile did something dangerous in Gerald's chest. He firmly told himself not to dwell on it. Gerald was Francisco's healer now, nothing more-- though the word still felt unfitting in the mind of little more than a countertenor in the Church choir.

Maybe Gerald would revisit the feelings that lingered in his many souls after Halloween.

Francisco took a slow breath, gathering himself with shaking hands. "I should apologize," the guardsman said softly. Gerald's heart cracked.

"It's all right, truly." Gerald tilted his head. "You were just--"

"Oh, don't excuse it." There was a sharp blade in Francisco's voice, though it seemed to be turned inward. "I was rude. You had more than enough reason to be upset."

"And... I forgive you?" Gerald's head tilted further in a more pronounced way, silver locks ghosting down his shoulder. "You were in pain, still gravely wounded, almost certainly disoriented. You more than had a right to be on edge, after what you'd been through."

Francisco fell silent, and Lockwood let out a small chuckle. "Forgive him." Lockwood tipped his head towards his brother with a little smirk. "Gerald has a fixation on diagnosing everything going on around him."

Gerald rolled his eyes at Lockwood, and Francisco let out a sigh that carried a little chuckle in its wake.

"Oh-- Is that still comfortable?" Gerald asked softly, stumbling over himself just a little. He reached for the pillows that propped up Francisco and adjusted them by instinct, then second-guessed himself the moment his fingers touched the fabric. "Not too tall?"

"It's fine," Francisco replied, just as gently. "Truly. Don't trouble yourself."

Gerald nodded, then leaned closer anyway. "Right. Good. I just-- can I check your bandages? And is the tea still warm enough? Maybe I could get you some--?"

A hand landed on Gerald's shoulder. "Give him some air, Gerald." Lockwood chuckled.

Gerald froze, then his face turned crimson as he realized just how close he'd drifted to Francisco's side. The choir boy straightened like a whip pulled back, and rubbed the nape of his neck. "Sorry, sir. I just--"

"I'm alright." There was a touch of awkwardness in Francisco's tone. The way he shifted made it clear it still hurt to move, but Francisco didn't brace like a man on the edge of collapse anymore. "The wrong move won't break me, will it?"

Lockwood snorted. "You're doing better than last night, at least. You nearly choked on your own spit trying to sit up."

Francisco blinked for a moment. Then, despite the way his face seemed compelled to fight it, the guardsman laughed. It was a short, startled sound, nothing like the grizzled man who made it.

Gerald laughed, too. Relief bubbled up before anyone could stop it. For a moment, the room felt lighter, then the laughter faded and the air went still just long enough to be noticeable. Gerald cleared his throat, glancing anywhere but directly at Francisco. "So..." he began, too slowly for the casual air he'd been aiming for. "What's it like? Living in a manor, I mean. Heaven must be incredible..."

Francisco stared at Gerald like he'd said something offensive. While Gerald's mind scrambled for whatever his mistake must have been, the guardsman huffed and leaned back against the pillows. "It's a nightmare."

"Really?" Gerald raised an eyebrow. "I couldn't-- I always imagined it was... well." Gerald gestured vaguely, wracking his mind for the right word. Something like the way the walled garden was always shown in portraits and chapel murals. "I thought it was beautiful."

"If you find beauty in chaos, perhaps."

The twins shared a glance at one another before turning back to Francisco, trying not to let their eyes widen in their curiosity.

"The staff turns over constantly," Francisco went on, his voice settling into an exasperated cadence without seeming to notice their stares. "There's new guards every month. Half are greener than spring wheat, the other half are convinced they know everything before they step foot on the manor. Between them, I spend more time correcting mistakes than preventing threats."

"That sounds exhausting..." Gerald's voice deflated as swiftly as it rose.

"It is." Francisco let out a little sigh, raking his fingers through his hair as he spoke. "Endlessly babysitting... I swear, some days it feels like wrangling the Putnam children all over again."

Lockwood barked out a laugh. "I'd pay to see that."

Francisco shot him a dry look in return. "You'd get bored in a day. There's nothing entertaining about standing still and fixing the same mistakes over and over."

Lockwood kept grinning. "Clearly, you've never seen the choir master and the weaver's hall threaten to take arms over who gets the good beeswax candles."

Gerald, meanwhile, felt somewhere between impressed and starstruck. "But you work directly under the Duchess," he beamed, awe creeping into his voice as his hands moved towards his heart. "That's-- I mean, that's incredible! It sounds like something out of a sermon. All that splendor, all that responsibility... I don't think I've ever been that close to anything so important."

Francisco hesitated with a half-smile of his own now. "It is an honor," he said, but the guardsman's tone seemed too careful for the gravity of what he was. "One that comes with more headaches than glory."

