The Coming From the Shadows Series
Previous Instalments:
- C.F.T.S / Cathryn’s Chronicles: The Pain of Servitude – The Dark Legacy of Cathryn: A Tale of Survival
Connected Instalments:
- T.I.C: The Legacy A Lost War – The Rise of the Imperium: A Dark Legacy Unfolds
- T.I C: Jesse – The Imperium Chronicles: A Hunter’s Vengeance
- T.I.C: The Seeds of Servitude – The Seeds of Servitude: A Dark Tale of the Imperium
- C.F.T.S / T.I.C: The Dying Fire of Resistance – The Imperium’s Dark Chronicles: Dying Fire of Resistance
- C.F.T.S / T.I.C: Cathryn – The Imperium’s Dark Secrets: Unveiling Cathryn’s Nightmare
- The Halls of Power – Behind the Curtains of Power: The Dark Game of Political Intrigue
- Oppression and Vulnerability – Cathryn’s Struggle: Defiance Against Darkness
- Oppression and Vulnerability II – Cathryn’s Struggle: Defiance Against Darkness II
- The Seeds of Rebellion – The Journey from Timidity to Rebellion: Lydia
- Peace Shattered – A Night of Violence: Shattered Peace
- The Journey’s Beginning – Facing the Imperium: A Mother’s Fight for Her Child
- The Imperium’s Chronicles: A Tale of Resistance
- T.I.C: Struggle between Duty and Fascination – Cult of the Minotaur: Secrets of Betrayal and Rebellion
C.F.T.S
The Cathryn Chronicles:
The Hunters Return
Introduction:
The 20th of December, 1896 A.D.
The Smythe Estate, along the mouth of the River Thames
A wintery shroud was drawn across the lands of England; thick, unforgiving, and yet within that darkened landscape, a subtle fog had begun to roll from the nearby Thames River, along the mouth sat the Smythe Estate – a gaping maw of dystopian opulence, its gothic architecture reaching for the stars above, this place of darkness.
A horse-drawn carriage, its wheels crunching rhythmically on the gravel, navigated the winding pathways that snaked the Estates ancient English forest – tree’s, skeletal and black against the bruised sky seemed to lean in, their bare branches like gnarled fingers reaching, perpetually whispering secrets only the wind dared to carry.
The air grew heavy with a sense of dread but the carriage pressed on, the silence broken by the clopping hooves and the distant mournful hoot of an owl, no birdsong, no chirping crickets – just a profound and unsettling silence where life seemed subdued by an unseen hand.
The path widened, finally breaking the dense curtain of woodland to reveal the Manor – it was less of a place of residence and more a monument of power; ancient and festering, a towering edifice of dark stone, sharp gables and soaring chimneys clawing at the sky like the teeth of some sleeping giant – windows, like vacant eyes, stared out from the depths of its impenetrable gloom – a place of suffering and untold horrors.
By the entrance stood a figure holding up a lantern, it cast long dancing shadows across the doorway; Jacob, the long-serving butler of the Smythe Family, he was a man carved from that same dark stone as the manor itself, tall and gaunt with a face that was so often detached from emotion, with eyes that witnessed more than one would dare to say, he moved with a silent, almost spectral grace, wore a perfectly tailored suit – as black as the night, with his hair well groomed and slicked back giving him an air of austere efficiency.
As the carriage came to a halt; its doors creaked open with a man emerging from within; Nicholas – a man from the upper-echelons of the Imperium’s Council, his features where sharp, his movement quick and precise – there was a weariness etched around his eyes, a shadow that suggested long nights and unpleasant duties, he carried a leather satchel clutched in his left hand “Welcome Nicholas” Jacob’s voice was a low, sibilant whisper, like dry leaves rustling “Master Smythe awaits” he added, gesturing
Nicholas merely nodded before his gaze momentarily swept over the impressive façade of the Manor before him; then, he made his way in without a word.
Chapter 1:
Within the confines of the manor a flickering gaslight struggled against the pervasive gloom creating long dancing shadows that distorted the opulent furnishings – within the study, a rare scene had unfolded, the air thick with a familiar scent of leather and old paper but that rare.
There was also a rare moment of warmth that had been reserved for only one person; George Smythe, a council member of the Imperium – a shadowy organisation that had existed in the shadows as a unifying voice of various Cultist groups since the days of Ancient Greece, one such group; the Cult of the Minotaur was directly under George’s control, and George, a man hungry for power was known for his sadistic and depraved ways, he was considered the worst of the Imperium’s council, but also, a man they couldn’t challenge – George had risen to power in 1887 after the death of his father Elias Smythe, and he was certainly not known for his warmth.
If anything, George was known for Sadism, for Depravity and Evil – his Marriage to Cathryn, one that he had forced upon her at the age of 18 spiralled into from mere controlling to psychological and physical abuse.
One of the products of such a forced conception was the current focus of that rare warmth; the first of twin girls; his daughter, Elizabeth Smythe – at 6 Years of age, she was the female-version of her father, adopting many of her fathers characteristics and traits, she also shared his physical traits too; she had long Dark-Blonde hair and those same icy-blue eyes that so often stared with an unnerving intensity.
The warmth though was done purposely; to divide Elizabeth who leaned more towards him, unlike her younger twin; Lydia.
George’s eyes at present fixed on his daughter – it was her 6th Birthday that day and as she sat on the plush rug before the fireplace, she had become utterly engrossed within the new book Geroge had presented – the book itself was a large, leather-bound tome and not something one would normally present to a child; it’s pages filled with intricate and disturbing detailed anatomical drawings, it depicted muscle or organs splayed open – it was not to educate, but to desensitize her, it was the first step in the extreme-education he intended to provide.
Elizabeth’s fingers traced the lines her expression one of rapt attention instead of childish revulsion – when the door of the study opened, her head snapped to attention, her icy-eyes landing upon Nicholas as he entered the room before her gaze returned back to the gruesome illustrations.
