And here he was. The one place he'd sworn to all the Gods he knew never to come back to again, except for one reason--to find his brother and sister. His parents--he could not have cared less about his parents. They'd let Cait starve and they'd let Brian alone to whatever he could scrounge and they had done nothing to better themselves. But his brother. He loved his brother, and now that he heard he'd lost his fingers to the damned Steward, he had to see him. To find Elsie, too, with any luck.

And he had to tell him that he'd been the one to do the man in.

Conn wasn't stupid. Brian would probably be angry at him for not coming back sooner--but Brian'd made his choice, hadn't he? To stay on, to flog it out. Well, he'd give him another chance. And maybe he'd get one in return.

Conn hefted his heavy purse, ripe with the winnings of last night's dice game, and rode Freedom leisurely to the edge of the fiefdom. There, he let her loose to roam. She'd come when he called after so many years, and he didn't want to risk a horse seen on the fief amongst the serfs. Hell, they'd probably eat her. He would've, in their place.

Thus it was that afoot he came to the door of the house he hadn't seen in years. Nine bloody years. It looked--he noted inanely--smaller. Brian. What would Brian look like? He remembered him as a white-blond wisp of a boy, but he wouldn't be like that anymore. Tentatively, Conn picked up his hand and rapped at the door.

It had been a fairly quiet evening for Brian. Do the usual work, shove back the usual memories, sit down to the usual meal of slippery leftover cabbage. Usually the serf tried to hurry through dinner; it was odd sitting at what had been the family table with just him now, and the stray dog who insisted on hanging around. He did not enjoy eating at that table. Every meal brought back memories, and more often than not he was just ready to roll into bed and get to sleep. (That was one thing to be said about working the fields. He rarely had enough energy to dream).

Tonight, however, the usual routine was interrupted by a swift knock on the door. Brian choked and quickly sucked down his leaf of cabbage, then looked to the weathered wood in utter fear. It wasn't that he had done anything very terrible (at least recently), but it was a knee-jerk reaction, left over from years of bad news coming through the door. Still he forced himself to stand and moved over to the entrance of the little cottage, wrapping the remaining fingers of his hand around the knob and jerking it open. "Who's there?"

The face that greeted him was startling. A young man, dark almost and rough-hewn, with an air of coldness in his stance. And yet, vaguely familiar...

Brian pinched his brows together in puzzlement. Who was this man? And then, all at once, he saw the eyes, and he knew. After years and years of what he'd considered a broken promise, his brother stood in the doorway.
The serf didn't quite know how to react to his, so he faltered a grin and stuck out his hand for a handshake. "Conn?" As if he didn't know, but even a stupid question might give him time to recover himself.

"Brian." He still looked the same--gaunt, pale, but his eyes were darker. He took his brother's right hand in his--and noted the perpetual caked-on grime a serf's hands always boasted. Ground in and ground down. It came to him like a rhyme. The other hand he didn't want to look at, but he couldn't help it. Three fingers. Just not there.

"Glad the bastard's dead," he muttered, taking refuge, as usual, in anger. "My God, Brian, how long's it been? Nine years? You've grown. You're a proper man now." His throat had closed up entirely, as if he had swallowed a sour egg. He pulled his hand back and leaned forward, gingerly, to embrace his younger brother. "And--Elsie? I had to come back when I heard how bad things were. I'm sorry it's been so long." I was scared, he thought, but did not add. Scared of the memories and the responsibility I'd feel.

Brian let his brother hug him, but did not miss the quick glance down to his hand that was missing fingers. Everyone looked.

He couldn't help but feel relief at the apology and the quick subject change to Elsie, although he still wasn't sure what he was going to do about the former. Oh, it's fine that you deserted me for almost a decade? No, maybe he was being too harsh. Conn had every reason to be scared to come back. Still, it wasn't going to be easy to get over that.

The serf gave a shrug and stepped back to invite his elder brother inside, gesturing out to the poor settings. "Join me for dinner, if you like. Elsie's not here; it's just me. She found work at the border."

"Oh--good. And she's all right? Here--look--have some meat." Conn pulled a packet of jerky from his purse. "I know it's hard to get meat here, but you look like you need it, and why not." He noticed his accent was far less rough than his brother's. What changes nearly ten years wrought. Brian was older than he'd been when he had left. He looked young; he had pale, fragile skin even after working in the sun--but he also looked years older than he was. Maybe he was just drawn after the pain of losing his still-bandaged fingers.

He followed his brother to the small table, rough-hewn, and sat uncomfortably on one of the benches. "I don't need any--nothin'. I ate at an inn already today." As if he had any right to come in and... but he had to know if, this time, finally, at last, he could save his brother. And stop waking up at night with the ghastly fear that he alone of his family was still alive.