Gerald felt his face flush traitorously hot again. "Still. It must be amazing."

Francisco shifted slightly against the pillows, moving carefully, wincing as he tested the limits of his own body. His gaze flicked between Gerald and Lockwood, seeming thoughtful in a way Gerald hadn't seen yet. "So," Francisco began after an eon. "What's it like, living in that great cathedral of yours? Did the Reverend teach you to fly up there?"

Gerald's breath hitched before he could stop it. For a moment, the painted stars and linen sheets slipped away, replaced by the memory of blood-slick stone and the weight of a grown man limp in Gerald's arms. He remembered the way Francisco's fingers had clenched in his robes the moment the ground fell away beneath them. At the time, Gerald thought it was just a reflex, but now...

"Ah, well--" Every one of Gerald's many souls rose to speak at once. "It's not, ah, that's not-- I didn't get that one from the church, no." Gerald tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a squeak. "I'm in the choir, and it's not that exciting, really, but I've been training with some of the biggest names in the cathedral since I've been wanting to learn how to be a healer-- and maybe Reverend Parris will finally recognize my efforts. We were really lucky that our name alone was enough to get us into the same building as him--" Gerald let the dreams flood his mind, replacing the memory of what he'd just endured. "Oh my stars, someday being recognized for the work we do... could you imagine?"

"Yeah." A soft smile passed across Francisco's face so quickly that Gerald was sure it had been a mirage. "I can imagine." Francisco's gaze lingered on Gerald for another heartbeat. In that uncomfortable stretch of time... there was something unsettling about being seen for the first time. "You mentioned being part of the choir, Gerald?" Just as pointedly, Francisco turned away, and the edges of his cheeks flushed a forbidden shade of pink.

"Oh--!" Gerald, too, looked away a second later. "It's not that exciting. Like I said, I don't stand out terribly much."

"Except when festival season comes around," Lockwood cut in with a snicker. "Then the whole building loses their heads and we're always stuck in the center of it."

"...Yeah. That's true." All the warmth in Gerald's voice fell away in an instant. "Our birthday's in a few days, and..." Gerald reached for his teacup. The drink had gone cold long ago, but Death's youngest son was desperate for any excuse to stop talking.

"Sounds rough," Francisco said, laughing in a low breathy way that sent Gerald's many souls into a fever pitch. Francisco didn't mean it like that-- Gerald knew he didn't-- but it hurt like the cruelty was intended. "What about you, Lockwood? I imagine you've seen more action than a choir boy in your day."

The room suddenly felt cold. Gerald knew exactly why Francisco thought that.

Lockwood kept that wooden grin plastered on his face. "Ah, nothing special. I haven't lifted a dying man into the air like this one," he said, tipping his head towards Gerald. "My worst night started with me doing a bit of work in the cemetery, and ended with me chasing a cat halfway across town."

Francisco's smile widened in turn as his eyes traced Lockwood's many scars. "A... cat."

"A vicious one. Cute as anything, though," Lockwood's tale was polished nonsense, delivered too smoothly. Gerald made sure not to bat an eye, and Francisco seemed to swallow each word with ever-increasing interest. "I heard some meowing and found this tiny black kitten tucked behind a headstone. Thought I'd help the poor thing out, and next thing I know, it's got my pocket watch and I'm sprinting after it like an idiot when--"

Loud banging detonated like gunfire. All three of them froze. Gerald's heart seized in his throat as a terrible stillness rushed to fill the space their conversation had left. His many souls screamed their scattered fears, all colliding into the chilling certainty that someone with fury in their heart and power in their hands had found them here.

eFrancisco moved on instinct alone. His hand shot out to search for a weapon that wasn't there, only for agony to tear through the guardsman as soon as he tried to rise. Francisco breathed in a sharp hiss, and his fingers curled uselessly against the mattress.

Gerald and Lockwood locked eyes. No words passed between them, just a sharp nod, and Gerald was already down the hall.

The front door opened to reveal neither a familiar black coat nor the sigil of the Church, but steel sharpened to a wicked point. The figure standing on the threshold of the Thorn house wore full plate armor, polished to a mirror shine despite the dust of the robe. A deep crimson sash cut across this soldier's armor, and tucked beneath one arm was a scroll so finely worked that its wax seal gleamed in the morning light.

Gerald quivered more than he'd like to admit at the sight.

"Are you Gerald Thorn?" The man's voice was rougher than gravel.

"I--" Gerald cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. I am. And you are...?"

The soldier did not answer. Instead, he unrolled the scroll just enough to glance at its contents. His eyes flicked over the ink as though Gerald himself were already but an afterthought. "You and Francisco Gonsalves are required at Putnam Manor by sundown."