Nicholas moved, his boots soft against the thick carpet, here he presented the satchel he had been carrying, there was an urgency in his movement as he reached the desk George was sat behind “I have news” he stated, his voice low
George merely raised a hand, a gesture of dismissive acknowledgement, he did not take his attention from his daughter; his gaze lingered as a grin curved his lips, he was rather proud of Elizabeth, pleased by how much she craved to earn his attention, his love “Speak Nicholas” he commanded, his voice a low rumble, devoid of any discernible emotion “Do not keep me in suspense”
Nicholas hesitated a moment, glancing towards Elizabeth; the young girl was oblivious as she continued to pore over her book “Perhaps sir, this is not a discussion for young ears?” he ventured, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face
George finally diverted his attention from Elizabeth to Nicholas, he was like a predator assessing its prey; a faint, almost imperceptible smirk came in response to Nicholas’ unease “Nonsense; Elizabeth is learning, this world is after all a brutal place Nicholas, and it is best she learn early…, besides….” He added, his voice dropping “She understands more than you might think” he gestured towards the heavy dark wood chair opposite him “Sit and speak”
Nicholas hesitated but obeyed, settling into the chair as he placed satchel down on the ground by the side of his chair, his hands now clasped tightly “Our network has discovered something disturbing…, sighns of a resurgence of those…, ‘Hunters’…, scattered, but reorganising themselves”
George raised his eyebrow, a look of curiosity – the British ‘Hunters’ part of a larger group that acted independently of each other; a disorganised movement that had existed since Medieval times to challenge the Imperium, in 1872 of December 21st his father, Elias had led the purge in the north of England east of Lancaster, amongst the survivors was the Langdon family – it was the same day Cathryn had been born – 24 Years ago, now…, they were resurging under new leadership.
George’s expression returned to being impassive, but his fingers began to tap a deliberate rhythm on the armrest of his chair ‘Tap, Tap, Tap’ a sound like drops of water against stone “And what precisely defines this ‘resurgence’?”
“We believe they have come under a new leader…, perhaps a new centralised council even; more importantly though, we intercepted a communication, a letter that the Imperium’s council finds highly…., concerning” Nicholas leaned forwards, his voice a strained whisper “It originated from this very Estate”
George’s tapping stopped; his icy-blue eyes, previously fixed on Nicholas, now drifted towards a distant point, as if contemplating a complex calculation – the air seemed to grow thicker, heavier and still; Nicholas pressed, he felt compelled with the sudden chilling silence “The letter…, it details the plight of your wife; Cathryn, it spoke of her ‘Re-Education’, the abuse; physical and mental, all of her suffering, not mention you more recent outburst with regards to you picking her up and throwing her to the ground, which, as I understood involves her landing in such a way it broke a table and sent knives and cleavers down atop of her” Nicholas eyes remained on George, he clearly did not approve of the brutality “The letter is clearly intended to rouse these ‘Hunters’ into action to help her”
A long silence stretched between them, punctuated by the manor’s distant murmur of settling into its nightly rhythm – George finally broke the silence “My wife…” he purred, words like a silken caress yet laced with utter contempt “Is precisely that ‘My Wife’ and what I choose to do within the confines of my household…, with my ‘property’ is my prerogative; do not make a mistake Nicholas, she is born from a family that raised her to be a ‘Hunter’ to eliminate our operatives and interfere in the grand goals of the Imperium and our plans to find and release the ‘Ancient Master’ from his prison; she requires constant ‘Re-Education’ to ensure she remains in her place”
“This is the Sixth Year of such a thing George; the Council is becoming increasingly unhappy with your ‘Re-Education’ it is creating tension where non once were, you have already created a coalition to form against you” Nicholas states with an irritated tone
“You mean the recent irritations caused by Isabelle and her husband?” George shook his head, a light chuckle escaping as he rose up from his chair “If the ‘Elected’ leadership can’t get in my way Nicholas, what makes you think the Mason family can stop me”
As George moved, Nicholas’ eyes followed – what he was unaware of, was something George had taken notice of, as George approached the fireplace, he turned; his back now to an unseen observer “I will concede upon the inconvenience of this resurgence; we shall need to respond…, I cannot allow Cathryn to have any foolish notions of hope or liberation”
Shifting his gaze, eyes glinting within the flickering light of the Gaslamp “These ‘Hunters’ must be dealt with, swiftly; thoroughly, before their whispered sympathies gain traction”
Nicholas merely nodded; a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the wintery cold, he understood George Smythe would not simply neutralise a threat, he intended to annihilate it.
Chapter 2:
The 21st of December, 1896 – Early hours
The scents of jasmine and sorrow clung to Cathryn, a fragile perfume against the permeating stale air of confinement – the room that she had been brought too at 14 after the deaths of her parents and her subsequent adoption by Anne Smythe – the cousin of George, had long since gone from a place she felt safe , it had become a place of horror, where so much evil had happened, so much abuse – and now, it had become the very place of her brutal ‘Re-Education’, once, Cathryn had been a proud ‘Hunter’ – trained initially by her parents in weapons and stealth, but, the isolated upbringing after their escape from a farmstead east of Lancaster to King’s Langley had left her without much understanding of social interaction.
Even the enigmatic figure ‘The Monk’ who continued her training once she had been rescued by Anne, the man who advanced her fighting skills, teaching her more advanced methods of stealth, chemical concoctions, how to use acupuncture to not only heal, but to harm and provided further training in weapons – despite those skills, she still lacked understandings on manipulation, something George Smythe took advantage of upon realising she had an infatuation.
Now, after 6 Years, she was a ghost of herself, a woman broken at the age of 24, she sat on the floor of her room, tucked away against the corner beneath the window, she felt the cold draft gently entering; her Raven-Dark hair once a vibrant cascade, now hung lank and dull concealing her face with unimaginable pain.
Her frame shook from her sobbing – the abuse she endured was one thing, taking her autonomy was another; the one thing that truly hurt her most was the enforced isolation, his deliberate attempts to separate her from her twin daughters.
While she hated the pain that was physically inflicted, the restraints that left her helpless to his advances, the sadism and depravity; it did match the despair she felt being unable to be with Elizabeth or Lydia.
The longcase clock in her room – it’s pendulum swinging, the ticking almost amplified in the oppressive silence chimed at the fourth hour of that early morning; it was a day of significance for her, a shared birthday between Cathryn and her youngest twin-daughter; Lydia.
A soft scrape, barely audible disturbed the oppressive quiet – the door, which had been left ajar in a quiet act of defiance by a sympathetic member of staff ‘Peggy’ creaked open a fraction further, a small, slender figure slipped through the gap – Lydia, she was the miniature version of her mother, sharing the same long Raven-Dark hair and the same Silvery-Grey eyes.
She had snuck from her own room, drawn by instinct that transcended her tender years a trait that mixed well with the uncanny perceptiveness she already possessed from the years seeing her mothers pain and abuse, she had a deep-seated need to be with her mother.
