A Piece of History: Long Neglected Questions

      Uncomfortable silence hung thickly in the sunny room, and even the delighted squeals of children could not lessen the tension. Jonas Foster, former death mage and hit for hire, perched on the edge of an oak chair, his hands twisted in the hem of his loose denim jacket. Bertram Jumoke, changeling and adoptive father to many, sat heavily in his oversized armchair, his pale blue eyes fastened on the man. The small clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes. A few had passed, and as more were lost to the stream of Time, the two men looked at each other, and still found nothing to say.
     What had brought Jonas here to Hearth Home anyway? Why now, so long after her death, had he decided to set foot over a threshold which had never welcomed him to begin with? Questions hung on the thick air with the delicacy of Christmas ornaments, decorating the silence with a number of question marks.

      Children rarely function on the same level as adults, and Coriline Ferrington was not working on those obscure tangents today. The little girl darted into the room, her silver and blue butterfly wings flapping, and shoved a plate of cookies onto Bertram’s lap. "Try ’em, try ’em! Andrew lemme help him bake and they came out really good and I didn’t even burn anything!" Her breathless squeak made the large blue man smile tenderly, and he stroked her blonde hair, avoiding the silver antennae which curled out of the unruly locks.
      "Did ‘e now? An’ ye did a’igh’ wit’ ’em?" Bertram’s quiet happiness was almost tangible as he solemnly bit into a cookie. The eight year old stared up in wonder, waiting hopefully for the verdict. The fae nodded, smiling as he wiped chocolate from his lips. "Ye did good, lassie. Dey’re rig’t tasty."
      The butterfly’s huge grey eyes lit up and she squealed with joy. Even Jonas found himself smiling, so infectious was her utter happiness. The child snatched one of the cookies from the plate and bolted to Jonas. He blinked, too startled to do much beyond stiffen, and stared at the little girl imperiously offering a cookie. With a veiled glance at Bertram, he took the cookie and bit into it with the same solemnity the old man had shown. Coriline danced with joy and clapped her hands happily. With a child’s lack of awkwardness, she climbed onto Jonas’s lap and kissed his cheek soundly. Bertram received the same in turn, and the little blonde ran into the hall, calling for Andrew.

      Silence fell once more as the men finished their cookies and dusted crumbs from their hands.
      "She’s beautiful."

      Bertram looked up, almost puzzled at Jonas’s quiet tone of voice. It discomfited him, having his expectations denied (don’t we all?) and he scowled a bit, moving the plate of cookies aside. "Aye, ’bout much as Dia."
      The former mage made no indication of how something within him whimpered at the sound of her name. He merely nodded and shifted his gaze to his boots. Bertram’s frown darkened, and he looked out the window for a moment. The sight of a herd of children tumbling across the side lawn brought a smile to his face, and the old changeling basked in the joy of the young.
      "Wha’c’a wan’, Jonas?"

      He looked up and met Bertram’s hard blue eyes. "Ye didna come ‘ere wit’out a reason. We ain’t seen ‘ide o’ ‘air o’ ye since…" The old man fell silent, suddenly brooding.
      "What happened," Jonas said quietly, his eyes focusing on his boots. "I want to know how…that happened. Who did it. What happened to them, too."

      The old fae lifted a bushy white brow. "Now ye wanna know? Ye didna ask a year ‘go, did ye?"
      "…I couldn’t. I didn’t even think of how, who or why," Jonas muttered. "All I could remember was her."
      "And ye didna give a t’oug’t ta any o’ us?" The man’s voice was hard now, and he stared at Jonas. "Didna t’ink dat we coulda used ‘elp?"
      Why did this make him feel scolded? Jonas couldn’t bring himself to meet Bertram’s eyes, and some long-ago memory of a disappointed grandfather gave a poignant ache.
      "I didn’t think of anything. I…couldn’t." The former death mage rubbed at his eyes. "…I was a mess."
      "Ye weren’ tha only one," the elder said, looking at his pale blue hands. "Near lost one o’ our wee ones o’er dis, and a bunch o’ tha’ ‘igh King’s fellas died."
      "…this High King…" Jonas scowled, something in him blackening at the thought of that unknown man. "Why didn’t he protect her? I still… I couldn’t bring myself to come here to ask, before… But now… How did it happen?" His dark brown eyes were earnest when he finally looked at the changeling. "How?"
 