Every instinct within Gerald's many souls recoiled at once. Images flooded his mind in a rush-- blood-soaked bandages, the tremor in Francisco's hands when he tried to sit up too quickly and the way his breath hitched when he laughed too hard. Moving Francisco now would kill him.

But refusing... Gerald's mouth felt dry. The soldier at the door did not look like a man who accepted refusals. "I-- I'm sorry--" Gerald's hands lifted in a placating gesture before he even realized they'd moved. "I can't recommend that, sir. If we move Francsico now, it'll reopen his wounds, and I don't want him to-- to get... more hurt. Or--"

"Was it not you who healed his wounds," the soldier interrupted smoothly, "Dr. Thorn?"

The title struck Gerald square in the heart. "Doctor." In any other moment, that word would have sent a thrill straight through his many souls. It would have been recognition, validation, the word Gerald had been reaching for since he clawed his way free from his destiny spoken aloud in broad daylight.

In this moment, it coiled around his chest like Father's chilling grip. "Yes..." Gerald said faintly. "B-but--"

"Then you should be capable of handling him." The solider rolled the scroll shut with a decisive snap. "The Duchess's word is final."

"Sir, I truly don't--"

The door slammed shut in his face.

Gerald's breath stilled, and his hands pressed against his face as he inhaled slowly. His palms muffled the shriek that fled his lungs.

"I heard that." Lockwood appeared at Gerald's side the moment he crossed the hall. "What's going on?"

"Th-the Duchess." Gerald stumbled slightly, his fists still coiled tight around the thick wool of his robes. "The Duchess wants to see us. Her manor. Tonight."

Francisco stiffened, turning towards the trembling choir boy. "Did the man say 'by sundown?'" He waited for Gerald's nod, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're already late, then. She expects us to be there as soon as we can physically make it." Francisco pressed a hand to his temple. "Gods, I've been gone all night, too-- her fury when we finally turn up on her doorstep..."

"Except you are in no state to move." Gerald hissed, face twisting as he fought back panicked tears. "And we were due at the cathedral an hour ago."

"Did you tell him that?" Lockwood piped up, and Gerald shot him a glare.

"Naturally! The fool only closed his scroll and reiterated her demand." Gerald's boots tapped against the floor like gunfire. "I've been hiding from Hale all day, and now I'm supposed to show up before the Duchess?" His hands flew from his robe and into his hair. "I-- we can't just skip an appearance at court! We'd hang for that! B-but if we..."

"It's ridiculous." Lockwood shook his head. "You're gonna let that hoity prick push you around?"

"We have to, Lockwood!" Gerald's voice snapped to a high octave and a higher volume. "Unless you happen to know how to escape the noose--!"

"Both of you!" Francisco barked, and two sets of eyes snapped to his. "Anger about your orders gets us nowhere." The twins raised their hands to protest, but Francisco's glare made their hands lower again. "We can be upset about it later; right now, our only move is to make it to the manor and pray we get there fast enough."

"How?" Gerald folded his arms. "You'd never make it if you walked, and... I can't really..." Death's youngest son suddenly felt smaller than an insect. "I can't fly you out like that again."

"Why not?" Francisco hummed.

"How would I even begin to explain...?" Gerald's grip tightened on his arms.

Lockwood gently placed his hand on Gerald's shoulder, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze.

"It's not from... That was... a curse. I think." Gerald took a deep breath. A slow roll of his shoulder, and black feathers peeked out from behind his robe. "I haven't told-- haven't had to tell-- anyone about them before. If the church finds out about them, they might..."

A cacophony swelled in Gerald's mind. It started with screams of witchcraft and possession, followed by the sound of gunfire and the snap of two ropes falling in tandem.

"They won't like it."

Francisco's eyes flicked to Lockwood for barely a moment before returning to the wings that caught the sunlight like a beacon. "They're quite..." Francisco's voice formed a fragment of a word, then faltered as the guardsman's hand landed on his heart. "I swear to you; none will hear of them from me."

Gerald's wings vanished as soon as they'd appeared. "Ah, yes, that--" His face burned. "Th-The fact they have to stay secret, you know."

"I-I understand." Francisco's voice stumbled. He pushed himself as upright as he could manage, and hid his wince under a snarl like gravel. "Do you have a cart?"

"No." Gerald shook his head. "No reason to have one without horses of our own."

"Why not check the shed?" Lockwood looked over at his twin. "The wheelbarrow might work."

Gerald's brows furrowed, and his eyes drifted to Francisco. The thought of leaving him alone even for a moment shattered Gerald's heart into pieces before he'd even taken a step. His gaze returned to Lockwood after a moment, and he pursed his lips. "I really shouldn't leave him alone like this."

