Rowan's Reckoning

I - Waylon

With Eastwood Estate bustling with activity, eight year old Waylon found himself at odds with his father's expectations. The servants were scurrying around, preparing for the lavish dinner party that Waylon's father, Rowan Eastwood was hosting on the grounds. Waylon, however, remained rebellious, refusing to conform to the gentlemanly behavior his father had tried to instill in him over the last couple of years.  In the midst of the whirlwind, Waylon found himself in his room, surrounded by two of Rowan's butlers, Maxwell and Reggie. They were determined to get the young boy dressed in his custom tailored suit for the occasion, but their efforts were met with resistance.
"Come now, Master Waylon," Maxwell coaxed, holding up the elegant jacket. "Your father will be displeased if you don't wear this suit. It's important to make a good impression on the guests."
Waylon crossed his arms stubbornly, eyeing the suit with disdain.
"I don't see why I have to wear this stuffy thing. I'd rather be out exploring the woods."
Reggie sighed, attempting reason with the headstrong boy. "Master Waylon, your father believes that dressing your best is a sign of respect. He wants you to become a proper gentleman like all the Eastwood's before you."
Waylon scowled, his defiance evident.
"Well, I'm only half an Eastwood.. He thinks he can control me with his fancy clothes and rules. I won't let him." 
The two butlers exchanged worried glances, realizing the depth of Waylon's resentment. They knew all too well the consequences the young boy had faced for his rebelliousness in the past.
Maxwell knelt down to Waylon's level, his voice empathetic.
"We understand, Master Waylon, but your father is only trying to help you to have a better future."
Waylon's expression softened for a moment, his eyes clouded with a mix of anger and pain.
"If he really loved me and wanted what's best for me... Then he wouldn't hurt me the way he does" he muttered, referring to the beatings he had endured at Rowan's hands.
Reggie placed a comforting hand on Waylon's shoulder.
"We can't change the past, Master Waylon, but we can try to make things better for the here and now. Your father may not always show it, but he does care about you."
Waylon considered their words, his young mind grappling with his conflicting emotions. The desire for independence warred with a longing for a genuine connection with his father.  He then nodded and began to get dressed. 
Dressed in his suit, Waylon roamed his fathers sprawling estate, his mind restless and seeking amusement while he waited for the dinner party to commence. Tugging at his cravat as he walked, wanting to lose the stuffy dress garments entirely.
As he wandered through the estate's hallways, Waylon's attention was drawn to the dining room. The doors were ajar, and he could hear the soft murmur of voices coming from within. Curiosity piqued, he approached stealthily, his steps light and silent. Eavesdropping had always been one of his favorite pastimes when it came to entertainment, as it allowed him to learn new things and satisfy his curiosity. Peeking through the crack of the door, Waylon spotted two of the maids, Mary and Emily, setting the table for the upcoming dinner. Their hushed voices carried through the room, and Waylon couldn't resist the temptation to listen in on their conversation.  He tiptoed closer, his small frame hiding beneath the long tablecloth that cascaded to the floor. From his concealed vantage point, he strained to catch their whispered words.
"Did you see the state Mr. Rowan was in earlier?" Mary's voice trembled slightly, her concern evident. "He stumbled into the kitchen, reeking of alcohol as always."
Emily sighed, arranging the silverware next to the plates. "Aye, poor man. He's been drowning his sorrows in whiskey ever since his sons were killed in the war, and losing his dear wife... It's taken a toll on his sanity." 
Waylon's heart sank as he listened, the revelations about the source of his father's pain.
Mary lowered her voice, her words barely audible. "You know, I've heard stories from some of the other staff. They say he finds solace in the arms of harlots. It earned him the nickname 'Ramblin' Rowan from the townsfolk in Rhodes and St. Denis!'"
Emily's eyes widened. "Shh, Mary! You know we shouldn't speak of such matters. If he were to hear that, his anger would surely flare."
Waylon's young mind grappled with this newfound knowledge. The image of his father as a broken, grief-stricken man was at odds with the stern and abusive figure he had known.  Finished listening to the conversation, Waylon decided to explore further. Quietly, he slipped away from the dining room and made his way towards the kitchen.
As he entered, the intoxicating aroma of various dishes being prepared overwhelmed his senses. The kitchen was a hive of activity, with cooks and kitchen staff rushing about, ensuring everything was ready for the impending feast.  Waylon's eyes gleamed as he spotted a tray of freshly baked cookies on a nearby counter. The tasty sweets beckoned to him, and he couldn't resist the temptation to snatch one.  With nimble fingers, Waylon reached out, his hand barely grazing the edge of the tray. But just as he was about to claim his prize, a booming voice filled the room.