      The old man gazed out the window for a moment, his face suddenly heavily lined. "T’wern’t no fault o’ tha’ king’s. ‘e’d been keepin’ ‘er well safe. Ye ‘member…" His voice almost broke, and he swallowed. "Dia didna ‘ave a faint ‘eart. S’e was always wantin’ ta go out ‘nd ’bout. ‘e’d let ‘er go ta tha city, Boston t’was, and go s’oppin’." He rubbed a hasty hand over his eyes, blotting out the sudden glint. "Poor man didna e’en know wha’ ‘appened till An’rew called ‘im."
      "…but how did she…"

      "S’e was ‘tacked. Bunch o’ ruff’ans caug’t ‘er ‘lone and…" Bertram stopped suddenly, his jaw working, and Jonas found himself feeling some strange softness in him at the man’s obvious pain. His brow furrowed, but he looked down and spoke softly.
      "…you don’t have to tell me. I think I can guess." The former mage didn’t know where this quiet kindness had come from, for it certainly had not been in him before, but it demanded he speak, and gently.
      "Nay, lad. Seein’ ‘ow ye were w’en we got ‘er ‘ome…" Bertram looked squarely at Jonas, and in the older man’s pale blue eyes, the former mage saw the battle had been fought

and decided. Jonas Foster was not "one of them," nor had he been trustworthy. However, Dia had chosen him as her love, and had come back only to speak her last words to him. He had ached and grieved for the same woman, and in that shared pain, a kinship was born.
      "T’ey ‘ad t’eir way wit’ ‘er," he said gruffly, his gaze remaining on his massive loafers. "Dunno ‘ow t’ey knew wha’ s’e was, but t’ey tore ‘er wings off. Ye ‘member."
      Jonas couldn’t repress the faint shudder, recalling the warmth of her blood seeping into his lap, flowing from the horrible wounds where her wings had so beautifully lain. "Why didn’t anyone hunt them down? How did she get back here from Boston anyway?"
      Bertram sighed. "Tha king ‘unted ’em down, but considerin’ tha damage was a’eady done… ‘e ‘ad ’em…" The old fae shook his head, but the message was clear. "As fer ‘er comin’ back ‘ome… S’e always could get ’round, awful fast too. ‘m guessin’ s’e jest put all s’e ‘ad inta comin’ ‘ome ta us."

      Jonas’s head whirled with thoughts of revenge, anger, regret. So many questions came up, now of all times: why hadn’t they called for an ambulance? Where had she been that no one heard her cries? Why would a group of vicious thugs rape and murder a… There he stopped, and frowned darkly. 
      "…too late now," he muttered softly.
      Bertram’s eyebrow lifted. "Wha was dat lad?"
      "Nothing," Jonas said, the frown deeply embedded on his face. "I…just think that if I could go back, I’d… I don’t know. Call an ambulance or something."
      The old man shook his head. "Wouldna done na good. Been ’round long time, lad. A look like dat on a face, ain’t nuffin’ ta be done fer ’em, ‘cept make it easy on ’em."
      The former mage looked at the old man, and silent understanding passed between them. Men who had seen Death, and often, could relate on some level. Jonas nodded, and rose stiffly.
      "I’d better be getting back. I have… a lot of work to do."

      Bertram looked at him quietly, allowed him to reach the door before he spoke. "Why now lad? ‘ow come ye ask me all t’is now?"

      The former death mage paused, one hand on the door, and looked back at the elderly fae. "To know the past is to prevent repetition. I won’t have that happen to her again." Jonas left the startled man alone, moving with silent feet out of the building.

      Bertram Jumoke sat back in his chair and tried to close his gaping mouth. His pale eyes were alight with cautious joy, and he looked out the window, following the man’s retreating shadow. "Ye bring ‘er back ta us, boy, ‘nd ye’ll ne’er lack fer friends ”gain."