"He'll be okay." Lockwood gave Gerald a little smile. "We won't be gone long."

"...If you're sure." Gerald mumbled, looking at Francisco again as Lockwood gently pulled Gerald towards the door.

Every step felt like miles. Gerald's thoughts slipped over one another too quickly to hold. Francisco's face-- too pale, too thin, too still-- kept flashing behind his eyes, each time worse than the last.

Lockwood's hand stayed firm on his sleeve, guiding him along like they were children again. That feeling swallowed Gerald's awareness after... how many steps? He had lost count. Gerald felt a flicker of guilt at that-- his brother having to drag him along like this, picking up the slack while Gerald's mind stayed somewhere else entirely. He should have been helping. He should have been coming up with a plan. Instead, he was just... following.

The guilt in Gerald's many souls twisted, then sharpened just as quickly into something restless and hot. He didn't want to be handled. They weren't children anymore. Gerald didn't need to be steered around like he might drift off if left alone. He could walk across their yard on his--

For a moment, Gerald didn't recognize where they were. Then the shape of the shed formed in front of him, as if it had been dropped into place while he wasn't looking. The handiwork of two desperate, clueless teenagers sagged to one side. Its wooden frame warped and bowed from years of rain and snow seeping into the grains. The doors were rough and splintered near the center, where handling peeled away the paint until this shed wasn't being handled anymore.

When Lockwood tugged at one side, an awful stench hit Gerald's lungs. Damp wood, ancient metal, and something stale that settled deep into the walls and remained to fester for years. Gerald recoiled, his nose wrinkling at the smell, but he forced through it and made his way to Lockwood's side. The twins exchanged a nod, and each grasped one of the shed's handles.

Together, they pulled.

The door squealed with the years of rust that had built up since Gerald and Lockwood last used this shed. It gave way slowly, inch by stubborn inch, until it finally lurched open and nearly threw the twins on their backs. Dust shook loose from the frame and fluttered right into their faces. The twins coughed, waved a hand uselessly in front of them, and stepped inside.

What little light filtered through the cracked window of the shed did more to reveal the dust within than the space itself. The glass was so clouded with grime that it turned the daylight into a dim, sickly gray, leaving the corners of the shed to sink into shadow. Gerald stepped blindly into the dark, and--

--And by the stars, there were cobwebs everywhere. Thick strands of them stretched from wall to wall, sagging under their own weight, and Gerald walked straight into one before he could stop himself. He swore under his breath, swatting at his arms to brush the clinging strands from his sleeves and getting nowhere. The silk tangled in the fabric of Gerald's robes in massive, irritating clumps.

Behind him, Lockwood was already moving. Metal scraped against metal as he shoved aside a cluster of tools, leaving rust and the sharp clang of falling iron in his wake. A shovel toppled to the ground with a hollow clatter. Something else-- Gerald couldn't see what-- fell over and thumped against soaked wood.

Right. The wheelbarrow. Gerald squinted into the dim light and began pushing through the clutter on his side of the shed. Stacks of old pots had been shoved together haphazardly by Gerald's former self. Some were cracked clean through, others filled with dirt so compacted it had hardened into something closer to stone. Gerald nudged them aside one at a time, each movement slower than it should have been. His attention snagged on every small frustration-- the cobwebs, the smell, the way his hands wouldn't quite move the way he needed them to.

"Come on," Gerald muttered under his breath, more to his shaking fingers than anything else.

Another step forward. Another pile of metal shifted and clattered.

"There it is..." Relief slipped into Gerald's voice. Slumped against the far wall, half-buried behind burlap sacks and a coil of rope, sat the means to carry a man who had no business going anywhere. Gerald grabbed the handles and hauled the wheelbarrow upright, while Lockwood stepped to the side and helped guide it free from the surrounding clutter.

The metal groaned faintly as the wheels shifted for what must have been the first time in years. Up close, the wheelbarrow was a little worse for wear. Its edges were eaten through with rust; the basin was pitted and flaking, but it was solid. The tray was deep and wide, the kind built to carry heavy loads without tipping, and the frame held firm under the twins' grip despite the corrosion.

For a flickering moment, Gerald's many souls eased. It would hold Francisco. It had to. The man wouldn't be left resorting to--

Gerald cut the thought off before it could finish forming. His grip tightened on the handles. Thinking about why they needed it-- about what it meant to move a wounded man at all-- was a quick way to lose his nerve entirely. Lockwood was right behind him. All Gerald had to do was move forward.

