Sword Upon Our Hearts [Part Three: The Reprimand] ~~ [The Golden Brio, feat. the OG Golden Brio]
In which John, Phil, and Tom have to explain to their superiors what went wrong...[takes place July 28, early morning]
@captain--john, @knightley--phillip
[tw -- violence/abuse, gaslighting, manipulation, memories of abuse, mentions of death/murder/plotting murder, description of burns/injuries]
PHILLIP: Phillip did not want to be in London.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in London, but Phillip had never really liked the city. Oh, sure, he could wax poetic about it, but truth be told, he always felt claustrophobic in London, like it was breathing down his neck. It didn’t help that most of the time he found himself in London, it was for Order business, and he was dressed all fancy in a stuffy ballroom wearing a painted smile.
And yet, here they were in London. They, meaning Phillip, John, and Tom, who had immediately vacated Swynlake after the encounter at the Acheron house. They’d been in touch with their superiors directly and now they were waiting in the living room of the suite that Phillip’s family kept on reserve in one of the fancy hotels in the area.
Phillip’s father was behind the closed door that led to the study. So was John’s. They kept a third chair in there still, empty, out of respect for Tom’s dead father.
This was the sort of fancy place that many Order families kept for business purposes — quiet and soundproof and designed for business over pleasure. That did not mean it lacked luxuries. The carpet was thick, the view panoramic, the furniture mahogany and expensive. The whiskey in the icebox was the finest money could buy and the paintings on the walls were rare. There was a distinctly masculine touch to it all, from the broad and imposing shelves to the animal heads mounted on the wall.
Women did not usually find their way into these rooms.
It was a fact Phillip accepted long ago.
He bounced his leg anxiously, glancing between John and Tom, wondering if he should help himself to a drink or if it would be better to be sober for this, when the door opened. There stood Phillip’s father, Hubert, a man who was not particularly tall but carried himself like he was, with his broad shoulders and deep brow.
“Inside,” said Hubert.
Phillip peaked into the study, noticing they’d set out three more chairs, in almost a mirror-like position from where the older men sat across the long table. He took a seat opposite the one he knew to be his father’s, towards the edge.
The door closed. Hubert sat down.
“This is unacceptable,” he said, without hesitation. “Explain yourselves.”
Phillip opened his mouth, but meeting his fathers eyes, felt the words dissipate on his tongue. It felt like he’d bitten into an Ibuprofen after sucking away at the candy-coated layer for too long. He immediately darted his eyes towards John and Tom.
THOMAS: Now that the adrenaline had drained from him, Tom could feel his calf throbbing. When they had arrived at the hotel, Tom had gone into the bathroom and done his best to clean himself up. His hands were trembling as he sopped up the blood. The last time his hands had been covered in blood he’d just killed a man. This time, he hadn’t done that, but it felt almost as badly. Every time he shut his eyes he pictured that little girl.
Once he had gotten most of the wound cleaned as best he could with soap and water, he rinsed his hands and had grabbed the porcelain countertop, cool beneath his fingers. He splashed water on his face, took a deep breath, and walked back out to meet his mates and their punishment.
His leg was beginning to bleed again and he missed his mum and sisters. They’d be able to patch him up properly. Sew the gash shut, dose it in iodine, and wrap it in clean cloth. They had none of that here. This was not a place to dress wounds and the men only knew the basics of such things anyway. Still, he wished his mother was here and felt like a child for wishing it.
Tom felt sick to his stomach as he sank into the middle chair, facing the ghost of his father on the other side. He glanced at Phil and John, who both looked as tired and shaken as he felt. John had a stubborn jut to his jaw, though, and a fire in his eyes that had leaked from Phil’s and Tom’s own.
When Uncle Hubert spoke, Tom dragged his gaze towards the older man. He looked first at Phil, deferring to the son. Then, he glanced at Uncle Francis, finally settling again on John, who looked like he was about to start spitting.
Tom didn’t want to defend himself. Something sat wrong and uncomfortable in his gut, as if he had swallowed a stone. He blinked and saw Opal lying on the ground again. He wanted to tell them to fuck their mission, a child had been hurt.