"Hey, you there! What do you think you're doing?" It was the head chef, Mr. Jones...  A tall and imposing figure.
Startled, Waylon froze, the cookie half in his grasp. He glanced up, meeting the chef's stern gaze.
"Uh, I... I was just looking for a snack," he stammered, his cheeks turning red with embarrassment.
Mr. Jones's expression softened slightly, though the sternness in his words remained. "Young man, you shouldn't be in here. The kitchen is a dangerous place, especially during such a busy time. We have to prepare a feast for all the guests arriving at the big house."
Waylon's eyes looked to the floor, "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."
Mr. Jones sighed, softening the tone of his voice. "No harm done. But boy, you must promise me to stay out of here for your own safety. We have a lot of work to do, and it's best if you find something else to occupy your time."
Waylon nodded, feeling a mixture of disappointment and gratitude. "I understand, sir. I'll be sure to stay out." 
With that, he turned and hurriedly left the culinary whirlwind, leaving behind the tantalizing cookies and the busy cooks. As he made his way back into the estate, Waylon pondered what other adventures he could find to occupy himself while he waited for the party to begin.  With the kitchen adventure cut short, Waylon decided to explore the vast rooms and corridors of the big house. He couldn't resist the allure of curiosity, eager to uncover the secrets hidden within its walls.  Quietly, he wandered through the grand hallways, careful to avoid detection. He tiptoed past the busy workers, their voices blending into a symphony of hushed conversations and clinking utensils.  As he skulked around, Waylon couldn't help but eavesdrop on snippets of conversations. He caught snippets of gossip, discussions about the upcoming party, and murmurs about Rowan's business associates from St. Denis.  The mention of Rowan's associates made Waylon's heart race... Theodore Carver, and Arthur Haversham, and the roles these horrid men played in his life.  The drinking binges with his father, and the beatings they would throw Waylon whether Rowan was present or not for their own enjoyment. It was a part of his existence he wished he could escape somehow...  Determined to uncover more, Waylon stealthily crept closer to the rooms where the workers gathered. He found a hidden nook, concealed by an ornate tapestry, from which he could observe unnoticed.  From his hidden vantage point, Waylon observed the arrival of the guests. One by one, they entered the big house, dressed in their finest attire. There were 23 guests in total, not including Rowan and Waylon. The guests' laughter and animated conversations filled the air, creating an atmosphere of revelry and merriment.  Among the guests, Waylon spotted two familiar faces... Carver, and Haversham.. Their presence sent a shiver down his spine, reminding him of the pain and fear they had inflicted upon him in the past.  As the guests settled into the various rooms, Waylon continued to eavesdrop on their conversations, gathering little bits of information that piqued his curiosity. He learned about their backgrounds, their connections to Rowan, and the intrigue surrounding the upcoming party.  The party began in full swing. The sound of clinking glasses and lively chatter filled the air, creating an atmosphere of merriment and celebration.
Waylon, unable to resist the urge to immerse himself in the festivities, approached one of the guests, a jovial man named Mr. Kingsley.
"Lovely party, isn't it?" Waylon remarked with a hint of sarcasm.
Mr. Kingsley chuckled and replied, "Indeed, young man. Your father knows how to throw a grand affair."
Waylon's eyes flickered towards Rowan, who was holding court with a group of guests, a glass of whiskey in hand. Despite his early morning drinking, Rowan seemed to maintain his composure quite well, his charming demeanor captivating those around him. 
Feeling a surge of frustration, Waylon couldn't help but make a snide comment. "It's amazing how he can hold his liquor, considering how much he's been indulging since morning."
Before he could finish his sentence, Rowan swiftly grabbed the back of Waylon's neck, his grip strong enough to cause a sharp pain. Waylon winced, feeling the sting of his fathers fingers digging into the sides of his neck, almost breaking the skin.
"Watch your tongue, boy," Rowan leaned down and hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't spoil the party with your insolence." 