Lydia moved with a child’s quiet determination; her bare feet silent on the floor, she found her mother a huddled mess in the corner – her small face crumpled, she understood, many times she had witnessed her father’s cruelty – he hadn’t restricted his ‘Re-Education’ to a place of privacy, he had committed such acts even in the presence of both Lydia and Elizabeth; upon reaching her mother, she reached out a tentative hand, touching Cathryn’s shoulder “Mummy?” her voice was a soft high-pitch, like that of a fragile bell chiming
Cathryn raised her head, face streaked and wet, her silvery-eyes red-rimmed and swollen; she blinked within the dim light as she looked at Lydia, a subtle gasp escaping, a sound of shock and yearning “Lydia….” Her voice was hoarse, raw not only from her emotion, but worn from relentless screams from the last torturous session she had with George, her eyes now locked on Lydia “My sweet darling girl” she moved from her huddled position, putting her arms around Lydia as she drew her into a tight embrace
Her arms tight, terrified she might lose her – Lydia’s lips curved into a warm loving smile as she put her small arms around her mother and returned her warm embrace “I missed you mummy” Lydia mumbled into Cathryn’s shoulder
Renewed tears, hot and fresh traced the previous lines down Cathryn’s face as she buried her face into her daughter’s hair, inhaling the scent “I’ve missed you so much” she whispered, her voice trembling – it was their birthday, a day that should be marked by celebration – gifts, laughter, instead, it was marked by secrecy, and desperation with the suffocating silence of a prison.
Cathryn had few things she could even give away – but there was one, as she gently eased back, she unclasped a silver chain from around her neck, at its end; a small intricately carved wooden bird, worn and smooth with age and love, it previously belonged to her own mother – a symbol of a mothers love “Lydia” Cathryn whispered, her eyes still glistening; my brave, sweet little girl; I want you to have this…” she gently placed the necklace over Lydia’s head, arranging the small bird pendent beneath the nightgown to keep it hidden “It’s very old…, very precious; you must keep it hidden, alright?; very hidden, it is our secret, just you and me”
Lydia smiled, she understood the significance and nodded – her face earnest “I promise mummy”
They would remain together the rest of that night, curled up on the floor, Cathryn kept her daughter close, she drew strength from her innocent presence, finding a fleet solace in the shared warmth, Lydia too found comfort in her mother’s embrace, she was content to simply be near – the world outside their small secret cocoon faded into insignificance.
As the faint light of the morning dawn finally began to seep through, Cathryn stirred, she was gently to move, recognising that Lydia was still sound asleep, her breathing soft and even; carefully, Cathryn moved her, despite the protest of her muscles, she pushed just like she so often did, tucking her daughter into bed, if question; it would be simply to make an excuse – George despite all his attempts to separate them, so often found that Lydia would always still seek her mother out, it was now so often, he had reluctantly allowed the nightly visits, he couldn’t stop a child seeking the protection of a parent, no matter how much he wanted too – so often though, it revealed his grip and control over the daughters was an illusion.
As Cathryn ventured down the stairs after changing her clothing in order to tend to the pre-breakfast duties she was expected to maintain, she overheard hushed voices in the great hall; Jacob was speaking with someone, carefully she moved to listen, remaining unseen “The Master is departing tomorrow afternoon” Jacob said, his voice a low hum “From what I gather, there is a pressing matter that requires his attention, potentially he shall be away from a few days”
Cathryn’s heart gave a sudden, desperate leap; she assumed that this would be the plan orchestrated by Peggy – after the incident in October, Peggy who had tended to her injuries had promised to try luring Geroge away from the Estate, to give Cathryn breathing room to escape the cruelty, and it looked like it was not taking place – the truth though was much more complex.
All Cathryn knew was the relief she felt was overwhelming; almost dizzying in its intensity – she would have respite from the cruel torture, the ‘Re-Education’ but also…, she would get respite from the unspeakable acts that so often left her in a blank and terrified state – she could have a chance to finally breath, to sleep properly and interact with her daughters, she moved her hand up to cover her mouth as she felt her body tremble a moment, tears falling again.
Chapter 3:
Kingston upon Hull, East Yorkshire
Unlike in the south along the River Thames; the air in Hull was crisp and bracing carrying the tang of the sea; smoke plumed from factory chimneys and the distant clang of shipyards echoed across the docks; within a small shop nearby, its sign adorned with Japanese – a scent of exotic spines and finely crafted wood filled the air contrasting against the utilitarian grimness of the surrounding streets.
Jesse – A survivor of the 1872 Purge, at 46 Years his face was a landscape of experience that spoke volumes of a life spent in conflict; slowly, he nodded his head, having finished making arrangements with Japanese ‘Hunter’; Heijirō Yama – the plan had been made to free Cathryn, everything so far had begun to fall into place, though they remained unaware of things beginning to move against them “Right Heijirō” Jesse said, his voice gravelly “I shall get back to Whitechapel and finish with making arrangements, do you intend to accompany us?”
Kneeling in the typical posture Heijirō was adorned by the traditional robes of his homeland, he gave a warm smile before nodding his head in confirmation “Danger is a constant companion, and I believe it maybe best that I travel with you, better to have the extra support, no?” he said, his English accented by his native tongue but still fluent
Grace; Heijirō ‘s wife – a British native that had previously settled in Japan before the Boshin War had broken out, had encountered Heijirō while a married a trader that had been operating near Heirjiō village, the same husband that during the outbreak of war attempted to trade her for his own life, had Heijirō not intervened, she most likely would have died then – the Boshin War allowed their bond to flourish, his protection kept her alive, and due to her developing feelings invited him to come with her, there they settled together in that very city – their private business, like their relationship and marriage flourished – her presence made it easier for Heijirō to settle amongst the English who came to respect the disciplined Japanese man since their arrival in 1869, her hand lightly rested against Heijirō’s arm, a silent gesture of support
As they began making preparations to leave, Jesse shifted his gaze towards Anne – since his first encounter with her after she had sought him out for help 6-Years prior, he had watched her decline into an emotional mess, desperate to free her adopted daughter “Jesse…” Anne began “Will…, will this work?”
“Don’t lose hope” Jesse smiled, we’ve made more progress since you came to us than we ever have before; we’ve reorganised because you gave us a reason too; I promised to help you get Cathryn free, and I will ensure that promise is kept”
Anne slowly nodded “Thank you”
As Jesse and Anne stepped out; Heijirō turned to Grace, his expression thoughtful “Things might become dangers Watashi no ai”
Grace squeeze his arm; her worry was palpable, a faint tremor, but her resolve was unwavering “I know” she couldn’t help but smile “Watashi no ai” she kept her eyes locked onto his “But you would not be yourself if you stood by, I support you, always”
As Heijiro was about to move; their son – Astor, approached, he was a strange individual with a rather mysterious aura about him, a stillness that belied his youth; Heijirō and Grace always recognised something unique about him, an intuition beyond ordinary understanding “Father” Astor began, his voice calm and even “Do you require assistance in this endeavour”
Heijirō’s gaze returned to Grace – Grace recognised the training Astor had received from his father, and she knew he would be more than capable of following in the same footsteps, she simply gave an approving smile to Heijirō
Heijirō felt his own lip twist up in a warm smile as he looked back to Astor “Yes my son” he said shifting his position and placing his hand onto his son’s shoulder; a gesture of profound trust and pride “Your assistance would be most invaluable; it is time”
The 22nd of December, 1989
The Smythe Estate, along the River Thames
A blanket of snow settled across the sprawling estate, the skeletal tree’s reaching upwards appearing like frozen hands clutching desperately from the snow; the sheer size though of the Estate was a monolithic testament of the Smythe Families wealth, power and influence backed by their Business Empire – and yet, George still craved more,
A sleek carriage bearing the family crest rolled silent from beneath the grand porte cochère the wheels crunching on the gravel as it glided past the single gated entrance that protected the Estate, and clearly; more defence’s were in the process of being set up in the form of barbed wire yet to be installed along the wall.
