1867-10-04: A Place for Us
A Place for Us
Summary: After the battle, Wilson muses on his place in the world
Date: 1867-10-04
Related: Death and Destruction
Wilson  Ivan  

He was under guard, in a hastily erected tent. Healers had come and seen to him, though his wounds were not as bad as they looked initially. Sidhe steel cuts deep, and the woman who had brought him down bore one of the infamous black blades.

Wilson Abara stares up at the ceiling of the tent from his cot. The bonds on his arms tying him to the cot were laughable. If he truly wanted to get away he could.

But where would he go? Baral and Zarine ran the house. He had taken as many of their number as he could escape with ahead of the crown's purge… oh, he knew it was coming… and had come north. His plan of laying fairly low while trying to figure out how to integrate into the Couveri lands hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped.

The safety of his ally, Alfonso t'Rannis, had been compromised as soon as his men were. Neither Wilson nor Alfonso would admit to knowing one another. It would likely had been better if he had died. But he lived, and he lay there, setting his mind to planning a new plan.

The young man sighs quietly. Most of those who came with him were dead now. A huge blow to the family when they left and worse now that they were gone… assassins and soldato alike. Maybe he should have gone to Pacitta…

He coughs, feeling a burning sensation along his throat and chest. The slash to his throat was nasty but had just barely avoided his major arteries. The slash to his chest was deep but hadn't punctured a lung— unlike that Wraith fellow he had heard about and likely the woman who had fought Wilson to a standstill. Nasty business. But effective for killing, which was what he grew up on.

The door of the tent shifts. Wilson tenses as someone steps in.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," the darker skinned man with dead eyes says, standing at the foot of Wilson's cot. "My name is Ivan Bakerson. And right now I'm not in a very good humor."

Wilson snorts derisively. "Torture if I don't answer your questions?"

"That's the sum of it."

Wilson considers. "Depends on your questions, then," he replies with the bravado only a young man can muster.

Ivan chuckles, but it is a dark sound. "You're young. Foolish for coming to Lonnaire." He idly trims at his nails with a dagger. "We'll start simple. What is your name, son?"

"Wilson Abara."

The second-in-command of the Wraiths would start, if he wasn't so well-trained. "One of Alesandro's sons, then?" He seems particularly informed from the Abara being a sourthern Syndicate house.

Wilson is surprised at that, and tiredness and injury allow that to show. "Yes. His youngest son." No harm in that. "How do you know of my father?"

Ivan snorts. "We Wraiths are curiously conversant on a great many things, son. Why did you bring a force this large of your assassins into our duchy?"

Wilson laughs, and the laugh turns into a wheeze as the burning in his throat and chest flares.

"I don't believe I told a joke, son."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Wilson replies, still wheezing. "Many Gods. Kill me if you're going to."

Ivan frowns. "Try me. And don't lie to me. I'm very good at catching those."

Wilson sighs. "We left. I wanted to find a new home for myself and the men I brought with me. That's all." No reason why. That, at least, he was keeping tight to his chest whatever the cold man did to him.

Ivan frowns some more. A schism in a Syndicate house? This large? Above his pay grade. He mentally curses Corvin for being injured… the Commander would have a better feel for this sort of thing. Ivan understood enough of the Syndicate to know he didn't want to deal with the politics of it. Give him something to kill, that was more his style.

Ivan sheathes his dagger. "You'll be coming to Hightower with us. If you continue being smart, you'll continue to stay in one piece. Start being stupid, and I can't promise you'll keep all your parts." He smiles. It's not friendly.

"Hightower…" Wilson closes his eyes. "That's the seat of the l'Saigner." While Ivan makes an affirmative grunt, Wilson's mind races. They were the rulers of this duchy, but there were rumors in the south that they also ruled the Syndicate north of Pacitta.

"Don't expect a warm welcome." Ivan shifts, preparing to leave. "Your men have nearly killed both the Viscountess and the Duke's bastard son."

The Viscountess… so that was who she was. So beautiful and deadly. Wilson nods slightly. "Death comes for us all," he replies.

"Some sooner than others," Ivan replies before leaving the tent.

So… Wilson muses. He had gone toe-to-toe with the infamous head of the t'Corbeau Syndicate, and come out better for it. He smiles darkly. Death and Destruction, she had been beautiful. Perhaps the Gods were smiling on him after all.

He closes his eyes and murmurs a quick prayer to Hope and Life to spare the woman. He could perhaps save his own skin. Maybe she'd consider their fight an interview of sorts.

Maybe there was a place for him in the northern Syndicate. He would plead his case to the Duke l'Saigner…

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