“It was—we were ambushed. The bloody hellhound came after us. All we were doing was a bit of retcon. We had our amulets and it shouldn’t have been possible—this whole mission has been impossible from the start, they have families!” His voice raised despite himself, though he shrank back into his seat the next second.
JOHN: John didn’t want to be here. He had other obligations. He had end of summer term papers to grade. He had files to reorganize and update with all the new information they’d learned. Hell, he’d spent the whole trip up here writing an e-mail of an apology out to Jane for his departure and lack of professionalism and told her he’d grade all the e-mail submissions within the week or at least have notes on them.
Most of all. He didn’t want to be here. Not under the icy stare of Francis Smith.
John looked disheveled. Which was very unusual. It was also unusual that he slumped in front of his father or showed any indication of petulence or indignance. His arms crossed over himself, his jaw set as he stared down the two older men.
“A necessary sacrifice, Thomas.” Francis replied, the look of disappointment clear on his face. He sighed, pacing back and forth (to the observant bystander, they’d realize it was the same pace John had when he was stressed or peeved). “Have you boys learned nothing? Even the most evil, vile creature can have a family. Having a family doesn’t mean that you’re worthy of living.”
John smirked at that, a wicked sort of smirk, it curled up into his face as his anger was just ice. It was dry ice so cold that if you touched it with a bare hand it would give you third degree burns. “You’ve certainly proved that haven’t you, dad.” He spat out, staring down his father who actually for once in his life looked shocked by what his son had said.
“Watch it, John Francis Fitzwilliam. I’ll not stand for insubordination, you know that.” Francis’ own jaw set, his eyes and expression going dark, knowing he couldn’t very well unleash the full brunt of his anger in front of company, but behind closed doors? A debt might be collected.
“We did our jobs. We did everything by the bloody book. Elinor threw a bloody spanner in the works for us and we had to act. We were saving the mission she fucked.” His hands went to his chair, sitting back and gripping at the arms so hard his knuckles turned white. “I’m so tired of everyone breathing down our necks.”
“I didn’t realize I raised three daughters.” Francis snorted, “Your mission went sideways and you ended up uprooting the foundation we’d set for years in Swynlake because Elinor forced you to go to the Acheron house? I don’t believe she’s ever been so persuasive.” He made the flippant comment with a shake of his head, “I think you’d all better take responsibility for your part in this mess you’ve created.” Francis’ mouth did a sort of odd twitching thing when he said Elinor’s name, like he hadn’t in quite some time and was remembering something from long ago.
PHILLIP: “There was a child there,” snapped Phillip. He felt immediately defensive of John, who’d done nothing wrong. He’d been the one to set the plan in motion, faced off against Hades himself. If anything, Phillip was the one who’d really fucked everything up, balking the moment the little girl had entered the picture.
He could not get the moment she shrieked in pain out of his head. It played on a loop, like a broken cassette tape.
“That thing is hardly a child,” spat Hubert. His lip curled up. Phillip snapped his gaze to his father, brows furrowing. “It’s an unholy demon. Killing it would be a mercy —”
“She is a little girl,” snapped Phillip. “Doesn’t matter that her father’s some creature of the night or whatever the hell — she didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Just by existing, it defies the laws of nature. The Antichrist is born of spirit and flesh, and who is to say that you just let the Harbinger of our Destruction go?”
At that, Phillip let out a barking laugh. He leaned back into his seat. He felt his heart hammer so wildly in his chest, so erratically, so strongly it felt like it was going to leap out onto the table and he’d have to stab it with a dagger to get it to behave. He felt so angry, angry in a way he’d never felt before, angry at his father for raving on like some bloody lunatic about the Antichrist, about the end of the world. It was incredibly stupid to listen to, incredibly insane that this was how Hubert Knightley thought the world worked, hell how everyone in the fucking Order thought the world worked —
“What the devil is so funny?”
“Listen to yourself, father — you sound mad.” And the humor dropped from his voice as he leaned forward. “We’re supposed to help the helpless. Shouldn’t we be getting that girl out from that house? She’s just a child!”
“You have no idea what you’re messing with, boy.” Hubert stood up. “All of you — I’ve never seen a more embarrassing failure. Outwitted by a fallen woman. Outfought by a bloody dog of all things. You are not to return to our noble houses until you succeed, do you hear?”