Together, the twins maneuvered the wheelbarrow towards the door. The shed offered little resistance. The doorway was wide enough, the warped frame was forgiving, and after a brief, awkward adjustment, the two of them managed to wrestle it out into the open air. The real problem came past the garden, towards the narrow back entrance Gerald and Lockwood had just come through to get here.

The doorway looked smaller from this angle. Too small. Gerald's stomach sank as he glanced down at the wheelbarrow, then back at the door again, measuring them against each other while a pit formed in his many souls.

Lockwood scowled. "That's not going to fit."

Gerald breathed a thin exhale. Of course, it wasn't. Of course, it wouldn't just work when they needed it to, especially not now that their birthday is coming and the stars have to remind them that their very existence was a bad omen and--

Gerald's jaw clenched. No. Not now. He forced the thought down and pressed it flat against his many souls. Calm-- just calm down. "Let's get it as close as we can." Gerald's voice was steadier than he felt.

The two lifted the wheelbarrow and carried it out of the shed. The metal frame rattled in protest as they lifted it over the uneven threshold, and one wheel knocked awkwardly against the ground when they set it down again. Still, the twins carried on and pushed it across the yard. Towards the house, and the door that was, very clearly, too small.

Gerald didn't stop. He angled the wheelbarrow forward and shoved. The front lip stuck the doorframe, and Gerald only pushed harder. The metal scraped against the wood with a harsh grinding noise that set a shudder up through his arms, but it seemed like the doorframe might give, maybe, if he just--

"Gerald." Lockwood put a hand on Gerald's shoulder.

"It's fine," Gerald hissed. "I've got it." He adjusted the angle and shoved again. The wheelbarrow jammed halfway into the doorway this time, wedged crooked between the frame and the floor. The handles jerked violently in Gerald's grip as the rusted metal caught and held fast. Gerald just held it there, muscles straining from the effort, as if refusing to acknowledge what was happening might somehow change it.

And yet, a basin of iron and rust cared not for how badly Gerald needed it to fit through the door. The wall creaked faintly under the pressure, while the wheelbarrow remained unmoving. Something was going to give, and it wasn't going to be in the way Gerald wanted. He sighed and yanked the wheelbarrow back before he could find out what would break first.

Silence fell for a second. Then-- slowly, as if the motion brought him searing pain-- Gerald straightened out the wheelbarrow and guided it to the side of the doorway. As close as it was going to get.

The twins went back to the bedroom that seemed frozen in time. Francisco hadn't moved an inch. He still looked too pale, like something fragile had been forced into the shape of a broad-shouldered man and left there to stretch itself thin.

"Right," Gerald said, quiet enough to hide the tremor in his voice. "We just-- lift him. Carefully."

Lockwood gave Gerald a look. They had never done this before. Not like this, not with someone who needed this much care. When neither twin produced a better idea, Lockwood nodded and moved to Francisco's shoulders while Gerald hovered for half a second too long. He shoved the pain of his many souls aside and forced himself into position at Francisco's side.

"On three."

Gerald nodded, even though his hands still felt shaky.

"One..."

Francisco tensed slightly, then made his face blank again in the span of half a second.

"Two..."

Gerald saw it more clearly now-- a controlled, almost invisible, but clearly present flicker of pain.

"Three."

The twin children of Death lifted a man into the air with their bare, clumsy, unfocused hands. Francisco made a sound, barely louder than a breath, but Gerald felt it like a blade through his many souls. "Sorry," he blurted in an instant. "I'm sorry--"

"Just move," Lockwood grumbled under his breath.

They moved too slowly, then too fast, never quite making the right pace. Every step felt like it was puppeted by a foreign hand and invisible strings. Every shift of their weight earned another tiny, restrained reaction from Francisco-- another tightening of his jaw, another shallow breath pulled just a little too sharply.

Every single one of them landed like wounds in Gerald's side. He adjusted his grip, then adjusted again. "Is this okay--? Are you--?"

"I'm fine," Francisco growled through clenched teeth. He was lying. Gerald could see it on the man's face, and there was nothing he could do about it except keep going. That helplessness worsened the pain in his many souls.

The road to Putnam Manor was so much longer than Francisco remembered. He felt every movement of rusted metal as a sharp throb in his ribs. The motion forced Francisco to keep his jaw locked tight and grind his teeth together so the pain would stay where it belonged-- inside his chest, instead of spilling out where anyone could hear it. Francisco stared ahead and tried not to think about how humiliating it was to be hauled up to the gates of Heaven like a sack of grain.

