The Historian’s Novel

It was a painting of Ophelia Strightsworth, sitting regal with a scepter in hand and wearing a red cloak which draped onto the floor of her canvas. With the imposing emblem of the Duke of Winchester behind her; a lion roaring within a wreath made of flames, that made the bloodline she hailed from known to all those who saw.

   Most paintings commissioned by nobles were created with magic. To be more than perfect representations of those who thought themselves gods among men. Ophelia had always been above such nonsense. Though her reasoning when it came to how paintings should be made boiled down to superstitious naivety; believing a part of her soul might become trapped in a canvas should magic be used in the process.

   It was why Havoc had always liked this particular painting. Since it depicted his wife as she was. Imperfections and all. A courageous woman who would lower her head only in the presence of those she deemed equals.

Reminiscing only made Havoc’s anger burn brighter. After his wife’s death, he had ordered all of Ophelia’s belongings to be safely placed into storage. Unwilling to let anyone else look upon that which once belonged to his lover.  The carpet beneath him began to smolder from heat. With his greatest treasure forever out of reach, what remained of Ophelia fell by divine right as his, and his alone. To be guarded forever.

   By tooth or by claw. 

   “I asked, who dares!” Havoc yelled, raising his volume even further to demand an explanation. 

   Grace bowed low beneath Havoc’s glare. “Please forgive my upbringing, should my words sound impolite Lord Strightsworth,” Grace said calmly, “but the one who arranged the dining hall, is the woman sitting behind you.”

   Havoc felt himself starting to slip into a ruinous mood.

   “Are you mocking me?” Havoc asked, having with his eyesight and hearing, already confirmed that other than Grace and those in the kitchen, no other people were present. He considered scaring the young woman into giving a direct, concise answer. That is, until he began hearing a new, peculiar noise add itself to the room. A faint, repetitive sound that sounded to Havoc’s keen ears like the beginning of rain.

   In horror, he remembered there had always been someone who he could never sense at a distance or easily find. No matter how hard he tried.

   ‘I caught you daddy!’ Laughed a cheerful voice from his past, as Havoc drew in a shuddering breath before he looked once again to his wife’s painting wherein her slight smile now appeared to him as a frown.

Then further below it, to where Amelia sat, crying.

   “I… I thought maybe it would be as if we were eating together again… as a family,” Amelia said quietly, her head lowered to stare bleakly down at her plate.

   No tricks. No onions. Havoc felt his raging blood run helplessly cold.

   They used to be like that. Hadn’t they. All three of them at one table. A time for laughter, not tears. Havoc, taking in the sight of the daughter he hadn’t managed to notice, felt himself begin to sink into an abyss upon realizing Grace had meant Amelia when she had said, ‘the woman sitting behind you’.

   Something was wrong. Amelia was the little girl he would take for walks with his wife down along the marine boardwalk. The child who would hesitantly follow him around the manor from a distance to observe how he worked. Not the grown woman whose arms and legs shook ever so slightly as she pushed her chair back.

   “I’m s-sorry,” Amelia said, stuttering over her words, “I… I’m afraid I might upset you further s-should I s-stay. Might I be excused?”

Havoc could tell. Amelia wanted to leave before he discovered another change in the rooms decoration’s that might anger him further.

 Never. The anger he would use to prove her wrong would be what he felt for himself.

Drawing deep from the well of power inside him, Havoc forced his thoughts to move faster. Buying a precious few more seconds to examine each dining hall detail. It took hardly a breath before he found a clue in the dress Amelia wore: An old-fashioned thing, not extravagant, more a design to highlight the wearer than anything else, but eye-catching all the same.

Any other day of the year Havoc would have thought nothing of it. Except, instead of one person who wore the old dress…

There were instead two.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at his wife’s painting again. As it was his outburst that had scared their only child to the point she wanted to run away from him.

“I am upset. But not with you,” Havoc said, sitting down opposite Amelia before she could leave. “Forgive me for yelling,” he added, struggling to soften his voice, “I should not have done that.”

Amelia hiccupped. To Havoc’s relief, she sat back down; turning her face away to discreetly wipe away at tears with a table-top napkin.

He hated the silence that fell so easily between them. A silence interrupted only when the household servants entered to begin serving their meal. For every dish placed, Havoc found himself led into an unwanted stroll down memory lane. His mind: bursting with more activity than it’d seen in a decade as it matched every serving to a picnic Ophelia had once arranged for them to enjoy, together.