He cut his sharp glare across the room, to Tom, to John, and then finally to Phillip.
Phillip did not say anything. He did not look away either.
THOMAS: Having a family doesn’t mean you’re worthy of living.
Did it not? The Order prized and valued children as much as they prized and valued strength and cunning. Without children, the Order’s work could not continue. Had not John, Phil, and Tom all been told that it was their duty to protect their families, but also have children of their own? Sons that would be raised to carry the torch when they were too old to do so. Or when they died.
He heard a rushing in his ears, feeling his throat tighten. His breath was slow and steady, but he felt like every inhale was glass in his lungs.
Phil was laughing next to him and John was so still Tom might’ve thought he was a statue.
His own eyes darted between the two men in front of him, conveniently skipping over the empty chair in the middle of them.
“I understand Hades. I understand Toulouse. I even understand Merida.” And he might understand Elinor too, if she continued to be a problem. His gaze was on his Uncle Hubert first, then Uncle Francis. “But, I don’t understand Opal.”
“Opal?” gruffed one of them.
“Yes, Opal. Hades and Belle’s daughter. And their sons? Aidan and Bellamy.” Tom didn’t know when he’d learned their names. Through the grapevine probably. Plenty of people in town knew the Acherons. They were respected. Maybe a little feared. Sometimes even liked. Belle had smiled at him before, when he’d come into Chapter Three to buy a book for Phil for his birthday.
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand,” said Uncle Francis. “You have your orders. Take out the werewolves and the demon. No matter the cost.”
Tom’s nostrils flared slightly and he opened his mouth to argue back.
“Would you rather hesitate?” Uncle Hubert added. “Those monsters know who you are now. And if Elinor is working with them, they will know your family. Where they live. They could be next. These creatures don’t have morals. They’ll kill you first and not lose a night’s sleep. They’ll kill your sisters, your nieces and nephews.”
Tom hadn’t thought that. His stomach curled in on itself, his hand curled into a fist. His expression darkened, the lines around his lips hardening. But, he didn’t say anything. He knew that his uncles were right. They had put their families in danger by failing this mission. There was no choice.
JOHN: If he was capable of ripping the wooden arms off of this chair right now, he would’ve done so. He clenched his jaw and at one point bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood.
Francis had more to say to his son though, he’d shoved the knife in and watched his son squirm and bite back but he wasn’t done, “Furthermore, John, you had possibly the most opportune moment to take out quite possibly Satan incarnate and you mucked that right up. You didn’t finish the job. Instead, you left him on the ground, alive.”
“To kill him was to declare war, father.” John explained, staring his father in the face, gritting his teeth.
“They declared long ago, boy. The war has been raging, you could have pulled the trigger on their general. You had him in your grasp with a point blank shot and instead you left him alive. I bet your sister would have finished the job.”
John’s burns on his arms itched as they discussed his encounter with Hades. They were carefully bandaged by Tom and he wore long sleeves to cover them up so he didn’t have to keep explaining how he had ‘lit himself on fire on accident’. “It would jeopardize the entirety of our cover in Swynlake. The whole town would be on high alert. We’d be driven out. It was a strategic move. And don’t fucking compare me to Georgiana that’s of no concern.” His father always liked to drive home a sore spot.
“Honestly, all I have to say is thank God she’ll be influencing Phillip far more than you--”
“That’s enough!” The blonde pushed himself from his seat. He’d done it so quickly that the pain from his burns made him light headed as he, for the first time in his life, stood up face to face to his father, “Fuck. You.” He turned so he could look between both his father and his Uncle Hubert, “And fuck that fucking marriage--” John couldn’t get the rest out before he found himself on the ground, jaw and the rest of his head pounding.
Francis shook out his hand, flexing his knuckles, “You’ll not disrespect myself or Mr. Knightley, John Francis Fitzwilliam. Apologize. Now.”
John just looked up at his father, eyes unfocused from the floor and said absolutely nothing.
PHILLIP: Phillip leapt up in his seat. There was a split second where he could’ve jumped across the table and decked Francis in the face. But he didn’t. Immediately, he dropped to the floor, kneeling down next to John.