Waylon slinked away, a slow anger simmering within him. He found solace in the shadows, away from the festivities, as he contemplated the unfairness of his situation.  The guests continued to enjoy their time mingling amongst one another, unaware of the fire brewing within the young man who observed them from afar. Waylon's anger grew, fueled by the constant mistreatment he endured and the facade of happiness that masked his true emotions.  As the evening progressed, the guests gathered around the beautifully set dinner table, eager to indulge in the delicious spread before them. The aroma of roasted meats and savory sides filled the room, heightening everyone's anticipation.  Waylon took his seat next to Rowan, trying to put aside his growing anger and enjoy the meal. The guests engaged in lively conversations, their laughter and animated gestures creating a vibrant atmosphere.  However, Rowan couldn't resist putting Waylon down, belittling him with snide comments throughout the dinner as the whiskey flowed down Rowan's gullet like a river. The guests, though initially enjoying the festivities, started to shift uncomfortably in their seats with Rowan's behavior towards his own son.  Carver and Haversham, saw an opportunity in Waylon's humiliation and encouraged Rowan to continue his berating. As the evening wore on, Rowan's insults became more pointed, causing a few guests to exchange uncomfortable glances.
"You really think you'll amount to anything, Waylon? Look at you, barely able to hold a decent conversation," Rowan sneered, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
Waylon clenched his fists, his face flushing with anger.
"Can't you just leave me be Father? I'm trying to enjoy the evening." he retorted, his voice shaking with suppressed frustration.
The guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats, sensing the tension escalating. They exchanged worried glances, unsure how to intervene.
But Waylon had reached his breaking point. The anger that had been simmering within him finally erupted. Unable to contain his frustration any longer, Waylon stood up abruptly, his voice trembling with rage.
"That's a hell of a thing for you to say to me, Ramblin' Rowan!" Waylon yelled, the words cutting through the room like a knife. He picked up his plate, and hurled it towards his father.  The room fell into stunned silence as the plate crashed against Rowan's chest, leaving a trail of food and broken crockery in its wake. Rowan's face turned crimson with anger and embarrassment.  Without a word, Rowan abruptly ended the party, his guests dispersing in confusion and shock.
He pointed towards the door, his voice cold and stern. "Wait for me in your room boy, I'll be along to give you yours shortly."
As Waylon left the room, a mix of defiance and fear coursed through his veins. The estate was silent now, the sound of cicadas and bullfrogs filled the stillness with their odd yet calming symphony. Waylon's room was dark save the candle sitting on the dresser across his room.  Suddenly the door slowly creaked open, Rowan, Haversham, and Carver entered Waylon's room. Their expressions holding sadistic intent, and malice could be seen in their drunken eyes. Waylon, filled with fear, attempted to resist as Haversham and Carver grabbed onto his arms and picked the boy up. As they began to walk him out of the room, Waylon tried to resist but he was powerless at the hands of his fathers brutes.
"Let me go! You can't do this!" Waylon pleaded, his voice cracking.
Rowan remained calm, his eyes fixed on Waylon. "There's a price attached to everything you say and do boy. You've crossed the line, and now you must pay what's due..."
Desperation filled Waylon's eyes. "Please, Father, I'll make it right. I promise, please don't!"
Rowan shook his head, his face hardened. "Apologies won't suffice, not this time. Your actions have damaged the Eastwood name."
As they reached the last doorway leading outside, Waylon threw up his feet, attempting to anchor himself on the doorframe. Using any and all of his strength in the hopes he could keep the two men from crossing the threshold to the outside world, but his efforts proved futile as they easily overpowered him. Rowan moved swiftly as he grabbed the stockwhip hanging up just outside the doorway, he took his time as he began to remove his suit jacket, tie, and vest. He began rolling up his sleeves and unbuttoning his collar unrestricting his movements for what he was about to do...
Waylon's eyes widened in terror as he realized his fathers intent.
"No, please! Don't do this! Father, I'm sorry, please!" He begged, but his words fell upon deaf ears.
Rowan's expression remained resolute and cold. "I'm sorry son, but it's time for you to understand that your words and actions have great consequence."  Haversham and Carver were not gentle as they began ripping off Waylon's jacket, vest, and shirt, exposing his back as his father gave a few practice cracks with the whip. As they tied the boy's arms off to a fence post, using his torn shirt as a restraint. With Waylon securely tied off, Rowan spoke.
"You embarrassed me tonight, in front of the people who help me to be able to afford everything you see around us boy.  So as payment for your insolence, you'll be receiving a lash for everyone present, guests and workers alike." Rowan then turned to face Maxwell who had come outside hearing the commotion that stirred the property.
"Maxwell, how many were present at tonight's festivities?" Rowan inquired.