   Dammit. God damn himself. God damn himself for trampling on Amelia’s simple desire to try and revisit what once was. Havoc’s hands began shaking. He could feel his body beginning to sweat. His eyes flittered about the table, searching for an escape to this horrible situation.

   There he found it, at the table’s center. A bottle of uncorked wine which his arm unconsciously grabbed out of habit.

   Far too much wine missed his glass while he poured. And when he finally did raise the drink to his lips, he could hardly bear swallow. It tasted foul. Awful. Putrid. Worse than the blood-soaked mud he had tasted during his first day in battle. Havoc could hardly believe he had wanted to drink it to begin with.

   “Has the wine g-gone bad?” Amelia asked nervously, hurriedly pouring herself a cup which she hesitantly smelled.

   In slow-motion, Havoc witnessed her facial expression change from worry to outright panicked confusion when she took a tentative sip.

   “Grace?” Amelia said loudly, calling her handmaiden over, “I wasn’t paying attention. D-Did I pour my drink from the same bottle as father?”

   “Same bottle,” said Grace, who looked round the table at the other, unopened drinks, “Aged fifteen years. Why? Has it really gone bad? I could have sworn it was properly sealed.”

   Amelia grew quiet. Havoc could tell, to her the drink must have tasted just fine.    

   “Could… Could you please get us another? A fresh one from the cellar? Amelia asked timidly.

   A pointless request, Havoc thought, when Grace hurried off. He would have long since smelled whether the drink had gone bad. He knew what this was. Should a knife stab him, his muscles in response hardened. Under the pressure of spell-work, his blood would heat the air to burn any threat clear. Even before the danger of poisons, his body knew to instantaneously synthesize a solution.       The only reason Havoc could get drunk to begin with, was because it helped him to escape from a world he no longer found joy in. Meaning the moment he considered the fact there lay a significant problem in his lifestyle, his subconscious had done the work for him and cut out the issue.

   As expected of himself. Unfortunately, with his hang-over gone, he could now see even more faults that needed correcting.

   “Are you still wearing those gloves?” Havoc asked Amelia, not wanting another bout of silence to grow old between them.

   Amelia’s injured hand twitched. “W-Why do you ask?”

   “Take them off,” he ordered, “the bandages included.”

   “I’m… I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Amelia answered.

   “I want you to show me your hands,” Havoc said, sticking to what he knew best.

   Heimdall would call it ‘being blunt’. But who cared. Amelia had extended an olive branch in setting this dinner. Havoc would be irresponsible if he did not make something of it. 

His eyes narrowed when the wound on Amelia’s hand revealed itself from out under its silk and gauze wrappings. Havoc’s guess that the marks of blood on his handsaw pointed to injury proven true. But seeing it in person… He wanted to slap himself for having decided to not meddle too much while they were out on patrol.

   Another mistake added to the long list that detailed his life. He had seen men hide wounds out of pride only to pass away from infection. And Amelia’s hand already showed signs she hadn’t properly taken care of the cut. Did she not know any better? How did she clean the wound, if at all? Were the bandages she wore being changed every day?

   Nay, again the fault lay of his own lack of arranging for proper tutelage. Having believed that should Amelia wish to pursue academics or lessons; she would step up to ask. Yet, how could she ask when she feared him enough to try escaping his presence! She had hidden behind a door when asking to accompany him for a patrol that amounted to little more than a short walk!

   Clearly, her hatred for him must have at some point turned to fright. Her trust in him shot on the way, now lying dead in a ditch for who knew how long.

   “I… I hurt myself exercising,” Amelia said, moving to retrieve the gloves she’d placed down.

   Havoc’s arm shot out, grabbing her wrist across the table.

   His daughter looked to him with question marks in her eyes, “It’s… It’s not that big a deal, is it?” she asked.

   “No. It isn’t,” Havoc said sadly, concentrating on what needed fixing.

   A warm pulse of energy shot out from himself and into Amelia. Purging impurities through accelerated growth until the festering fell away from her hand, now returned to its once pristine state. Well… her nails had grown out somewhat, but even Havoc knew better than to comment on that.

   “Is there a reason for not coming to me for help?” Havoc asked, wanting his daughter to know she could always ask him if needed.

   “I’ve gotten used to handling problems on my own,” Amelia answered, in such a low whisper Havoc could barely hear her reply.