With George’s departure the oppressive silence of the manor settled – inside, Cathryn was finally able to move freely, but the memory of the most recent ‘Re-Education’ session would not be letting her enjoy that new-found peace, she moved slowly, arms hugging herself pain surged with each movement – George had felt that the brutality she had to endure before his departure would exceed anything she experienced previously to ensure that escape was a concept that would never cross her mind, but it already had been; her world had shrunk to the Estate since their marriage, all that mattered to Cathryn was her daughters, she now moved like a ghost in what had become her home.
There would be an ironic twist though – one she had only just noticed with George’s absence, despite the usual task and role as a ‘Servant’ at times, living as a ‘Domestic-Slave’ there was a strange deference that she now received from the staff; she was recognised despite everything she went though as George’s Wife and mother to his children and regardless of how much he brutalized and abused her, it carried weight within the manor and in George’s absence, her word now held seniority – she now had a meagre freedom she had never felt, but it felt irrelevant to her.
Chapter 4:
Finding her way to the twins room, she hesitated a moment, taking a breath to try collecting herself before entering, as she gently pushed pen the door, she found Lydia absorbed in writing within what looked like a journal, her brow was furrowed in concentration with her attempts at whatever it was she was writing – then there was Elizabeth, she was sat on the other side of the room engrossed in that book she had been given by George “Girls” Cathryn’s voice was soft, hesitant; a fragile bird song in a vast room
It was enough to snap Lydia’s attention in an instant her eyes lighting up as she scrambled from her chair and rushed as quickly as she could to her mother wrapping her arms around her mothers leg and hugging into her.
Cathryn stooped, pulling Lydia into a fierce, desperate hug, a fleeting moment of pure untainted love.
Elizabeth though; she did not move, she barely even acknowledge their mother’s presence; her attention was fixed on her book, scanning each intricate illustration with a clinical curiosity “Busy mother” she stated; her voice already carrying the unnerving echo of her father’s dismissive tone
Cathryn felt the familiar pang, a knot tightening within her chest – she slowly released Lydia who continued to cling to her skirt instead, moving alongside as Cathryn hesitantly approached the older twin, she did not like what Elizabeth was so engrossed in, but, recognised just how influential George was over her – she needed to try steering Elizabeth away; despite knowing exactly what the book was, she decided to feign ignorance on it “What…, what are you reading Elizabeth…” she tried to keep a steady, gentle tone
Elizabeth’s icy gaze finally moved locking with her mothers’ silvery-grey; there was no warmth, no childish curiosity, only cool nascent judgement “It is a book that illustrates the complexities of the body; Daddy says it will help me understand how the body works, how best to maximise pain; you wouldn’t understand” the words were delivered with such an adult cutting finality, a barb against Cathryn’s already frayed emotions
The chasm between mother and daughter felt so vast she longed to bridge it; she needed to reach Elizabeth, but each and every time she was met with the same cold, cultivated disdain “What…, what would I not understand love…”kneeling down she gestured towards the illustration “Striking a vital spot here you could render an opponent in severe pain; or…” reaching, she turned one of the pages to another illustration of the human body and began referencing pressure points along the body and how one would target them to turn an opponent body against themselves – Elizabeth, despite her mother’s attempt to try and bridge that gap and even though it did spark some curiosity, she wasn’t going to bond.
Elizabeth simply scoffed, a truly chilling sound from such a young throat; pushing herself up from the floor she shook her head; there was a look of contempt within her eyes “I don’t need you to dirt daddy’s lessons” without another word, Elizabeth walked away, leaving the bedroom and a tangible chill in her wake
Lydia sensed the shift within the air; nestling closer to her mother, she looked up at Cathryn – her silvery-grey eyes wide with a wisdom beyond her years, she didn’t truly understand the depths of pain her mother felt, but she knew that was what she was constantly feeling; pain.., terror “Don’t be sad mummy” she whispered, her voice a balm “I’m here”
Cathryn gently pulled Lydia into her lap and into another embrace as tears prickled her eyes – the innocent comfort of her youngest was a lifeline, a tiny flicker within the constant suffocating darkness, without her; Cathryn would have long given up.
The 28th of December, 1896
Nottingham, The Midlands
The historic streets where white under a blanket of snow as a cold chilled wind carries the scent of burning damp earth; Jesse accompanied by Anne, Heijirō and Astor make their way along an alleyway, the destination to Whitechapel had become delayed as a result of Jesse’s decision to make stop offs to check on the various Safehouses that were still at present being set-up, he needed to make checks in to keep up-to-date with everything going on.
A burly man with hands like worn oak and eyes that held the ghosts of battles long since past took notice of Jesse and his companions upon them entering the building “Ah” he said with a warmth to his voice “Jesse; welcome”
“Anything to report Nathaniel?” Jesse queried as he leaned against the wooden table a moment, his eyes glancing about, taking in the misleading look of the shop
“Yes; the Cultists have just made a move…” Nathaniel said; his voice a rumble, low and gravelly “They’ve begun making a move across London” this news was met with an immediate surprised expression
Chapter 5:
Westminster, Greater London
The Cultist bureau om Westminster was more than just a mere office – it was a fortress of influence, a visible manifestation of the Imperium’s insidious reach through the Cult of the Minotaur at the very heart of the British Empire.
Within the rather well decorated meeting room, redolent with the scent of aged leather and tobacco smoke intertwined with chilling darkness – the polish mahogany gleamed with an ominous orange hue cast from the newly installed electrical lighting – and distorted the intricate patterns of the expensive Persian rug which covered the floor; heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, muffled noise from the city and further isolating the space making it feel like a clandestine world upon itself – it was a chamber of power.
