Robert O’Donnell trotted his brown mare forward hesitantly, a frown creasing his brow as he looked up at the gates of the MacNeil Manor. He did not want to be here. His horse, Brìghde, sensed his discomfort, and began to balk. He firmly took her in hand, directing her towards the gate before him.

“Easy there girl, nothing to be worried about now. That’s right, one foot in front of the other.”

He cooed to his horse, patting her neck. Brìghde wasn’t an especially impressive steed, an all-brown horse on the smaller side, measuring at 16 hands. Brìghde wasn’t small enough to be mistaken for a pony, but she was no destrier or warhorse. What she lacked for in size and strength, she made up for in intelligence. In that, Robert though her perfect. He was an intelligence officer after all; he hardly needed a battle charger. A good all-around horse like Brìghde suited him perfectly. When he finally reached the stabling yard and dismounted, he realized that he was distracting himself.

He sighed. It was days like this that he wished he wasn’t a soldier. He straightened his shoulders and his facial features, schooling himself into the form and shape of a mindlessly efficient machine. The perfect soldier. Well, almost. There was one last step. He closed his eyes and pictured a storm on the sea, waves towering, then crashing down. That storm represented his emotions: all his nervousness, fear, anger, and pain wrapped into one unending, unceasing sequence of waves and gale-force winds. It was a hurricane right now. Robert breathed in through his nose, then exhaled through his mouth.

“I know no fear; I feel no fear; I have no fear.” The hurricane became a regular, if violent, storm upon the waves.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“I have no pain; I feel no pain; There is no pain.”

He repeated some version of the mantra several times, cycling through his emotions. Joy, love, regret, anger… the list went on, ever onwards.

In through the nose, out through the mouth…

In through the nose, out through the mouth…

Inthroughthenoseoutthroughthemouth.Inthroughthenoseoutthroughthemouth…

Then finally;

“I have nothing; I feel nothing; I am nothing.”

The waves at the stormy center of his soul were now nothing more than slight ripples on the surface of a pond, easily ignored in favor of watching the reflection of the moon that was life. Leaving the meditation technique that he learned from a Ven Cheng sailor as a boy, Lieutenant Robert O’Donnell turned sharply on his heel, face flat and blank as slate, eyes dead as those of a fish, and his soul as still as a pond on a cool autumn night. He marched firmly forward, each step precise and executed with military efficiency. He braced himself for what was to come. His pond would remain still, and unmoved, no what Adarian MacNeil threw in it. All outside occurrences were but leaves alight upon the surface of the pond; they cause ripples… nothing more. He reached the door to the Manor, which was promptly opened for him. He swallowed once, almost losing his meditative state.

One last time Robert… his thoughts were quiet and distant.

In through the nose… out through the mouth.

He stepped through the door, halfway convinced that he was headed for his death.

***

The Mansion was much as Robert remembered it, filled with lush carpets and tapestries heavily featuring dark colors in a subtle pattern, creating an atmosphere of darkness and secrets. Its decorations were quite suited to the nature of its master, he supposed. It was odd that his steel-shod boots made no noise, muffled as they were by the deep blue carpet. He almost missed the sound of his sure steps ringing out upon the wooden or stone floors that were common elsewhere. Almost. All these thoughts were somewhere between too far away to perceive, or too close to clearly discern, just as he intended. It was necessary for this meeting. Robert marched down the hallway that led to the Duke’s study, back ramrod straight, and posture perfect.

The butler leading him hadn’t bothered to speak to him; it wasn’t necessary. Both men knew that neither really wanted to be there, but then, when a Duke called for one’s service, only a fool or a traitor would dare resist. At least, that’s what Robert told himself. It helped him sleep at night. When they reached the door, the butler knocked lightly, his face kept impassive, as servants were trained to do. The Duke’s light voice rang out like a bell.

“Enter.”