Those gates had barely begun to creak open when the staring started. Servants paused mid-stride along the courtyard paths. A pair of stablehands stopped hauling a crate between them. Even one of the gate wardens leaned forward slightly, squinting as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

Francisco kept his eyes forward. It didn't help. The murmuring started the moment the wheelbarrow rolled through the gate. At first, it was only a few voices drifting down from the open windows that lined the path towards their destination. Then more joined them, until the walled garden was filled top to bottom with excited whispers bouncing along the stone bricks and towering columns like startled birds in flight.

"That's him--!"

"--the one who saved the Duchess--"

"--gods above, I hear he nearly bled out--"

"--didn't know he was still alive--"

By the time they reached the Duchess's towering walls, the buzz had grown into something almost festive. Business giants and nobles lingered along the walls with their hands folded too carefully in front of them, their eyes flickering towards Francisco every time they thought he wouldn't notice. A pair of children with powder-white hair leaned out from a doorway, whispering to each other with thinly-veiled glee.

Francisco's grip tightened against the rough wood and rusted metal of the wheelbarrow. The aristocracy had sneered at him right up until the moment he was left to die for them. Now that he had crawled back from the edge of death, suddenly, he was brave. Suddenly, he was admirable. Suddenly, the name of Francisco Gonsalves passed through the halls of Putnam Manor like a piece of gossip worth savoring.

Weasels, the lot of them.

Francisco caught the quick glance the twins exchanged while another guard appeared before them and gestured for them to follow. Gerald's hands tightened on the wheelbarrow's handles, and Lockwood shifted behind it, one hand hovering near the rim as if ready to catch the whole thing should it tip.

Those boys looked so nervous. They both tried to hide it, but every uneven step gave them away. The handles creaked faintly in Gerald's grip. Lockwood carried himself straighter than a board, his shoulders squared and jaw locked tight like a recruit at boot camp bracing for a blow. To be so terrified in the gates of Heaven was a foolish thing, but Francisco's mind was drowned in the strange, sudden urge to reach out a hand to steady them.

Francisco's hand pulled back just inches from Gerald's own. He sat weak and worthless in the iron coffin while the twins pushed him past the angel carvings that guarded the Duchess's home.

The armored messenger walked a few paces ahead of them, clearing a path through the growing crowd of blue-bloods and valets. He slowed when the murmuring along the walls grew too loud, and cast a quick look over his shoulder at the wheelbarrow. For a moment, the messenger's eyes met Francisco's. There was no awe in them, no twisted curiosity, just a silent understanding between two guardsmen of the same manor.

"Move along," the messenger barked to the onlookers.

A few servants scattered immediately. The nobles lingered longer before shuffling to the nearest hall with that familiar highborn sneer on their faces.

The guard snorted under his breath. "Hell of a welcome, eh?" he muttered, just loud enough for the three of them to hear. "Two days ago, they would have looked right through you."

All four of them gazed briefly towards the courtiers watching from around the nearest corner.

"Name's Roarke," the armored messenger added, almost as an afterthought. "Don't pay them any mind. I'll get you to the Duchess."

"...Thank you." Francisco wasn't sure he trusted his voice enough to form another word. But the knot in his chest loosened by the smallest measure as they followed Roarke deeper into Putnam Manor.

Thankfully, Roarke did not take the stairs. Whoever the Duchess had sent must have explained at least part of what had happened; since they were guided down a short corridor and towards a modest office used by the household staff on the ground floor. The door stood wide open, and Martha Putnam waited behind a desk near the back of the room.

The sight of her nearly stopped Francisco's heart. The Duchess looked... relieved. Only for a moment. The expression was gone almost as soon as he noticed it, replaced by the sharp, composed posture Francisco knew too well. Roarke leaned against the wall with his arms folded, his gaze fixed squarely on Gerald as if the young man needed to be watched any more closely than he already was.

The wheelbarrow bumped against the doorframe, sending a sharp wave of pain through Francisco's ribs. Gerald hesitated, then pulled back, trying to angle the wheelbarrow through the gap. Wood scraped against iron as Lockwood stepped forward to help maneuver it. For a brief, chilling moment, all three of them were wedged halfway in the doorway. After a strained shuffle and about a thousand muttered apologies from Gerald, the wheelbarrow finally lurched free and rolled the rest of the way into the room.

The office was small enough that every pair of eyes in it felt uncomfortably close. The Duchess remained seated behind her desk, posture immaculate, her attention fixed on their every move. Gerald stood a few feet in front of the wheelbarrow now, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as if he was afraid they might betray him. Lockwood lingered Francisco's shoulder, as rigid as a guard dog trying not to bare its teeth.

Francisco suddenly became very aware of the room's silence. The feeling that settled over him was deeply familiar and deeply unpleasant-- less like a guardsman returning from duty, and more like a man on trial.