George sat at the head of a long, imposing table; his fingers gently tapping against the smooth surface ‘Tap, Tap, Tap’ over and over; despite the look of impatience, he held a subtle smirk as he observed the Lieutenants that he had personally chosen over the years – they filed in each finding their seat, remaining silent until spoken,
Around the table sat mostly men, though some women who had managed to impress George with ruthlessness also sat present; the faces were the usually impassiveness, but each held a flicker of unease.
“I want reports about these ‘Hunters’..” George’s voice commanded – it was a low resonant rumble, a predator “The resurgence of these interfering pests pose a potential risk that needs to be crushed”
A man in his early 30’s; Albert – his face lean and humourless was first to speak “The activity across Whitechapel is undeniable; they have progressed from operating as single independent fighters to working in smaller groups, they have been creating dissent amongst workers; using the very tool of our control against us”
“Poverty creates unrest” another voice chimes – Rees, he was a much older figure closer to George’s own age, he slowly leaned forwards against the table “History has proven that time and again; only look to the Revolution on the Continent, and now workers believe they can stand united”
“Then we must break them apart” a third voice adds
“Our enemy is the ‘Hunters’ not the workers” a fourth adds, an irritated tone “Leave that to Governments and the Industrialists, they have their ways, provided they are given incentives”
“Money” a woman spat “Most here seem to forget our loyalty of to the Zor’Githas; the Dark Celestial that has been locked away for so long; and here we discuss politics instead of contenting with the enemy and resuming our efforts to find the temple’s”
George’s eyes fell to the woman who spoke – a woman in here mid-20’s, clearly a more recent recruit given her age amongst the group; he quickly picked up on why he selected her; he dedication, her fanatism was clear – she sat with a still posture, her dark eyes large and intense, her long dark hair tied back “Indeed” was George’s only response, a subtle smirk present
“These ‘Hunters’ are becoming bolder” Nicholas adds to break the building awkwardness and return to conversation to what it should be
George’s fingers resumed their slow, rhythmic tapping against the table “Indeed.., they seem to have also breached my own Estate; a spy amongst my own staff…, I do wonder…, what shall we do” George gaze shifted towards Nicholas, his subtle grin still present; then he shifted his position; straightening up as the air seemed to become more tense “We know where to begin Nicholas; so…, let us get started shall we, we will strike their safehouses, I will not allow them to gain any more ground, no mercy”
Wyoming, United States
A frigid wind of the late December afternoon whipped across the developing expanse of the Mason Estate kicking up dust from the dry earth; Benjamin, a man who’s physique spoke of enduring strength despite being 54 stood with a rifle cradled in his arm, his short dark hair ruffled by the gusts – beside him was his eldest son, Morgan.
Morgan was already a spitting image of his father with his nearly black hair and keen green eyes, he mirrored the same stance, his own rifle held at a practiced ease that belied the 14 years of his age “Control your breathing Morgan” Benjamin instructed, his voice a low rumble “Keep in mind the strong winds; nature can be a fickle mistress, be steady; calm and you can work with her”
Morgan slowly nodded – he aimed at the distant target, then, it ripped out into the silence, echoing in the wind – the sharp crack of a rifle shot followed by the thud as a practise dummy toppled; Benjamin couldn’t help but smile – genuine pride present “Good; you’re aim is certainly improving each time we practise”
It was a ritual these lessons – each afternoon, it was more than marksmanship, it was a lesson in discipline, an unyielding strength Benjamin believed was the bedrock of their family, regardless of the loyalty to the American Cultist Group; the ‘Brothers and Sisters of Liberty’ or even the Imperium – Family was were their loyalty truly remained, Benjamin while he would not vocally admit it, was deeply committed to his wife; Isabelle more so than anything else.
Upon the horizon though a dark speck appeared against the pale sky – rapidly growing larger; a rider was pushing his horse to its absolute limits, dust billowing with the wake of their movement – finally, the man drew close enough that the insignia; striped the same style as the American flag – a messenger of the ‘Brothers and Sisters of Liberty’ had returned to the Mason’s estate “Sir!” he shouted
Benjamin and Morgan looked towards the dishevelled message pulled a folded telegram free and held it down, leaning somewhat to hand it to Benjamin “This is an emergency; word has reached the New York Bureau of George’s most recent action in England”
Benjamin’s practised calm was already beginning to slip – England; Cathryn, the young woman that he and his wife had encountered 6-Years prior, the woman that Isabelle had developed a maternal affection upon seeing the sight of a young woman forced into service despite clear signs of suffering miscarriage, that was in 1890, word of the escalating abuse over 6-Years had done nothing to alleviate concern, it only heightened it – the consequence of Isabelle’s desperation to free and bring Cathryn to Wyoming to protect her was a major source of tension for the Elected-Imperium leader; Victor, who at one point allowed ‘unsanctioned’ support then pulled it only to then provide permission again, also unsanctioned to then repeal it yet again – this on-again off-again permission raised Benjamin’s wife’s temper to the point of refusal of Imperium orders.
“Speak man; what news has been heard; does it regard Cathryn and her twins?” Benjamin snapped out quickly, his hand opening the telegram – initially interested by the idea of emergency, Morgan’s attention was snapped into focus completely at the mere mention of the name ‘Cathryn’ – he recognised it from a previous mention months earlier, and it impacted the exact same way back then
The name alone was enough of an allure that Morgan was fully attentive to what was going on, trying to get a peak as he tried to reposition unnoticed by his father to read a private telegram “The Cult of the Minotayr; they have begun to attack the ‘Hunters’; he’s launching a massive operation in London” the messenger stammered out
A cold dread seeped into Benjamin as he looked to the messenger; despite the ‘Hunters’ being the enemy, he had been providing them with funding in order to enable the rescue of Cathryn; they were not ready for a crackdown by the man even the Imperium’s council saw as depraved and sadistic; all the effort Benjamin and Isabelle had been putting in had created only a fragile network still in the process of rebuilding – they were in no way ready for the full force of the Cult of the Miotaur “Damn it” Benjamin growled
Shifting unevenly he glanced about “Go; get word sent to Victor, be fast; as if the devil himself was at your heels; George must be halted, we need to divert his attention elsewhere; the ‘Hunters’ are not ready to fight back” as the messenger set back off with a frantic energy; Benjamin and Morgan quickly set off back towards their home a short distance away
Chapter 6:
The 31st of December, 1896
Whitechapel, London
Th air was thick with the scent of smoke and the taste of copper; fear was palpable, it had been hours after the violence had peaked – the Metropolitan Police, their brass buttons gleaming with an unsettling gleam in the dm light still swarmed the streets – their presence though, was not one of protection; they had in fact been brought out as a result of George’s corrupt dealings some even believed their presence was part of a ‘Criminal Cleanup’ operation – they had arrived to provide assistance to what they was only told as a ‘Private Guard’ – in truth, the Cultists of the Cult of the Minotaur – the term ‘Guard’ had been deliberately chosen.