The butler pulled open the door and glanced into the room. His face paled ever so slightly, and his eyes shot to the floor, his face troubled. Robert noted this, but it wasn’t of much importance to him, just a leaf on the pond as it were. Perhaps the Duke was in a foul mood, but that wasn’t Robert’s concern at the moment. He strode purposefully to the door, feet thumping on the carpeted floor, and entered, coming to attention immediately. As his steel-heeled and toed boots clicked together, and his right fist slammed over his chest, he allowed his eyed to roam over the room for but a second taking note of the odd contents of the Duke’s office. If he were not deep in the meditation of the Rippling Pond, Robert would’ve frowned. Over the rich carpet was draped a white linen sheet, covered in a layer of clean straw. It looked odd and out of place. Across the room were two people who Lieutenant Robert O’Donnell was, unfortunately, rather familiar with.

Duke MacNeil was much as Robert remembered, short and thin as ever. His hair had perhaps a little more gray at the temples, and his thin mustache had turned into a parody of the mutton-chop beards common to the working class of Whoid Strian men. Rather than bushy, it was trimmed close to his face, and no more than two fingers wide at any point. It oddly suited him. The Duke was not seated behind his desk, curiously. He was instead standing before a wide, remarkably clear window made of imported glass from Anacsot.

That must’ve cost a fortune, Robert thought distantly, just as he had the last time he was in this room. Glass of that quality is hart to come by, and moving that big of a piece… Roberts thoughts continued to ramble, but he wasn’t paying attention to them. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Lounging in the chair behind his father’s desk, was Lord Patrick MacNeil, the only child of the Duke and Duchess MacNeil. A small decanter of red liquid swirled lazily in his left hand, while his right played along the hilt of a jewel-encrusted dagger at his side, attempting to cultivate an air of danger, and failing miserably. If Braxton were here, the raunchy old veteran probably would’ve made the comment that it looked like the boy was trying to stroke something more personal. He would’ve been right. A dagger was a tool and a weapon; not a lover. Poor boy. Most probably, there was no one in his life bold enough to tell him how absurd he looked. Robert turned his eyes back to the Duke, the one he was most concerned about.

Ostensibly, Robert was here to give the test to Lord Patrick regarding his entry to the Knightyard, but in reality, the boy’s acceptance was a forgone conclusion. That meant that he was here for another reason, one that made him a little uncomfortable, to say the least. Robert waited, still standing at attention while waiting for Duke Adarian to speak. The pause wasn’t abnormal to him, it was common for members of the nobility to make others wait on them. It was their way of demonstrating power. By controlling when the conversation started, it ensured that everyone knew who had the power. Not that Robert was under any illusions of his power in this situation; he was the ant, Duke MacNeil the boot. The Duke finally turned from his window, looking at Robert for a moment. He reached into a rich-looking leather pouch at his side and pulled out two letters. He looked over them, then handed one to Robert, gesturing for him to open it, but not saying a word. Robert opened the letter and skimmed it’s contents in silence. If he hadn’t been so firmly focused on his breathing and mental exercise, his face would’ve been twisted in surprise and shock. Instead, his face remained stoic and still. Dead. He folded the letter and put it into his own belt pouch before coming back to attention. The Duke smiled at him. A polite farce, Robert was certain. He very much doubted that the Duke cared one way or the other about the contents of that letter. He was, after all, the boot, and Robert was still very much an ant. If he was a slightly larger ant now than he was once, well, that just meant that he would be easier to hit.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Captain.” Duke MacNeil said diplomatically, as he poured two glasses of some amber liquor. “A Captain and Knighted at your age. Your mother must be very proud. From a carpenter to a knight…” he smiled and he handed a glass to Robert. “It’s almost like something out of a storybook. A toast then, to your timely promotion, Ser O’Donnell.” The Duke raised his glass, downing it’s contents in one go. Robert sipped more conservatively at his, before setting it firmly on the desk. He was technically on duty after all.

“Thank you, your excellency…” Knight Captain Robert O’Donnell said slowly, as his mind categorized the different possibilities and meanings of this happening. He had been promoted, and knighted, all at once, an honor, yes, but Robert O’Donnell wasn’t as Naïve as he once was; this promotion was just more leverage under him. Now, he could be executed if he disobeyed orders, rather than discharged. A noose didn’t stop being a noose because it was made out of golden thread, as his Da would say. He brought his mind back to the present, taking a soft, but deep breath, then letting it escape through barely parted lips. Leaves on the water. Nothing more. He could not be Robert right now… He had to be something less… human.