Maxwell stood there in the doorway, his face painted with horror at what Rowan was about to do. "Master Rowan, please I beg of you..." Maxwell began speaking, when suddenly a crack from Rowan's whip pierced through the thick Lemoyne air. Maxwell fell to his knees as blood began staining the white washed porch, a steady stream of blood flowed from the open gash the whip left on the butler's cheek. 
"I do not pay you to beg, I pay you to do as I say, when I say it!"  Rowan barked as he turned to his henchmen who were looking on delighted.  "How many were present tonight?" Rowan asked again. Carver and Haversham looked at eachother, smiles began sadistically taking shape on their faces as they turned to Rowan.
"I'd say there were about 23 present tonight." Carver replied.  "25 if you count yourself and the little lordling there." Haversham added sarcastically, "There were just as many workers present as well I'd say" as they turned to look at one another again and nodded in unison, satisfied with their answers.  Rowan walked over to Waylon who was now hugging the post he was secured to. Tears streamed down his face as his father reached down and turned his face towards his own.
"Do you understand what's about to happen here?  Do you know why?" Rowan's voice was low and steady as he spoke. Waylon looked into his fathers eyes through the tears and he saw, there was no changing his mind... A flash of anger suddenly came over the boy as he screamed defiantly into his father's face. Rearing his head back, Waylon bashed his forehead against the bridge of his father's nose. Waylon struck him with such force that it had tilted Rowan off balance, almost knocking him to the ground.  Rowan's free hand covered his nose as blood began to drip onto the ground, almost getting lost in the reddish-brown tint of the Lemoyne clay.  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his neckerchief, holding it against his nose as he looked at his son.  Though the boy had the physical traits of an Eastwood, the look in the boys eyes resembled that of someone from his maternal side... Briefly, Rowan felt a tingle go up his spine out of fear. Quickly he shook his head as his rage overtook him once more. Resuming his previous positioning, there was about ten feet between Waylon and his father now.  Rowan flung the whip forward to gauge the distance to make sure there was sufficient room before starting.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself before we begin? For tarnishing the Eastwood name in front of my peers?" Rowan asked his son angrily, still holding the neckerchief to his bleeding nose.
The boy turned and looked at his father
"You've done that all yourself.", Waylon spoke to his father with an eerie calmness.  Rowan stared at his helpless son, the look on the boy's face was a familiar one. A look Rowan had not seen since the day Waylon was left on his doorstep, the boy resembled not his father in that moment, but the devil that had left him in Rowan's care.  Visibly disturbed, Rowan fished his flask out of his pocket and took a few big gulps to get his courage back.  Waylon turned back around looking forward, and braced himself for what was to come next. In this moment of clarity, young Waylon had resigned himself to his fate...
Each crack of the whip echoed through the night as Waylon cried out in pain. Rowan would pause between strikes to let each lash sink in allowing time for the pain to begin to subside before delivering another. Waylon's voice grew weaker with each lash. But Rowan continued, delivering the punishment he believed the boy deserved.  The sound of the whip striking against flesh filled the air, mingling with Waylon's agonized screams. Blood from his torn back stained the leather and left an eerie red mist outline as the object of Waylon's punishment would flash forward at lightning speeds before creating its new mark on his body.  Waylon made it through 45 of his 50 lashes before he finally lost consciousness, unable to withstand the pain any longer...
Weeks had passed since that fateful night, and in that time Waylon had been confined to his room. He spent a majority of those days laying in bed on his stomach, enduring Maxwell meticulously tending to his injuries. The pain from that night had subsided but the scars that were left behind would be etched in his mind and body for the remainder of his days. Each day that passed in this place felt more like a prison as time marched on, and his father the Warden of his torment. He never understood why his uncle Ellison would do such a thing leaving him in the hands of this monster who calls himself a man let alone his father.  Why wouldn't he take Waylon with him wherever he is.  It's been two years since he saw him. That day Ellison left him standing at the doorstep with Rowan on this vast estate he now calls his home.  But was it his home? Sure there were walls, a roof over his head, and food in his belly, but Waylon never felt like he truly belonged here. As he lay there, Waylon dreamed of his true home. The little house on the outskirts of Rhodes, the sweet sound of his mothers singing filling the air as she prepared their supper.  Ellison whistling Dixie as he chopped firewood out yonder. How he longed for those days to come again, those days where he felt a sense of belonging and love. How he yearned for his uncle Ellison to come to his rescue and whisk him away from this dreadful place... As these thoughts ran through his mind, Waylon closed his eyes and drifted off into slumber. Just as the peaceful embrace of sleep enveloped him, Maxwell quietly entered the room to tend to the young boy's wounds once again.