The narrow grimy streets, usually teaming with life were now eerily quiet save for the occasional moan or guttural curses; piles of broken furniture, shattered glass and dark spreading stains where the ‘Anti-Imperium Hunters’ had made their efforts at a last stand – but outmatched by better armed opponents; the police, with the faces impassive herded away terrified inhabitants declaring it a ‘Workers Riot; and warning people to remain in their homes.
Inside the devastated safehouse – a former textile workshop, now reduced to a ruined building – George made his way around slowly, he surveyed the damage and fallen scattered about, some being seized by Police; despite not needing it, he walked with a cane which he tapped rhythmically against the splintered floorboards – a conductor admiring an orchestra performance.
He finally stepped over one prone figure in particular as his eyes fell away from the tableau of the fallen and captured; his gaze now fell on a young woman crumbled against shattered loom “Well, well….” George purred; his voice a low, silken rasp that seemed to caress the violence around him “If it isn’t Julia”
The young woman; bruised and terrified, her eyes wide and desperate – an animalistic terror as she looked at him, Julia was one of George’s staff; so often unnoticed, and usually if ever she was, she always had an excuse that wouldn’t be questioned = now, now she was right in a place she shouldn’t be; her hands bound and face streaked with tears and grime.
George lowered himself with a grotesque elegance to one knee; he brought his face close to hers, his smile never once leaving his lips; a smile that only promise torment.
“Julia; my dear….” He began, his voice dripping with mock concern “Tell me; what are you doing in such a disreputable place; one might almost imagine you had allegiances beyond your masters household”
Julia whimpered as she tried to pull away – her bonds thought, they held her in place “Please…, please Master Smythe; have mercy”
“Mercy?” George let a dry chuckle escape; a grating sound “Mercy is a dish best served when earned; wouldn’t you agree?, tell me Julia; have you perhaps been…, passing information, from my estate to these…, hunters?” the word itself was wrapped in contempt
Julia’s body trembled uncontrollably – she knew there was no escape, no lie that would save her; the truth was her only remaining card and it was a worthless one “Y…, Yes…, Yes I did”
“And…, are you one of them then?” George pressed, his voice softer, more insidious “Are you a ‘Hunter’…., like Cathryn?”
A sob tore from Julia’s throat “Yes…”
George leaned back, a flicker of true amusement in his eyes “How utterly disappointing; and I believed so strong that I cultivated such…, loyalty” he stood up, slowly, deliberately – now towering over her, his smile widened showing his teeth “Loyalty Julia; Loyalty is paramount…, and Disloyalty is an unforgivable sin” ge gestured to a nearby hulking beast of a man; one of his Lieutenants a man whose face was a mask of brutal indifference “Escort Julia back to my Estate; she has a great deal to atone for; perhaps Cathryn will enjoy the company of another of her…, ilk”
Julia’s eyes widened further; a silent scream of pure terror – she knew exactly what awaited her at the Estate; the Cultist lieutenant gripped her arm, hauling her roughly to her feet, the screams that followed would be swallowed by the echoing emptiness of the ruined safehouse.
The 5th of January, 1897
The Smythe Estate, along the River Thames
While a tension still thrived – George’s absence allowed for an easing, while things could have easily shifted negatively – the opposite had happened, as a result of Cathryn being George’s wife, regardless of how she is treated; Jacob, the loyal Smythe Family Butler, began to include Cathryn in the daily operations of the Manor, initially, Cathryn was very hesitant, but with persistence – Jacob began to get Cathryn involved finding a she was much more capable that George was remotely aware of – her ability to organise proved rather fruitful, though Cathryn’s attention was fixed primarily on trying to bond with her daughters, desperate to spend as much time as possible with them before George’s return and the return of his oppressive separation resumes – while the strong bond between Cathryn and Lydia only solidified further, Elizabeth was only partially swayed in her father’s absence.
That morning though; Cathryn made her way down the stairs with Lydia closely behind her, she felt the grip of her daughter’s hand on her skirt, holding onto her instead of the banister, Cathryn simply smiled; it proved rather helpful, keeping Cathryn grounded by allowing her to move slowly instead of trying to prevent a rushing child – she wasn’t certain how well she would even be able to keep up if she had to move any faster, her body still screamed in pain at her.
As the two reached the bottom of the stairs; their attention was drawn to two burly Cultists – Cathryn immediately felt herself grow cold, a terrifying dread replacing her happiness believing George had returned – instead, the two Cultists came dragging in a familiar face; Julia – she recognised her as one of the workers from the kitchen, her face bruised and eyes hollow with despair.
Cathryn’s brow furrowed with confusion – ‘Where had Julia been, what had happened that she wasn’t privy too’ a cold knot tightened in Cathryn’s stomach, she moved her hands and held Lydia closer; a silent shield against the palpable darkness that had just entered the Manor.
Chapter 6:
Luton, Bedfordshire
Leaving Nottingham for a safehouse in Luton – intending to get as close to London as possible, Jesse was made aware of the events in Whitechapel, and the news that he was provided was raw and devastating, he knew most of his new recruits were young most being 18 and their early 20s “It was a bloodbath I hear” the informant tod Jesse, his voice horse “George Smythe moved too fast…, caught them completely unaware, the safehouse in Whitechapel…, it is gone”
Jesse’s jaw tightened – Anne, standing near observed with a sad expression, she recognised the pain, she felt guilt due to her own relation to George and how despite her divergence, her name will always be one of hatred “Is there any survivors?” Jesse questions
“It’s uh…, it’s to early to tell; all I know is it was a proper slaughter; police have been involved in the attack, it is being called a ‘workers riot’ to keep order”
Jesse ran his hand over his face; the lines of weariness deepening “Damn it all…, he is much faster to act than his father Elias was”
Heijirō, who had decided to sit on the ground, a cross-legged position while his son; Astor stood with that usual eerie stillness, was behind Heijirō – Heijirō listened to the exchange with an impassive face, his hand resting on the katana that rested in his lap, while the Kodachi rested on his back, his eyes shifted to look at the subtle reflection of his son behind him, Astor kept his eyes on his father, he too though was listening.