“What the hell was that?” Phillip spat. He couldn’t bring himself to meet his father’s eyes, but the anger was directed to the men leering above them.
“A reminder,” said Hubert. “And you’d do well to avoid a similar fate, Phillip. Listen to us — they will send armies of demons and wolves after your mothers and your sisters and your nieces and nephews.”
Phillip tore his gaze from John to his own father, feeling his heart pound. Somewhere along the line — he didn’t know when — his hand had curled into the fabric of John’s shirt. It was both to comfort John and himself, clinging to each other in whatever storm they’d found themselves swept into. Tom was still seated, but Phillip wished they were together, presenting as a united front against their fathers.
But what Hubert said was true. With Elinor in the mix, Hades and Toulouse knew about their families. Their mothers. Their sisters. Their nieces and nephews.
He swallowed.
“Don’t let Rosie’s death be in vain,” said Hubert now, fixing his gaze on Phillip. “Finish this job and we won’t have to worry about their retaliation ever again. We must cut the infection off before it can spread and then we can return to peace. All of us.”
He sounded tired. There were lines under his eyes, dark circles. Phillip wondered if his father liked this life. If he ever tired of the blood and the death and the danger. If this was a plea, a silent plea to just end it all for the lot of them. Phillip wanted it to be over. He wanted to never have to pick up a bloody sword for the rest of his life. This realization hit him like a slap and his grip on John’s shirt tightened. He looked briefly at Tom as he held John’s shoulder tightly.
He wondered how much they’d resent him if he just slipped away the night before the job and left.
No, he could not do that. He would have to see this through. If not for his father, for Tom and John. He owed them that much. He would be by their sides as long as they needed him.
“Fine,” he said, after a moment of silence. “Fine, we’ll finish this bloody job.”
THOMAS: When Francis’ fist connected with John’s jaw, Tom felt it in his own chest. He didn’t move, though. There was only the shadow of his own father’s fist in his mind’s eye. His father hadn’t been afraid to throw his weight around when Tom wasn’t cooperating. Thomas II had never punched his son, but he’d smacked him around a fair bit. Growing up, Tom had always seen this as the way father’s treated their sons, but now—watching Francis hitting his grown son, Tom could only see the children in them all. John, Phil, himself. Opal.
His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. He was prepared to fight, but his blood was cold. In that moment, he couldn’t tell what he was more afraid of: the two men before him, or the two men he’d left back in Swynlake.
Your family, they said, they’ll kill your family.
And then it was Melody he saw, bleeding and terrified last Christmas. Olivia, hollowed out by the loss of her husband. Eloise, somewhere with Phil’s brother. Their children.
John was bleeding on the ground in front of him, but those were the faces he was thinking of. He felt sick and dizzy. Too heavy to move from the chair. His gaze found Phil’s, both their blue eyes dark and disturbed. At least, Tom thought, he saw the same confusion and reluctance. This was a necessary evil. After it was over, they could rest.
As much as Tom wanted to argue, he only nodded his head—once—keeping his eyes on Phil and John.
JOHN: Normally, Francis didn’t like to show his true colors in public, he’d wait until they got home or drag John around a corner, but John had never spoken back to him like that before. Certainly since he was a child. John inherited his violent tendencies and temper from the man he modeled himself after for years, but he knew deep down, he’d never hit his future son.
John was about to continue to fight back with his words, even as he tasted blood in his mouth. But Phillip spoke instead and it was evident that Hubert’s words had gotten to him. To be fair, Rosie’s death had taken a toll on all of them so it sobered him just a little from his blinding rage as he sat himself on the floor, staring up at the only two father figures he had like a child.
He would do this. He never gave up on a task, but after this he was done. Things would have to change. He couldn’t keep doing this, not as he looked between his two best mates. The only two brothers he had and saw their devastation, hurt and confusion. He would stick it out for them but he was done with his father and done with this whole thing. All he’d ever wanted to be was good enough and it was the one thing he’d failed at time and time again.
“Fine.” He grumbled, rubbing his jaw a bit where he felt it throb, knowing a nasty bruise would soon be forming, “We’ll finish it.”
