The Second Coming- Bryn Heron SFW Story

Pull. Rip. Count. Fill. Water. Dig. Sweat. 

Feeling the sun slowly go down. Once gone, they return to their cottage. Sit. Eat stale bread and old ham and drink deeply from their personal brew. Pass out in their chair. Wake up. Change, wash their underarms, chest, crotch with a wet rag and go at it again. Ignore the hustle and bustle from the house. Take lunch. Watch the window. Wait. Brush off the crumbs from their hands onto their trousers and back to it. Sweat. Pull out the weeds. Rip them to pieces to burn later. Count the seeds. Fill the holes. Water everything. Dig more. Sweat. 

Time dragged on. Bryn ignored as men arrived, trying to fix up the broken down part of the manor, almost everything in the East Wing. Of course, it would never stick. They ignored the small group of people arriving up from the village, the sound of the kitchen being used for the first time in years. They ignored the arrogant, uptight asshole that came with them, the person that started running the place. Braithwaite, who Bryn knew had wanted them gone. Even went to the Prince to try and get them out. Good thing his highness knew of loyalty. Knew Bryn had been here since they were a teenager. 

And knew who Ivarsson had met here. 

Better to keep someone close and their mouth shut. 

Pulling a particularly stubborn weed. Ripping it to pieces, mostly out of frustration. Counting each seed to create a row of peonies. Filling in the dirt with a groan, their back twinging. Watering the ground. Digging space to expand the gravel pathway. Sweating like a dog. The sound of carriage wheels wasn’t going to stir them from their work. Not until he heard Braithwaite’s husky voice, welcoming Ivarsson home. 

Bryn immediately straightened up, pulling their straw hat from their head and gripping it tight in their hand. Fucker probably wanted the Gardener to look back in front of the one man that could tear them away from this place. Their place. Their fucking home. 

Ivarsson, looking more grey in the hair and dark circles under his eyes gave Braithwaite a small smile and instead turned back to the carriage, lifting a small child out and-

It was her. The thing was hers. The child clinging to their father’s shirt, Ivarsson keeping them secure with his prosthetic arm, was her child. They could see it so clearly. Bryn’s grip on their hat tightened, the straw making a strained, squeaking noise as they did. Something twisted in their chest. 

They didn’t see a small, disheveled child, staring at Braithwaite as the Caretaker introduced themselves, wearing a mismatched outfit. They saw something else. 

And it carried with them as the small group went inside the manor. Bryn abandoned their work. Went to the cottage. Drank more than they did in a week. Staring at their bed. Their martial bed. Long since empty. If she was here, she’d laugh and kiss their forehead and say it was all in their head. But she wasn’t here. She had left and they had been stranded, forgotten. 

Left behind in a beautiful garden that could never be theirs. Like most of their life, most of the things they had, had never been theirs, and would never be. 

Time went on. Bryn sweated. Pulled. Dug. Counted. Stared at the window that she used to stand in, cleaning the glass before giving them a gentle, sweet smile. Blowing a kiss before disappearing into the rest of the house. Except now there was a light in that window. 

The brat. 

Bryn attacked the weeds with more anger, imagining it sinking into soft flesh and spurting blood forth. Again. It was something Bryn had already done, the glass shard cutting into their palm as they roughly jabbed it into a screaming, squirming body. 

They wouldn’t care about doing it again. 

So what if they drank more than they should. What if Ivarsson’s carriage pulled off, leaving the child squirming in Braithwaite’s arms. What if they still had the keys to the backdoor, claiming ignorance when the caretaker asked after them. So what. So what if their blunt kitchen knife sat snugly in their palm as they staggered, drunk and breathing hard, knuckles raw and bloodied after slamming them into the door frame repeatedly, right up until there was the sound of something cracking. Bone or wood, they didn’t know. What they did know is that there was someone in her room. Someone who shouldn’t be. 

It was too easy. Walking up the stairs, blood dripping down. They hoped it stained the fucking carpets. Onto her room. She said she loved it the most, with the pretty window design, and the big bed and the fireplace. She used to tease Bryn to come up, spend a stolen hour with her, enjoying the soft sheets. 

The door creaked open gently. A small lump curled up in the bed.  Bryn swayed, readjusting their sweaty grip on the handle of the knife. Walking over. Gripping the sheet and pulling it down. Just to look at the child’s face. Get a clean strike. No need to leave them mangled. 

And they couldn’t.

Not when you were staring right back up at them.

“Wh…” Bryn swallowed the surge of bile, acid tinging their tongue, along with the overwhelming, heady taste of alcohol. “What are you still doing up?” 

“I don’t sleep.” Came the solemn reply. It was as if they were talking to an actual adult. “I’m not allowed.” 

“... My auntie went insane because of that. She refused to sleep and she attacked her husband.” 

That sentence hung in the air. The child didn’t seem troubled. Just continued to stare. 

“I just wanted to check.” Bryn quickly said, hiding the knife behind their back.

“It’s good to check. Papa used to check for me, but I don’t think he can anymore.” 

“No. Probably not.” Bryn fought down a drunken hiccup. “So. Try to sleep. I’ve checked now.” 

They had no idea what the fuck they were supposed to be checking. Except it needed to be done. Bryn was about to ask if, if the child couldn’t sleep, did they want to come down and look at the garden under the moonlight when light suddenly blazed in the room, searing in as the door opened once more. 

Bryn quickly dropped their hand, but it was too late. Braithwaite had seen the knife clasped behind their back.

They stood. Fully dressed, candle held aloft and… Their face? A mask of fury. Cold, icy fury. 

“Get out.” Came their hiss, sounding like the snakes that would creep through the bushes. 

Bryn drunkenly nodded and rubbed their lips with the back of their hand, smearing the blood from their knuckles. They slipped past Braithwaite, not even fighting when their cold fingers ripped the knife from their palm. They didn’t even notice that the caretaker was following right behind them, not until the gardener stepped out the back door, the cool night air making their sweating skin feel better. 

“You will never set foot inside this house again.” Braithwaite’s cold voice startled them. They hadn’t even noticed that their trusty loop of keys wasn’t on their belt anymore, held tightly in Braithwaite’s gloved hand. “Look at them again, and you will be buried beside your wife. You hear me?” 

They did. They didn’t say anything when the door slammed shut, the lock clicking loudly.