Roarke nudged the Thorns aside like they were made of twigs and dust. Rough hands braced under Francisco's arm and at his back. When Francisco whipped around to face the man grasping his back, the man muttered "Easy," and held still until Francisco took a breath and nodded.

The moment Roarke lifted him from the wheelbarrow, every wound in Francisco's body screamed. Fire shot through his ribs; and his shoulder felt like it had been torn clean from the socket. The guardsman's vision tilted slightly as blood rushed towards places it had no business being.

Francisco clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He did not make a sound. He would not let himself make a sound, or twitch, or lose control and faint like a drunk. Strength was the only currency a man like him possessed in a room like this. Without it, Francisco was nothing more than another servant who had failed at his job.

Roarke eased Francisco down into a chair at the table. Francisco straightened his back as soon as he landed, forcing his posture upright despite the tremor threatening to shake his arms. The guardsman folded his hands neatly in his lap, weaving the facade of perfect composure for the Duchess while his every breath burned.

Across the room, Madam Putnam's eyes moved over him slowly, head to toe, taking inventory of her returned stock. Francisco felt the weight of that gaze settle over every veiled weakness-- the stiffness in his shoulders, the careful way he held his ribs, the faint tremor still lingering in his fingers. Did she see it?

"Mr. Gonsalves," the Duchess said at last, with a voice too measured for the occasion. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Francisco blinked. The words alone would have been strange enough; the smile on Madam Putnam's face made them surreal.

"I will keep this brief," she continued. "I have an urgent appointment to arrange with His Majesty, and I would prefer to have the facts of this matter settled before I leave."

His Majesty? Francisco kept his face carefully neutral. Inside his head, the words bounced around like a dropped coin. The king? He stared at her for half a second too long, wracking his brain for what kind of situation could possibly require both Francisco and an appointment with His Majesty.

The Duchess folded her hands atop the desk. "Tell me what happened."

The command snapped Francisco back to himself. He straightened a fraction more in his chair. "Yes, Your Grace."

He recounted the events of the previous night as clearly as he could-- starting with the nightly patrol, then the disturbance near the outer grounds, before landing on the sudden violence of a caped intruder's attack. Francisco's voice stayed steady as his account of a night that blurred into instinct and survival fell into the practiced cadence of reports he had delivered a hundred times before.

Across the room, Gerald stood rigidly beside Lockwood, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.

When Francisco reached the part about the light-- about the strange, blinding brilliance that had flooded the night sky-- Gerald suddenly met his eyes. Just for a moment.

Francisco hesitated.

"Continue," the Duchess commanded.

Francisco cleared his throat. "I remember... a flash of light," he said slowly. "After that, I lost consciousness." It was not a lie. He simply did not mention the young angel with black wings descending from the sky like an figure in a chapel painting.

The Duchess sat very still after Francisco finished speaking. Her fingers tapped once against the desk. Then she turned. The warmth drained from Madam Putnam's expression like water from a basin, leaving something frigid in their place. When her eyes landed on Gerald, they narrowed to a sharp point.

Francisco felt his pulse quicken. He had seen that look too many times in the past twelve years. It was the look the Duchess gave the Putnam children when they disappointed her.

"And how did you enter my home without anyone seeing you, Dr. Thorn?"

Gerald startled like a deer caught in lantern light. "I--" his hands twisted together helplessly. "Someone, ah, left the gates open, Madam-- um-- Your Grace. I ran in when I heard the-- the shouting."

The silence that followed stretched thin. The Duchess did not move. Her expression was difficult to describe. There was no raised brow, no scoff, no open accusation, but the message in those narrowed eyes was unmistakable. The Duchess looked straight through the lie, and saw only an insult to her intelligence. Madam Putnam's gaze lingered long enough to make the lie wilt where it stood.

"You trespassed on my property, Dr. Thorn," the Duchess said calmly. "You entered my home without permission, during an active security incident, and made your way to the scene of an attack that you had no business knowing about." The Duchess's palms landed flat atop the desk as she leaned forward towards Gerald. "You were clearly after something."

Gerald's face went pale.

"Ordinarily," the Duchess continued, "I would have you flogged for that alone."

For the briefest, sharpest moment, something hot flared in Francisco's chest. He kept his mouth shut; because this was the Duchess, and Francisco Gonsalves did not falter in front of his Duchess. But the words grated on his soul. They grated because Gerald did not deserve them. Because the young men who'd dragged him back from death looked like they might collapse where they stood. Because the entire exchange reminded Francisco, with painful clarity, of the way he had spoken in the Thorn house just last night.

The memory of that suspicion and contempt reflected in Madam Putnam's voice stung.