***

The Duke was watching The Knight Captain intently, while The Young Lord was still fondling his belt-dagger distractedly. Truly, someone needed to tell the boy off, before he embarrassed himself. If Robert wasn’t so firmly in the grasp of the Rippling Pond, he probably would be fighting to keep a straight face. One of the many advantages of the meditative state, a distant part of him acknowledged ironically. It wouldn’t do to laugh at the son of The Duke who headed much of the international-politics and financial dealings of the country. It was practically asking for a visit from a knife in the dark. The Knight Captain’s mind graced over each of these things, then brushed them aside as unimportant. A brief surge of ripples, quickly seen to by the Pond’s predilection to stillness. All this passed in less than a second, as The Duke held out the second of the letters he had retrieved from his pouch, a considerably heavier expression written across his elegant features. Just as The Knight Captain was about to open the letter, The Duke stopped him, and grabbed a bell, ringing it loudly before shouting;

“Alfred, Reginald, bring the… bring them in, as well as the items we talked about earlier.”

No sooner had he spoken than the inner door of his office opened, revealing a butler and a valet in spotless attire. The older of the two, The Butler, manhandled three young men into the room, putting on a remarkable display of control and strength, despite his wiry frame and halo of white hair. The Butler deposited them on the straw covered sheet with little strife, knocking the hand belonging to the most spirited of the three intruders out from under him when he tried to grab a handful of straw, presumably to throw in his captor’s faces. The aging butler then turned to face The Duke and spoke, as The Valet, a middle-aged man, wrestled a large knife and larger stone into the room.

“The refuse, sir.” He said in an elegant accent, polishing his monocle while curling his lip and looking at the three men on the sheet.

“Thank you, Alfred. You are dismissed for the evening.”

The Butler resecured his monocle on his face, clearing his throat.

“Quite so, Sir, quite so.” He bowed once, precisely, and walked elegantly to the door and showed himself out. The other butler, Reginald it would seem, continued to wrestle with the stone. Knight Captain O’Donnell almost swallowed as calculations ran through his head as to what this meant. Three prisoners, one stone, one knife, and one knight. He almost swallowed. Almost. Instead, The Knight Captain breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth deeply, not bothering to try and hide it this time. The Duke elected to ignore it, thankfully. The Knight Captain turned his attention to The Young Lord, who was attempting to grin dangerously at the captives, and only succeeding in making himself appear constipated. Between that and the stroking of his dagger… he just looked laughable. However, the Knight Captain could see the barest of tremors arcing their way through The Young Lord’s hands. He recognized it. It was the tremor of a boy, unfamiliar with violence, and uncertain if they wanted to be. Part excitement, part terror, and part sick to your stomach. The Knight Captain had only killed once before, more by accident than anything else really, but the killing of the road bandit still haunted his nightmares. The Valet was also apparently aware of the youth’s false bravado and bowed deeply to The Duke before intoning;

“Sir, perhaps it would be judicious of Lord Patrick and myself to make an exit at this time? Master Alfred and myself can always come back to collect the, ah, leavings later.” The Duke, to the Knight Captains surprise, waved The Valet off.

“Don’t worry about it Reggie:” The Duke said, oddly familiar, “It’s family business, and he has to see it at some point. Better now than later.” The Valet looked uncertain but bowed once regardless.

“Of course, Sir.” The Valet bowed and saw himself out, much like his counterpart. There was a long, protracted silence, where the Duke sighed, the Knight Captain breathed deeply, The Young Lord fidgeted nervously, and the prisoners either glared or simpered from behind their gags. The Duke finally spoke.

“Read it.” He said softly. The Knight Captain did. His face never changed, but when the Knight Captain finished reading, he breathed deeply through his nose, then out through his mouth.

“Leaves on the water. Small ripples.” He murmured to himself, too softly for anyone else to hear. He looked at the scene before him. Three prisoners. One stone. One knife. One Knight Captain. He inhaled one more time, feeling more and more distant from the situation by the instant. This wasn’t real, a vaguely familiar voice seemed to whisper in the background, this isn’t me… The Knight Captain ignored it, and spoke to the Duke instead, his voice as steady and smooth as the stone of a riverbed.

