Brian felt much better, relatively. His parents had kicked up a fuss when they'd seen what he'd done to his hand, and when he'd explained that his mother's suggestion of goose dung as a poultice was a bad idea. But at least it was healed, at least he didn't have the black rot. At least--as his father had pointed out--he wouldn't be conscripted.

Brian's relationship to his parents was, at best, strained. He couldn't quite forgive them for what he'd gone through when he was younger, the details of which he liked to keep vague and nebulous, floating just outside of his conscious grasp. And he couldn't quite forgive Conn for up and leaving them. And then again, he couldn't forgive himself for not going with him. Even Elsie, God's teeth, even Elsie had gotten out of this place, gotten herself sent to the garrison. Maybe it'd be better to be conscripted. But no; the plan germinating in his mind would go forward. Dan would help, and he knew plenty others. John, Gavin--and the man's family, all told there were about fifty Farrons. He'd spoken to them. What they needed were the weapons and a place to stay, and Brian had deputed himself to see about the latter.

As dusk fell on the fields--and luckily he had been able to avoid working, given his hand and the time of year, when all crops really needed to do was grow and the rainfall was proper, so he'd been able to go 'round talking to some of the others--as dusk fell, he made his way toward the Towers house. It was ramshackle, but still bigger than any others. He knocked. "Oy! Kit."

The knock actually sent Kit out of his chair and onto his feet. It wasn't until he heard an Oy Kit! that he realized it wasn't insistent knocking demanding entry, but one that was almost welcoming. That really puzzled him. No one came to his house even if the sun was shining brightly overhead. Granted, having lived in the place, Kit was almost certain the place looked more normal with less light. Still, on the rare occasion that Kit or his father did interact with others, it was usually in the fields, and if not that, some other place.

Opening the door and actually seeing someone there surprised him, too. He would have almost bet that it was some obnoxious person playing a trick. It wasn't the first time his door had been the target of a dare.

Standing there was Brian Farraday. Wasn't there a recent rumor about his hand? Kit looked -- stared would have been a more appropriate term. The fingers were indeed missing.

"Brian," he said as he looked up. It was a flat statement, a poor way to answer such a call. Kit held the door further open, a gesture he rarely made. "In?" He doubted the invitation would be accepted. Brian probably only wanted a few quick words.

"Thanks." Brian stepped quickly inside, pulling the door shut behind him so no one would mark his arrival. You couldn't be too careful--and besides, he had to admit, he got a thrill from the secrecy of it all. Finally, he was doing something.

"I know--the hand." He held it up ruefully, turning it this way and that. "Bloody Botolphs." He almost spat, but this house didn't have a dirt floor. Hell, it even had a cellar. What he wouldn't give for a house like this... well, that was why he was here. "At least they're where they oughtta be now, burnin' in Hell and no mistake." He rubbing his bad hand with the other. "An Arab woman had to take the rest of the fingers for me, I had the black rot. Better than naught, eh?" He shook his head, and clapped a hand to Kit's shoulder, leading him further into the somewhat musty room.

"Now then. How's it been for you?"

Brian had walked in. He had walked in as if he had done it before. Kit was fairly certain Brian hadn't been in this place any time recently. This perturbed him a bit more than just having someone show up at his door, knocking, and actually staying long enough for him to see who had knocked.

The hand, Kit noted, seemed more of an object now. "Looks like naught," he noted aloud as he raised his own hand. Bending his fingers back and forth, he tried to imagine not having them. "Must feel lighter," he mused. Maybe it would be easier to handle tools because it was just that much weight not carried.

Kit shrugged the hand off his shoulder, refusing to be led into his own house. He walked there still, just on his own accord.

"It's been the same as any day. Normal," he answered, gesturing for Brian to take a chair. If he had entered, that meant this would take longer than a few seconds, probably, and there was never a time Kit knew that he did not want to be sitting or lying. There was enough standing out on the fields. Luckily, his father had taken to his usual routine of sleeping soon, which left the only two chairs--small stools, really--they did have free.

"What do you..." he started to ask, but he cut it off in favor of, "And how have you been?" What Kit wanted to know, however, was why was he here?

"Right." Brian sat down, looking around. "I won't lie, I've come to ask a favor of you. Just--hear me out. We're finally going to do it, Kit. Now they've started their war, there are enough of us. What I'm talking about is a revolution. We need somewhere to meet, and we need somewhere to keep arms, but we also just need people. Everyone we can get. I'm sure I don't have to explain why.."

