Seffargo

Chapter 2

'I thought I told you never to see her again?' a deep voice boomed, its sound amplified in the scarcely furnished stone room.

Barcley nodded. 'I recall you saying that, but I also remember replying with "Your words have no hold over me; I shall live how I choose." Do you not remember that father?'

'This is not a discussion.' His father's voice quaked with barely contained rage. 'You are to do as told, and that is all there is to it. You know your position, and you know the effect your actions have. Cease this foolhardiness at once and do as I command.'

Barcley stood before his frail father, Daymond, who sat in a chair taller than any man. He was dressed in fine robes, but they did nothing to hide his age. They clung to him, revealing his skeletal frame and thinning muscles. His hair, grey with age but not wisdom, was long and unkempt, the oils alive in the light of the sun. With every day that passed, it became clearer to Barcley that Daymond was growing old. Soon, he would be gone, and only Barcley would remain to carry his family's legacy.

As Daymond stood, Barcley noticed that his legs shook, and his hands searched for something to lean on. Without a second thought, Barcley strode up the stairs separating them and offered his father his arm. He took it hesitantly.

'Son, I need you to know that I don't ask you to do this lightly.' He spoke in a softer tone now; one which almost seemed caring. But Barcley knew better—the niceties were only because of the assistance. 'I know you're close to one another, and I know how much it'll hurt—but it must be done.'

'I know, father.' Barcley led the way down the steps and back onto the bright red carpet at their base. On either side of the carpet were wooden pews, made for the masses, but not comfort. At the far end were two large wooden doors reinforced with iron. They moved slowly towards them.

'She cannot be seen with you. At least not whilst she remains a no one. Bring her home and make her yours, then you can go with her wherever you please.'

A large coughing fit took over Daymond's body, with every cough sending a shudder down his spine. Barcley gently patted his back. 'I know, father.'

'You will have my blessing from then onwards—I promise. But while you stay in Seffargo, you must adhere to my commands. Do you understand? I say these things for your own good—and for hers. I don't wish to be cruel, I just worry, son. I worry ...'

'I know, father.' They reached the end of the walkway and Barcley knocked on the doors. A second later, they swung outwards to reveal a lengthy stone corridor. Two guards dressed in light chainmail armour held the doors open as they passed. Barcley gave them a slight nod.

'Good. Then I expect this to be last time we have this discussion. I pray it is, at least. I'm too old to be wasting energy on trivial matters.'

Barcley led his father to Margaret—a young blonde maid who was waiting nearby. She was dressed in the maid's customary attire of a long black dress with white trimming. The dress was made from a rigid material—one more suited to tough work than easy living. She took his father's arm with a smile and put a hand on his back as she guided him down the corridor. Their conversation came easier than Barcley could ever hope, and a sliver of pain pierced his heart—yet he refused to turn away. A mix of sadness and anger washed over his features, each one vying for a chance to show, but unable to break through his disciplined demeanor.

Trivial matters. That's all I am.

/ END /

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