Dragon Age One Shots

Regency Cullen 6

"Branson!"

The boy vanishes into a stand of reeds, the soppy sound of squelching mud erupting from the lake's shore. He'd been under orders to not get his clothing wet, but it is often difficult to get seven-year-olds to listen. Not that their skills improve with age, the men from 17-25 believing their ears too pure to be sullied by suggestions. Somewhere around age 75 or so, they finally begin to pay attention to a woman's voice, if only so she does not force him to fend for himself for the first time in his life.

Gwen hefts up her skirts, prepared to waterlog her shoes to chastise the boy. The day proved too hot for study, even her eyes wandering off the lesson plans. She thought visiting the lake a delightful way to cool down. Fool she was, forgetting the allure of leaping feet first into muck and mud.

"Young Master," Gwen calls, shoving aside the reeds. His tiny back is turned to her, Branson squatting in a puddle of soggy grass with a stick in hand. Rather than turn to her, he continues to prod at something in the grass.

"We should really return to the estate," she says for his attention. "It will be tea soon." The promise of cakes doesn't pull the boy from whatever he found. He moves to stab the end of the stick deep into the ground, when he freezes, the gangly limbs steel.

"Dead," Branson whispers. Gwen stomps into the puddle, prepared to tug the boy back to safety, when she glances down. Right at the edge of his sticks floats a small panfish. Its eyes and scales are white as a shroud, the mouth gaping as it bobs on the water. The boy doesn't stab into his find, but he bends closer to stare at it. "Everything dies," he whispers, his usually jovial tone somber.

"Ah," Gwen calls, watching the orphaned child dip his palms under the dead fish. She's about to tell him to not touch what could be diseased when wide brown eyes turn to her.

With the half-eaten fish perched in his hand, Branson pleads, "Can we bury it, please?"

Nodding, Gwen takes the dead fish in her own fingers. The odor is so pungent it turns her stomach, but she grits through as the grief-stricken boy stares down at a fact of life so complicated men of God scarcely understand. "Come along. We can bury it in the sand by the shore."

______________________

After singing a dirge for a dead fish, Gwen guides Branson back to the house. Her brain churns with discussions she must have with the man of the house, but no idea how to even begin. While she knew she was walking into a manor of grief, she assumed after a year both would have processed their mourning. Clearly, that wasn't done.

The black cloud hangs over the young man, Branson's head swaying on his weary neck as he trudges up the steps. One of the maids catches sight of his muddy trousers and boots, insisting the boy clean himself before dirtying the rest of the house. Gwen cups his shoulders, her own heart shivering from the grief in his eyes as he bends down to do as told.

At that moment, a measure clop of hooves causes her to look up into the proud Duke perched upon one of his beautiful Arabian mares. It's now or never. "Head in for tea," Gwen whispers to Branson who nods dutifully, until she adds, "You can have my cakes as well." The eyes shine bright at her promise, reminding her that under the titles and grief there is still a child.

As he dashes inside for the promised treat, Gwen hauls off after the Duke. He's barely moving at a walk, giving her ample opportunity to call for him, "My Lord!"

"Ah," the Duke barely tugs on the reins, the horse seeming to read his thoughts as both come to a stop. His head swivels to follow Gwen pausing beside the saddle. "Governess?"

"Sir, if I may, I need to speak with you."

"Continue."

As the fullness of his attention lands upon her, Gwen realizes that due to his being propped up in the saddle her resting eye-line is directly into his lap. Precisely where a lady should not stare! Craning her head up, the sun blinding her eyes, she gulps. "It's about Master Branson. I fear that...he seems to be..."

"Is this regarding his lessons? Is he having troubles?"

"No, no," Gwen shakes her head. "He is a very bright child."

The Duke smirks, Gwen enthralled at how his palm cups and wrings against hte saddle horn. "He gets that from his mother," the man says what is clearly a family joke to poke at his brother, before the cracks return. The dead brother, and dead sister-in-law, it is clear that even he yet suffers, never mind the child who lost both parents.

And she would really prefer to have this discussion without a crick in her neck "This may take some time," Gwen begins, rubbing into the back of her neck.

"I see," the Duke seems to realize it is not a simple matter. She moves to slide back, expecting him to dismount, when his large hand catches hers. Breath traps in her throat, Gwen staring agog at his gloveless fingers gliding over hers. "Join me?"

"What?" she gasps, her shock causing her to stare directly into his amber eyes. He wasn't of the same cloth as her previous employers, never outright forbid her for such a slight, but she defaulted to being the demure governess. As the full flames of his bourbon gaze burns through her, she realizes it was done for more than tradition.

Twisting his head outward, Duke Rutherford says, "My horse and I both require exercise, and we can talk on the trail."

So he wants her to walk along beside his horse. That's not a problem. Bobbing her head, Gwen says, "Of course..." When he bends down. The hand holding hers pulls her closer to his body as the second hand swoops down over her waist. Before she's aware what's happening, she flys through the air at his whims. Her backside lands upon the horse's directly behind the Duke. Gwen crosses her legs, her body turned to the side to accommodate her skirts. The drumbeat of her heart scatters from the shock of how easily he plucked her from the ground into his arms.

No, not his arms. Onto his horse. Was that less romantic?

"Well situated?" the Duke asks, causing her to nod her head dumbly. "Then you might want to grip tight," he says while clicking the horse into a trot.

Hold on to what? Her hands fumble for the saddle to keep her body upright when the ebony horse under both increases to a gallop. On instinct, Gwen sweeps her hands around the Duke's midsection, her cheek burying into the finery on his back. He gives no indication that he minds, and instead spurs the horse on faster to increase her grip.

With the manor fading into the distance, Duke and Governess vanish into the countryside with nary another soul in sight.