A Speck of that Autumn

Chapter 5

And took his time he did.

Napoleon had taken his old habit of linking his hands behind his back and rubbing his fingers, not because of a particular itch, but more of an indescribable frustration. Wellesley had not uttered a single word since they discreetly made their way back, and the scene around them hadn't felt very well since. He really ought to say something. He had walked far ahead of the duke and he wasn't catching up. Turning around and facing him doesn't seem like a preferable thing either, however unreasonable his feeling was.

Frustration was not the appropriate feeling here. He was not, after all, the one beaten up by a random street rogue and later caught in a brief fit of terror. The latter in particular concerned him. It wouldn't be obvious to normal people, but he was too close to him not to notice the obvious signs of panic. Wellesley still had it trained, somehow, the look of calm while everything is in ruins around you--in reality or otherwise. That is what was expected from a man of his rank.

In the battlefield, you'd be busy. Sometimes you forgot you were human. Napoleon knew it well, and he knew well that it made no sense that he was still experiencing anything of this sort.

Wellesley was a good general. The perfect, ideal mould of a field marshal. He would be what soldiers liked to see, sitting on his great steed overseeing the troops from a hill, serene as he always was even in midst of artillery shells raining the ground to ruin. Indomitable and pragmatic. A soldier would be content with him around. Just seeing him above them all, they'd be content to charge to their death. A man couldn't change from that, perhaps. And war wouldn't leave them. It is beyond memories.

Above all this, Napoleon still didn't know the right thing to say. So he left him alone. Now none of them is saying anything. Every trudge of their boots against the ground was making him wince.

The sun had her way of piercing skin even through the autumn air. Summer was still being stubborn. Finches were flying and crying about. Napoleon had managed to route their way around avoiding crowded roads and passers-by while dragging the bagged out Wellesley, still in mess and blood all over his coat. He'd tell him to take it off but that didn't sound nice. Napoleon wasn't squeaky clean himself and they'd both be regarded as wanderers who had just committed a murder no matter what, so he had taken it a priority to get out of the public eye as soon as possible.

Still, they couldn't help but pass by an occasional carriage sometimes. The familiar crackling of wheels and hooves passed by. A coachman glanced at them from beneath his brows. Napoleon tipped his nonexistent hat.

At last, when they reached the hill, the mansion began to become visible. It was still a bit before lunch, too. There'd be a whole new issue with coming inside the mansion looking this way, so it was time to perhaps break the ice. Else it was becoming unbearable.

Wellesley was still yet behind, he saw. Not walking any faster.

"Oi, walk a bit quicker will you! Did you catch your legs on something?"

Wellesley stared back up at him, looking irritated, but not enough to say anything. He mustered up the energy to catch up.

"There you go. They'll be forced to go without lunch at this point." Napoleon pushed him lightly on the back. Seemed like it was only a matter of mood.

"Either way," Wellesley finally muttered, "without their cheese." He frowned. Terribly unfortunate feature to his already frazzled face.

The tattered grocery bag was indeed still with him, miraculously, vegetables and all. At least they were not empty-handed.

"They don't need to be snacking on cheese at noon--take off your coat you don't want to show up with blood everywhere," he patted his arm, "--Or snacking on anything, really. Hungry buggers. Now hold on-" Napoleon reached and pinched the bridge of his nose.