After a moment, Heijirō finally spoke “This Smythe” his voice was calm, measured – yet there was an undeniable edge present “He moves with the speed of a coiled predator, any well-made plan it seems…, will simply fall apart due to his proactive approach” slowly, Heijirō moves, rising up to his feet as he shifted his Katana back along his hip “Waiting will only allow him to consolidate his position, it gives him free reign to finish his cruel games, I shall confront him”
Jesse glanced over with a snapping twist; his face a look of surprise “What?” he questioned with a raised voice “Confront him?; Heijirō that is not a good idea, he is a not just some Cult leader, he is a dangerous opponent”
Heijirō merely smiled “If you wish to make progress, sometimes you must take a risk you feel uncomfortable with; he will not be expecting a direct response, this may infact provide a means to disrupt him completely, throw him off balance” making a subtle gesture towards Astor “As my son has often said ‘Sometimes the fastest path is not the straightest; but one that most confounds the enemy’…”
Jesse watched uncertain as Heijirō and Astor left the safehouse; Jesse’s eyes then shifted towards Anne
The Smythe Estate, along the River Thames
During the late evening Cathryn lays quietly on her bed, as had become a usual occurrence with George’s absence, Lydia was present, laying on Cathryn’s left, though, this time; she had been joined by Elizabeth who was on Cathryn’s right.
Cathryn’s focus kept shifting back and forth as she gently let her fingers run through the hair of both girls; both having fallen asleep beside her, it was the first time she had managed to feel like she had made any kind of progress at any point in her life, it had taken a lot of effort to even get Elizabeth to even communicate, let alone even consider coming to join her and Lydia as a proper family unit together, but she knew it wouldn’t last – she knew once George returned things would just go back to normal.
Taking a deep breath she trembled a moment as she shifted her eyes upwards to stare at the ceiling “Help me” she simply whispered to the air “I don’t care what I have to do, just please help me”
In the silence, Cathryn would finally find sleep catching up to her, subtle she shifted causing the girls to move closer as Cathryn drifted off to sleep.
They were however observed from the corner of the room by an unseen woman; she stood like a statue, her long black hair reaching below her waist, her eyes, ancient and knowing – violet in colour; her physical form translucent – slowly she moved forwards a moment, but knew she couldn’t go any closer, she was restricted – her eyes though fell towards the direction of a small wooden box – it looked like a music or puzzle box with an intricate design adorning it, though there was no clear signs of how it would be opened – the strange woman returned her gaze momentarily to Cathryn and her daughters before moving in the direction of the box before slowly dissipating completely leaving the three alone.
Chapter 7:
The 8th of January, 1897
Redbourn, Hertfordshire
In the early hours of the morning, George dressed in a fine tailored dark suit arrived by carriage to the secluded village; the invitation he had been provided was vaguely worded but hinted at a potentially new informant with vital intelligence – ever hungry for more control and information, he had come with his usual retinue of protection, he directed them to scatter out, to remain hidden in the surroundings woods as he ventured off.
Finding the meeting spot in an old cemetery, he found who he was intending to meet, there was an eeriness that put George on the defensive immediately as he lowered his cane, gently tapping it against the ground as he approached – the robed figure turned around to look; Heijirō Yama.
Heijirō greeted George with a warm, almost differential tone with a subtle bow of his head “Smythe; it is an honour to meet you” George could hear the heavily accented tone to his voice
Coming to a complete stop; George gently rested some weight onto his cane as he eyed the Japanese man carefully – the elegant, traditional robes of Japan, the unmistakable hilt of a Katana on his waist and the shorter Kodachi peaking over his shoulder from his back “And you are?” George questioned, his voice laced with suspicion
Heijirō maintained a warm smile “A…, concerned party; I have heard much of your influence, your family…, but…, what interests me most is Cathryn Langdon”
There was a profound shift once Cathryn was mentioned; cautioned vanished, replaced instead by a predatory grin – the initial uncertainty gave way to an instant recognition; this stranger was a Hunter, an old one which meant he had more experience than any he had previously encountered and therefore a direct threat.
Without a word, George moved the cane before gripping the ornate head – with a practiced flick, a dark gleaming blade hissed from within the confines of the shaft; drawing the cane-sword free; a gentleman’s weapon which was deceptively elegant and deadly – George made the first move.
The air grew colder, charged with a crackling energy as George surged forwards – his cane-sword whistled through the air with a sharp sound as he aimed to strike at Heijirō; it was a precise, calculated strike delivered with arrogant confidence from a man who believed himself untouchable.
Heijirō though shifted, his lifetime of practise came to the forefront as he maintained his serene smile – his hand reaching over to the hilt before drawing the Katana free within a quick movement and intercepted the first of George’s attacks, a clash of steel sharp and high-pitched rang out in the silence as Heijirō deflected the initial strike without effort as he repositioned himself towards the side, his movement was fluid like water.
Moving his left hand that was previously left to the side in the initial defence, he now gripped his Katana with both hands, he position and stance making it a clear indication of absolute readiness – George recognised the disciplined stance, he quickly realised he would need to adjust his approach, his opponent knew exactly what to do, and had the discipline to back them up – Heijirō was a man with a lifetime of combat experience, and it was obvious in his movements and stance – the only real advantage for George was his ferocity and cunning.
The duel began – it was a terrifying ballet of death and steel; each movement was calculated, ach strike executed with deadly control that spoke of each ones years of practise; George relied on his unconventional tactics and manipulative cunning as he sought out openings, his strikes swift and unpredictable to most opponents – Heijirō though, he remained grounded and centred, he parried and evaded.
The Katana was a silvery blur always looking for the precise moment, the smallest of vulnerabilities – the duel was a deadly conversation between two vastly different men.
Moving closer George found yet another of his strikes deflected towards the side knocking him off balance a little – Heijirō within that moment seized an opportunity as his right hand with deft movement pulled something free from beneath his robe – a fragile shell that was quickly broken in his grip before his hand lashed outwards; a cloud of finely ground powder a mix of stinging nettles and chili powder that had been blended together with concentrated effort – it was quickly caught within the subtle wind that blew within George’s direction and towards his face – a Hunter’s tactic, a simple trick that, despite the disorganised nature, provided a unifying skill that all ‘Anti-Imperium Hunters’ used
George’s eyes though had seen this trick before – he recognised the movement, the glint of the ornate shell for a brief second within Heijirō movement; in the fraction of a second, instinct honed by previous fights against ‘Hunters’ took over, he closed his eyes tightly and ducked his head at the same time, brought up a controlled arcing movement with his sword to barely protect himself from Heijirō follow-up strike through the cloud of blinding powder.
The metal clang rings out as the Katana connects on a sharp angle against George’s cane-sword; the heavy strike managing to force George to stumble – intending to create some space, George backs up before opening his eyes.
The two eyed one another carefully – any misstep could prove lethal, and George recognised that fact, Heijirō experience and skill significantly outmatched George, while George was putting effort into each movement, Heijirō hadn’t – the only moment he had actually made effort was towards that last strike, an intent to kill that George nearly faltered at.