He looked almost pleadingly at Kit, running a hand through his hair until it stuck up in all directions. "I mean--don't you want to be a free man?" He held up his bandaged left hand. "This is the least of what they've taken from me, and now half of us are off to the border to fight a war we don't even have a stake in. This is the least of it. Come on, Kit. You could really help us."

Kit took it in, digesting it. It was the revolution he had always wanted, but now? Now, with people conscripted at random intervals, there was no doubt that the labor each person left had to do was increasing. Now, when there was a war to be had and more food to be grown, was when they wanted a revolution. It seemed as if there was no time for such a thing. Then again, there never was. The point of a revolting was to get that time back.

"You mean you want to use ..." Kit finished the sentence with a gesture of his head and hand. It was a large place for just him and his father. The steward had attempted placing people here, but they seemed to have a tendency to fall sick. Everyone who lived here did except for he and his father, and even then, it seemed sickness was inevitable, just not as quickly. After that, the steward had growled, but ultimately had given in to superstition.

Except for the superstition, it was a good place. Far enough to not draw attention were they to meet, but close enough that it was accessible. Kit simply never thought anyone would ever ask. Prior to his mother's death, he, or rather his family, would have said yes in an instant. They would have given nearly anything to reform they life they had. Kit had since loss some faith in that dream, but knew he would say yes in the end. The crowding might not do his father well, but the hope might.

"I--" he started with his father in mind, but his thoughts changed rapidly. Kit could not bring himself to deter the efforts. Eventually, he would have joined even if they hadn't asked to use his house. Brian had said, after all, they needed people.

No. It wasn't going to work. They didn't have enough people. They had no food! They, unwillingly dependents, needed Lawley fief. He knew what they could do. Kit looked at Brian's hand. There was no doubt in his mind that Brian knew, too.

"It's not going to work," he said, determined not to be too hopeful. "We'll all dry up, and it won't work."

"That's the wrong damn idea," Brian said tightly. "You say we don't got no--you say we don't have a chance, but if you just try. If you help us. Think about it. Maybe we won't win, but ain't it better--ain't it better to try? I haven't ever been free, not if I think about it, not really."

He took a breath. "You have, so you know... it's just... I don't want to feel like my whole damn body belongs to the Lord!" He stood up. Now he was almost shouting, his injured hand upflung. "You can't understand how it is! They took everything. Everything. You weren't around when it was really bad, when it was Egon, but Jesus." He shook his head. "Jesus Christ. Come on. You gotta... and it's... it ain't just me. You know, the barbarians near won last war? It's that, see, it's--their weapons ain't as good, and there ain't even as many of 'em near as I can tell. But it's about wanting it hard enough. Come on." His voice dropped, pleading. "Come on."

Kit felt his muscles clench. How dare Brian accuse him of not knowing that feeling? He had felt it since the moment he realized it was betrayal, not promises, but now it had dimmed. His anger had never concetrated all at once, though, and every one else seemed to just harbor resentment, not anger. That had been a while ago. And yet, as he sat there, he realized Brian was digging up those feelings. Kit could feel the outrage for their situation rising in him.

Freedom had been -- had been -- Kit had no idea how to describe it anymore, he realized. There were only fleeting memories, but nothing felt tangible. He recalled wanting to relive those past memories, but now, he couldn't even remember them. All he could remember was his mother's smiling face, and that would be something to fight for, not that she was around anymore. His father, then. He could do it for his father. It was such a gamble. To live this life, they had certainty. The result of the rebellion would determine if their lives would be forever worse or forever better. It did not seem right to even take the chance with forever worse in the quandries. It wasn't right to let the chance at forever better slip away either.

"Maybe the barbarians will help," he pondered, voice almost hopeful. It was doubtful, though. Without the protection of conscription, no serf could make it out to the border and back. Kit thought a bit, just staring at Brian as he thought. Brian made it sound almost possible.

The anger he could relate to, but it was the pleading that did him in. Vaguely he remembered that tone of voice, begging God to shine a little goodwill on them and lift the evil curse, begging for a little grain of mercy. He remembered, he still lived, a life when those pleas were not answered.

He laughed mirthlessly. The smile wasn't even apparent on his face. "I barbarian!" he announced, thumping his chest with a first. "Help!" He whacked at an imaginary enemy. And then, quick as he had done that, changed his demeanor again.

"Wait -- you have the weapons?" Sure there were shovels and hoes and sickles, but them behind the nice walls had things that could reach them well before they could get close enough for any of those to make a difference. Where in the world had he gotten weapons? Or maybe he didn't have them yet.