The Duchess paused, studying Gerald for another moment, before continuing. "But... you interrupted whatever scheme you were enacting long enough to save my guardsman's life." The praise came out like the Duchess was chewing glass.

Gerald looked like someone had just unraveled the noose from around his neck. "Th-thank you, Your Grace," he stammered and bowed his head.

Behind him, Lockwood looked like he might launch himself through the nearest window.

Francisco felt the old guard-dog instinct roaring again-- the same instinct that had driven him to step between danger and the people under his watch more times than he could count. Tonight, he could do no such thing.

The Duchess leaned back into her chair. "You will forget whatever it was you came to my estate to retrieve," she snarled, "And I will forget that you intruded on my home without permission." Madam Putnam's eyes hardened again. "Am I clear, Dr. Thorn?"

Gerald nodded so quickly it was almost painful to watch. "Yes, Your Grace. Perfectly clear. It-- it won't happen again."

"Good."

The Duchess's gaze shifted back to Francisco, and the thread he'd been holding onto all day snapped loose. "I'm sorry, Your Grace." The words tumbled out, faster and faster. "I'm sorry I was gone so long. I should have reported sooner. I should have returned the moment I was able to--" Francisco's hands tightened against his knees. "I failed in my duty."

He was weak. The thought flashed through Francisco's mind like a blade at his throat, and he forced it down before it could reach his tongue.

Across the desk, to Francisco's utter confusion, Madam Putnam smiled. "Mr. Gonsalves, I could not care less about a missing report." Francisco looked again to see if he'd imagined it, and the expression on the Duchess's face was-- disturbingly-- almost warm. "I am concerned with the fact that you were injured badly enough to vanish from the grounds without word."

Francisco's mind produced something that could only be described as the empty buzz that followed a cannon blast. His thoughts tried to assembled themselves and failed. The guardsman had expected anger, disappointment, and disciplinary action for leaving his post unattended for so long. For that was the final resting place of the emotions Francisco had been shoving aside all morning. Instead, the Duchess sat there smiling like a woman whose problem had been neatly resolved. It made no--

"We are finished here." The words landed like a sucker punch. "Dr. Thorn, Mr. Thorn, your services are no longer required." Apparently satisfied, the Duchess gathered a few papers on the desk and straightened them into a tidy stack.

Francisco blinked. He'd been so busy trying to understand the last thirty seconds that he wasn't prepared for the next.

"Mr. Gonsalves," the Duchess went on, already turning back to her paperwork, "a physician will be with you shortly. Until then, you will be escorted to your quarters." Madam Putnam paused, her eyes lifting to meet Francisco's again. "And you must rest."

Francisco opened his mouth. "Your Grace, I--"

"I believe I was clear, Mr. Gonsalves. You will remain in your quarters until the physician clears you for duty." The warmth in Madam Putnam's tone vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "If I see you patrolling the grounds before then, there will be consequences."

Francisco felt his protest die quietly in his throat. "Yes, Your Grace," he said stiffly.

The Duchess snapped her fingers, and a crowd of valets came to answer the call. Before the first one had even stepped through the doorway, Madam Putnam was already moving on. Papers slid across the desk as she gathered them into precise stacks, her attention shifting away from the three men as cleanly as if they had vanished into thin air.

"You," Madam Putnam pointed to the armored messenger in the corner without looking up. "Once you're done with Mr. Gonsalves, inform the steward that I will require a carriage within the hour."

Another servant appeared at the door and bowed before the Duchess.

"And have someone draft a reply for His Majesty," Madam Putnam added briskly. "Today, if possible."

The room began to revolve around the Duchess again-- her footsteps, her voice, her quiet rustle of parchment forming the center of the world.

Francisco sat for a moment longer, and then the man was being ushered to his feet. Roarke appeared at Francisco's side, steadying him carefully as he rose from the chair at a snail's pace. The motion sent another hot spike of pain through Francisco's ribs, but his expression was as blank as he could manage, and the guardsman's mask of strength remained intact.

Gerald and Lockwood hovered nearby, ready to catch Francisco if necessary, all the while looking like men who had narrowly escaped the Hangman's noose.

Francisco's brothers in service guided them towards the door, while he cast one last glance over his shoulder. The Duchess was already speaking with twin handmaids, one hand gesturing sharply across the desk as the sisters scrambled to keep up with the Duchess's flurry of instructions. If she noticed the strain her guardsman endured for her peace of mind, Madam Putnam gave no sign of it.

They were halfway down the corridor when Gerald let out a long sigh. "Well." The young rubbed the back of his neck, where his curse threatened to peek out from his coat. "At least we'll finally be out of your hair."

The notion implied in that light phrase hurt Francisco more than his wounds.

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