George could feel a his anger building, but if he lost his temper, that would prove to be more fatal – taking a deep breath he observe Heijirō carefully before stepping forwards once again, he made a surge forward once again engaging his opponent, but beginning to take a more tactical approach using the environment – twisting around grave-stones to ensure something would be between them and prevent lower-swings, then, in a sudden shift; George moves closer to force Heijirō sword towards the left before adding a second movement; he brought the cane – the very housing of his conceal-carried weapon, and swung it as a secondary weapon.
There was a dull thud upon the cane connecting against Heijirō’s head – the older man grunted with pain as he moved, repositioning his foot to prevent a stumble; he made a sudden swing out of instinct barely catching George but also leaving an opening – George purposely sacrificed a moment of pain, catching the blade against his chest simply to try driving his own cane-sword forwards but he stopped completely while directly in front of Heijirō their eyes locked, he never finished his strike – but Heijirō hadn’t landed a second strike, at the corner of his eye he saw the Katana held outwards – yet, their was a sharp searing pain that had exploded along his side.
A gasp escaped like a strangled cry as he immediately moved sideways, his eyes shifting down towards the source of his pain; a knife was lodged into his left side; his eyes shifted to the one holding it – stood in an aggressive stance, as if materialised from the very shadows was Astor – he had come from nowhere, his approach unheard and his presence was just simply an enigma.
Astor’s face was completely expressionless, his dark eyes look pools of night betraying no emotion, no satisfaction; he simply stood gripping the knife in a reverse grip – calmly, he pulled the knife free before raising his leg and kicking out, pivoting on his supporting leg as he slammed a kick into George’s side sending him sprawling, all of the movements and actions taken; what had felt long a long time had only been a brief moment.
Crashing back against the ground, George struggled a moment, his eyes returning to find Astor as he began to approach.
Astor’s advance was chilling – his expression blank and movement unnervingly deliberate, reaching over, George winced as he held his side using his feet to push himself back, a dawning horror in his eyes; Astor was not normal.
Before Astor could deliver another blow a flurry of movement erupted from the surrounding trees; George’s Cultists, alerted by sound and George’s initial sharp cry of pain when he had hit the ground, burst onto the scene, seeing their leader wounded they moved forwards with a fanatical zeal – Heijirō assessing the situation shifted, he recognised they needed to withdraw “Astor!” he commanded, his voice sharp
Astor halted upon his fathers command and shifted his eyes, they narrowed as he gave one last unnerving glance at the wounded George before turning and disappearing into the darkness with his father; Heijirō, he gave one final weary smile as both father and son retreated – George watched with a strange sense of vulnerability as a silent youth had nearly ended him.
Chapter 8:
The 16th of January 1897
The Smythe Estate, along the River Thames
The heavy doors of the Manor groaned open admitting a chill wind and the furious presence of its master; George, still effected by his injury, walked slow as he came into his home.
His usually impeccable attire had been left dishevelled, he’d grown frustrated with the tightness pulling on his injury, leaving his usual visual appearance more casual, he still occasional moved his hand to cover the spot he had been struck, a low growl present in his throat as he moved, his fury at an all time how for even being put into such a position – the polished floor offered now solace, only the stark reflection of his damaged pride.
Almost immediately upon entering, Jacob was drawn out to greet him; his expression did not betray his immediate concern though; maintaining a passive expression as he observed George “I see you have returned sir, is…, everything in order?” he knew it wasn’t, but, still he had to ask
George merely grunted as he shook his head “A minor inconveniences Jacob; it matters little, just an encounter with a…, ‘Hunter’…, that is all, it has been dealt with” his words were clipped, dismissive yet a slight tremor betrayed the lie
Cathryn, appearing on the stairway with Lydia holding the side of her skirt, she noticed George and the state he was in; despite everything he had done to her, she felt a as though she needed to go and tend to him, it was a flicker but it was still present, she was uncertain as to why, slowly she and Lydia descended the stairs and she looked towards George as she drew closer to him drawing his attention.
George moved his gaze from Jacob towards Cathryn and Lydia – he looked at her properly and raised his eyebrow; for a change she was not simply dressed in clothing she preferred for tending to the duties he often enforced her to do – she had instead chosen to wear something uncharacteristic – she was dressed in something so often would be worn by Victorian aristocracy – things he would have her wear before he forced her into the rushed marriage, when he would try to parade her in order to maintain his elusion of ‘love’ at the very start, it was jarring to see her dressed with such an elegance, her hair was loose and free instead of being tied back as would be normal for her.
Shaking his head a moment he narrowed his gaze “George” she said, her voice low, clearly terrified of saying something wrong or sparking his rage; it was as low as a whisper “Do…, do you require help?; I can be of assistance for you, lighten some of the pressures if you require rest” the offer was a precarious tightrope walk – she knew he usually used any excuse for her ‘Re-Education’ and an offer that could be viewed as him being ‘weak’ would certainly set him off
“Assistance?” he scoffed, the sound dripping of scorn “My dear Cathryn; your duties are clearly laid out, get attending to them instead of being disruptive, if you want punishment your going the right way about it” he snapped
Cathryn simply lowered her gaze feeling a sense of uselessness and gently urged Lydia to move as she moved away from George and began to walk down the hallway away from George – as George moved towards the stairs her heard Jacob clear his throat causing him to look back “Is I may speak freely; during your absence; it was Cathryn who quietly ensured the Estated continued to function without a single hiccup, the staff managed and supplied accounted for, she handled even your difficult correspondence”
“My correspondence?” he snapped with narrowed eyes
“Letters we could not read, she dealt with; regardless of your abuse Sir, she is legally your wife, but, she did not overstep Sir; if your concerned she was privy to your Imperium correspondence, she simply organised it without reading sir; she identified what was what and separated things for you to catch up on” Jacob revealed
George raised his eyebrow; his gaze shifting towards Cathryn’s retreating form; their was a genuine confusion present in his face, that was something unexpected.
“I would advise Sir, that it would be a good idea to take up on such an offer, such an offer surely would be something you would desire considering your…, ‘desire’ to ensure her obedience” Jacob shifts his gaze momentarily before returning back to George “After all; you abuse her so often, it is rather impressive that she would even consider offering such a thing”
George looked back once again his face unreadable for a long moment – he decided to test the waters for the time being, looking in the direction Cathryn had gone before returning his eyes to Jaco “I have other matters to attend, wave her off” the words were simply ambiguous, he did not wish to be seen making concessions, to appear weak – Jacob recognised that.
For the time being George would take a chance to rest while Cathryn would take up more duties to assist; it enabled her to spend time with her daughters without hinderance.
Written By: Westley H.
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