"Well--there's those of us as knows the way into his Lordship's armory." Brian grinned at this. They hadn't gotten much--the older, rusty swords, some ruined armor, some flails, and a collection of pikes. But that, combined with the old armorsmith who was on their side, well. "And we've got Jackson smithing for us. He says it's about time someone bring the bastards down."

In a gesture of supreme satisfaction, he slammed his good fist against his opposite palm. He felt a twinge, but no more, of pain from the place where his fingers weren't, and he smiled enormously, madly, at Kit.

"So you see we ain't at such a disadvantage after all, now are we? We hide the stuff here as Jackson smiths it and some of the maids or some of our men steal it. And we meet, and we wait. I'm not stupid. We have to wait long enough, for the war, and for all the nobility to be gone, and then we strike. You're with me--aren't you?"

Kit whistled. They had something, then. It wasn't just empty words and mad thoughts. It all seemed too unreal, though. How was it people could find their way into the armory if he could hardly hold onto his sickle sometimes?

"You'll be wanting the cellar for the hiding. Might be okay for smallish meetings down there, but you're welcome to the house. Just let me know when you want it." He almost felt like he was betraying his parents by letting others into the house so easily. It was for a purpose, though. In the end, the right for some certain people to just barge into his house would be negated. It might be an open house, but it would be on their terms. On the other hand, Kit was not entirely sure he could deal with that many people. He wasn't used to giving his loyalty to anyone outside his own family. "I'm with you," and with those words, he knew he couldn't back out.

He got up. "You want to see it? The cellar? I'll show you. Just be quiet. the entrance under Papa's room." So far as he knew, the cellar had been emptied with his mother's death and was still empty. In reality, though, he had no idea. Since there was no point in going -- nothing down there, and until now, nothing to store down there -- he had never visited. Stuff might have fallen through the floor of their house, but it would do.

Brian seized Kit by the hand and shook it enthusiastically, eyes glinting with excitement. "Wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful." He had been working on individuals and families for a long time, building a base of support. It was how it had to be, and enough of them were angry enough that this might work all too well.

Because after they got Lawley for themselves, then what? The Keep, that was what. But Brian didn't dare say anything about it. He kept his plans to himself and built up his revolution on bile and spit and luck. Even if they failed--even if they failed, things could hardly get any worse.

"You weren't joking," he said, once they were finally in the basement. He waved away a cloud of dust. "This is a mess. But hey--what's some extra work?" His smile was rueful, and likely invisible in the gloom. "At least it isn't for Lawley."

Kit was reluctant to shake hands, but forced himself through it with a half-smile on his face. Usually, he wasn't much for touching, but it seemed as if Brian was. How he could be that excited was a little beyond Kit's comprehension. Brian seemed too optimistic. Not everything could possibly go according to plan.

When he opened the door, his first thought was to close his eyes and get ready for a cough. Cough. There it was. The place was expectedly dusty. Brian, of course, waved his hand around, letting a little man-made wind catch the dust and fling it all over the place. That was brilliant. The place had a very stale air. Kit could remember hiding there or otherwise fooling around in the cellar when he was younger. This place, however, had no remnants of those bright memories, and upon encountering the cellar's dust, those memories seemed to turn as stale as the air here. There were a world ago, unachievable except possibly through a successful rebellion, but Kit was not about to believe fully and unwaveringly in such a cause.

The thing that really hit him, though, was the fact that the cellar wasn't empty like it ought to be. There were a few boxes and barrels haphazardly placed around the room with no particular order to the placing. A few were stacked, but most were on the ground. Kit swiped his finger across the top of the nearest box. Dusty. It wasn't years dusty, but some time had passed since the placing of these.

"It is a mess," he agreed, "It was only supposed to be unclean." Kit looked to the nearest box, curious as to what might be in it. Prying off the lid, he found cloth in it. Cloth softer than anything he had ever touched and without holes, too. This was the quality of kings! Kit was absolutely stunned.

"Really hope this isn't Lawley's," he muttered into the box. Then, he held up a piece. "Look at this!" If it were Lawley's, it would be kept under Lawley's dwelling, not his, right? Technically speaking, this place did belong to that forsaken man, but that didn't make storing good fabric here plausible. "It's worth any amount of extra work."

But was it worth any extra amount of trouble? There was no way he could now plead innocence. Then again, it wasn't as if anyone who would determine his fate would care whether or not he was innocent. Or maybe the more pertinent curiosity was what was in the rest of the boxes.