   Something needed to change. A big a change as when Havoc had stolen his first loaf of bread. Greater even than when he had come into his own at the age of ten, marched into the local lord’s manor, and beaten down every knight who told him he was too young for enlistment. They worshiped him after that. Havoc wanted to return to that moment. He wanted the only family member he still had to treat him not with hatred or fear, but with admiration for what he would do for her sake.

   “I’ve brought out a fresh bottle of wine!” Grace announced, having returned to the dining hall. Her cheerful attitude given pause upon finding Havoc still holding Amelia’s arm.

   Havoc could see in Grace’s eyes the tell-tale signs of an unresolvable anger beginning to shine.

   Did she think he might hurt her?

   Good. It meant Amelia had found someone worth trusting. However, the idea of being offered wine now that he had resolved to commit himself unto Change… Havoc decided to assert who still held control of the house. A lightning-fast thought enough to loudly shatter the drink in Grace’s hands; its contents spilling over the woman who shrieked in surprise.

   “I’m going to be busy soon,” Havoc said to Amelia who snapped back from looking at Grace in concern to himself.

   “Really? What a fun coincidence, I’ve got lots lined up as well,” she replied, as if happy they might have something in common.

   More lies. Havoc wanted to look away out of shame. But that was fine. He could hold his chin high after having bettered himself. A task that would start with addressing why he could now hear the hurried marching of armor-clad knights approaching the dining hall. Their worry marking each urgent step taken.

   Grabbing the unfinished wine bottle from the table, Havoc carried it with him to meet the knights at the door. Stopping only when a clatter of noise let him know Amelia had, in her hurry to chase after him, fallen onto the floor.

   “I’m sorry! Daddy, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done this without your permission!” she yelled desperately.

   Havoc refused to look back. Knowing Grace had already rushed to Amelia’s side. He let his discontent that Amelia still thought his initial gaff meant anger towards her out on the dining hall door. A single punch blowing it clear off its hinges.

   His awareness unfettered; Havoc allowed the fire swirling in his heart to begin beating louder. For on the other side of the broken door stood Heimdall, with fifty knights at the aid’s call; each looking as if they had rushed to grab what armor and weapons they could.

   “Havoc,” Heimdall said, at the top of his voice, with great determination, “please, for fuck’s sake tell me you did not hurt your daughter!”

   What brave men, Havoc thought, taking in the sight of those who had come to put down a monster upon hearing his earlier outburst which must have spread to all those within earshot of the manor. What determined women, he mused, seeing the fear in their eyes.

   He could only wonder what they must think of him now. With his crying daughter on the floor behind him in the arms of her friend. Havoc let the fire inside him burst free. Throwing the bottle in his hand to the floor, he ordered the burning of every drop of wine and each piece of shattered glass that sprayed the knights who stood firm against the heat which battered their bodies.

   Their resolve pleased Havoc greatly. For their actions proved his past self right for having chosen each one. What good, noble followers had he gathered. That even knowing their actions would be futile, they had tried even so to do the right thing.

   “Kneel,” he commanded, in the guttural language of a dragon who had once descended from heaven. Causing the knees of each knight to strike the ground without question.

   “Due diligence has been lacking,” Havoc said, stepping among them, allowing each knight to raise their head once he passed, “I have decided we will be extending the Western border by a fifty-kilometer stretch. Join me in glory or abstain and be ridiculed by those who will return laden in riches.”

   Halting, he retraced his steps to stare down at his aid who struggled to hold up his weapons.

“T-That’s… not an answer…”

   They both knew the gun wouldn't do much. Even one of a kind, the bullet made of a compressed piece of Havoc’s own bone would barely breach skin. An accomplishment to be supported by the other weapon Heimdall held, Havoc supposed; a knife coated in a poison strong enough to hiss deep into the floor with every dripple its slathered blade coalesced.

   His odds of succeeding in slaying a dragon? Theoretical.

   Heimdall's knowledge of math? Impeccable.

   The man's worth to Havoc? 

   Immeasurable.

   “I have not,” Havoc said, firmly grabbing Heimdall by the shoulder, “nor will I ever, harm my daughter.”

   “I’m… I’m glad to hear it?” Heimdall said, his grip on his weapons becoming more uncertain with each passing second.

   “You have my appreciation,” Havoc said, trusting his friend would understand what he meant.

   Heimdall sheathed his blade to prove that he had.

   So it was, that with his first debt repaid. And with an untold amount left to deal with, Havoc raised his hand in which a burning sword formed.

   “Let it be known!” he said, his voice booming like thunder, directed at his knights who looked to him with rekindled hope, “This will be not a war but a slaughter!”