“Your orders, your excellency?” The Duke eyes him surreptitiously.

“Do you know their crimes Knight Captain O’Donnell?”

“I know their punishments.” The Knight Captain said, and that distant, vaguely familiar voice seemed to scream again. In through the nose, out through the mouth. “That is enough.” The Knight Captain didn’t want to know more, it would cause more ripples… there were already too many ripples… so m any ripples. The Duke spoke anyways, damn him.

“These three men are accused of conspiring against the crown, forming a rebellion, and smuggling. They have spoken treasonously many times in both public and private, and have openly dissented against the king’s guardsmen here in the city. Due to their crimes their punishments are as follows. Galfrid Carter is to have his ears removed due to his inability to listen to the laws of the king, and his lips notched due to his vile speech.”

The man furthest from The Knight Captain let out a sob, eyes flashing out in a panicked frenzy desperately searching for a way out before giving up with a sobbing moan. The Knight Captain Dubbed him ‘The Bawler’. The man in the middle already had tears streaming down his weathered features, and The Dukes next words just caused his big, shaved head to slump, and his shoulders to shake slightly. The Knight Captain dubbed him ‘The Brute’.

“Denis Hilk is to have his ears removed due to his inability to listen to the laws of the king, and his lips notched due to his vile speech.” The Duke said coldly, before turning his eyes to the last man in the lineup.

This man was noticeably older than the others, with gray and white arcing through his beard, and fire burning through his eyes. He was obviously the leader, and likely the one who got the other two into trouble. The Firebrand. Every group of friends has one, after all.

“Fintan Quayle is to have his ears removed due to his inability to listen to the laws of the king, and his lips notched due to his vile speech, and his tongue removed due to his lying nature.”

The Firebrand never flinched, his eyes remaining steely, and his face set. The Duke looked between The Firebrand and The Knight Captain carefully, thoughtfully, before speaking again.

“Sometimes, Knight Captain O’Donnell, our duties call us to due things that are untasteful. Sometimes we have to follow orders, and trust that the ones giving those orders knows best. Remember, consequences for your actions rest upon their shoulders, not yours… you are but a tool in their hands, you have no choice.” The Duke channeled sympathy into his voice, which made some small part of The Knight Captain suspicious and angry. The part that he… wasn’t. At least, not right now. He would have to let that part sort it out later. For now… a leaf on the water.

At this rate, that distant part of him seemed to scream, the Pond will be more Leaves than water! The Knight Captain brushed it away. Unimportant at the moment. He opened his mouth and spoke, voice still dead.

“I have my orders.” He stated. He strode forward, and grasped the hilt of the simple knife that was on the desk, then turned and strode purposefully towards the last of the prisoners, The Bawling One. He grabbed the fat man firmly by the collar and heaved him to the stone, before placing his head firmly on the stone. The Bawler screamed and sobbed, but The Knight Captain heard none of it. He moved like a mindless machine. Leaves on a Pond. Small Ripples… Small… Ripples…

When The Bawler was done, The Knight Captain moved onto The Brute. The big man didn’t resist, but he did say one thing as The Knight Captain put his head on the now bloody block. He looked up, firmness in he eyes.

“I know ye got tae do what ye gat tae do, eh Knight Cap’n?” He let out a shuddering breath. “But, leave me enough lip tae kiss me baby girl with? Aye? A child deserves tae know her Da’s kiss, don’t she?” his voice quavered now, and his lips trembled. The Knight Captain ceased to be for a moment. That part of him that wasn’t came to the fore, and looked at the man before him, and thought of him not as “The Brute”, but as Denis Hilk, a father. He nodded once, before the breathing took him again, and he pinned The Brute’s head to the block firmly. Leaves on the pond…. Leaves on the pond….

The screams began again, and all the gruesome sounds that accompanied it; The Young Lord puking on the rich blue carpet; the knife doing its bloody work; The Knight Captains steady breaths. Some part of The Knight Captain broke then, a part that both was and wasn’t had stopped screaming, and just whispered in defeat instead.

It’s a heavy fucking leaf.