"Look, I--should probably tell you. I'm the one killed Egon Botolph, those years back. And aye, I killed his brother too." Conn looked down, his voice gone rough. "Sorry to deprive you of the privilege of doin' it yourself, with Eckhard, after the bastard took your fingers--" He gestured. "Sorry."

Brian accepted the meat without comment, but the way he devoured it must have been thanks enough. The jerky also gave him an excuse to hide his face, to keep it from view when Conn confessed to the murders of two brutal enemies. Once again, he wasn't sure how he felt-but before he could think it out, his mouth had opened and was releasing words. Surprisingly bitter ones, at that. "...Someone had to. And at the time it's not like I could have even held the knife steady."

He looked away. Of course he wouldn't have been able to; he'd been so small when it happened. But his mouth still wouldn't stop. "At any rate there's something you've done for me. Took you long enough."

The serf had never quite been able to get over having no one notice what was happening. Off with the steward alone for hours, wan and unhappy when he came back-did he really hide things so well? Oh, sure, he'd tried to, but the entire time he'd hoped secretly that someone would ask.

"Took me long enough--" Conn glanced sharply at Brian. Not for nothing had he been a cardsharp for years. He'd learned, painstakingly, to read people. "What're you not telling me then, brother?"

He laced his hands together and tucked them behind his head, straining his neck backwards until it ached. What had he missed? When he'd been just a kid, and Brian'd been scrounging for himself, and the biggest thing he'd focused on had been the pit in his empty stomach, what'd happened?

Putting the pieces together now, he had his suspicions. At the time, of course, any talk of sodomy or Greek practices had fallen on ignorant ears. A bare fifteen years when he left.
But it couldn't be that bad. Maybe he'd just beaten him a time or two and Brian'd remembered it. Or maybe the anger was just for Eckhard. There must've been other cruelties, afore he'd broken Brian's hand.

"What're you keeping back?" He unlaced his hands and leaned forward, elbows on the table. He looked up at Brian, and was startled to see how angry and intent he looked. He remembered a little ghost of a boy, a nothing, a pallid sop. This man had fire. And it was very strange, because though they looked completely different--Brian had always been the handsome one--for the first time, Conn saw himself in his brother's eyes.

"Eckhard used me." The words came out in a rush; once more before he could stop them. Brian hadn't meant to speak, but nine years of holding it in was too much for one man to take. Yes, it was shameful. Yes, he hated thinking about it and hadn't wanted his strong older brother to know. But at the same time he was angry and wanted Conn to learn. Let him feel guilty; let him know how he had failed his brother. There was no use in trying to pretend that it hadn't happened. It had, and he would always know that it had, and speaking it aloud would not make it any worse or better for the remembering of it. "He used me like he would a walker on the streets, except I got no pay for it and no pleasure and nothin' at all."

Brian folded his arms and looked away. What else was there to say? "...More than once. No one ever noticed. Which is funny cuz I'm sure I'm not that wonderful a liar."

Conn froze.

"I didn't know." His tone turned defensive, even sullen. "You're right. I was always the better liar of us two."

He heaved a long sigh, rocking forward to rest his head in his hands. "But I'm back now. I can... I have money. I have a horse, just beyond the fiefdom. You could come with me, we'd not have to worry about conscription, we could be just--brothers. You know. I make a decent living at cards. And I get to make the acquaintance of lots of whores, I tell ya, where I stay at--" He gave an uncomfortable laugh. "I hear you like your women. Or that's what Lilias--I found her--Lilias Gray? That's what she told me."

Silly of him to have the prejudice to think that just because Brian had been Egon's bum boy he was still a sodomite. But it turned his stomach still, to think of it.

"I don't--" he rushed on, aware that it was too little, and too late, too late, too late. "I'm sorry, Brian. Come with me. We can forget all this shite."

"Lilias." Brian smiled faintly. "I'm glad she's all right. I worried. But she wasn't somewhere I could easily find." The barb was directly at his brother. "Besides, she was really more 'fatuated with me than I was with her."

He looked up at his brother, the usual mischief gone from his gaze. "Now look, Conn. I dunno what you're playin' at coming back after all this time, but I'm grown now." Resentment crept into his voice, steely and dull. "And we have our own plans now. I have my own plans. I'm leading a revolt, an' without your help, I'll have you know."

He looked down at his empty plate, muttering.

"Have cabbage soup, if you must. It's only hospitable."

What had angered him more than anything was Conn's glib avoidance. Mentioning whores, of all things. Idiot. That was always his way, though. Hadn't it been? Walking out on them all.