Touch of Fate 49 You Can Never Really Go Home

It had been nearly three years since he had left here, swearing never to return. He paused in the alley across the street, reevaluating his options. Did he really want to do this? Did he have any other options? Any other avenues that he could explore?

[This is really the only choice I can make. Nothing short of sponsorship from a major noble family will protect Mike from the temples at this point. I hope he forgives me for acting in his name]

Morris felt his stomach twist at another possibility. [Gods, I hope they don't use this as an excuse to drag him into their political games.]

After a few minutes of indecision, Morris finally resigned himself. There were no other options. Without help, Mike was doomed to either disappear into the bowels of some shadowy organization, or become a pawn for some more powerful group. At least this way, he could bear the majority of the price himself.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped away from the alley and approached the gates. A guard quickly stepped forward to meet him, evidently long aware of his presence. Morris would expect no less from the sentinels in charge of his family's security.

"Halt! State your identity and business at the house of Count Graveston." A firm and confident voice issued from the guard.

[If I recall, there should be two more hidden somewhere. I have no idea where that might be, but they probably have me in their sights already.]

"Hello, Gerald. Please tell my father, that Morris Graveston has returned and would like to speak with him." He said while throwing back his hood.

The guard gasped slightly at the revelation. "My apologies, young master. I did not recognize you." He made a hand signal to the hidden guards, evidently indicating the status of their visitor.

Gerald stepped forward and gripped Morris's hand. "I must say, you are a sight for sore eyes, young master. I was sure that you were done with this place the last time you left."

Morris smiled wearily, "I thought so too, but the gods seem to have something else planned for me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't a life or death situation."

The old guard nodded gravely. "Understood. If you don't mind waiting inside the guard house, I'll let the manor staff know of your arrival."

Gerald led him into a small outbuilding next to the estate's walls. Morris stepped inside and nodded to the two other guards sitting at a nearby table. "Francis, John. Good to see you."

"Likewise, young master." Francis, a large bear of a man stood and embraced him. A bittersweet pang of emotion emerged from Morris's heart. The manor guards had been true friends during his turbulent childhood, and it truly was good to see them.

As Francis stepped back, John came forward and slapped Morris on one shoulder. "Didn't think I'd see you again. Figured you'd go out and do great things somewhere." The already thin and dark-haired man had become even thinner in Morris's absence, to the point of emaciation.

Morris grimaced internally, he was already getting tired of answering questions about his supposed vow of never returning. "Some things have come up, John. Things that I'll need father's help with."

The mood in the room grew darker, as the trio lapsed into silence. This continued for a few minutes until Gerald returned with an old, mustachioed man dressed as a butler.

"Young Master Morris...." The old man started tearing up, so he removed a handkerchief from a pocket and began dabbing his eyes.

"Theodore? I thought they fired you when I left." Morris asked, astonished.

"The Count almost did, but your sister interceded,"

"How is Josephine? She has not replied to any of the letters I've sent." He felt the old, familiar pain of rejection again.

Theodore wrung his hands, hesitant to answer. "It's not that she hasn't replied, but more that she hasn't received them. The Count ordered all letters from you to be burnt as soon as they arrived."

Morris felt a flash of rage, and a deep-seated hatred. He knew he shouldn't be surprised, the old bastard could be petty in his vengeance, but he had underestimated the Count's cruelty.

"I see...…very well. It is far past time that we talked face to face, anyway. Take me to him Theodore."

Traveling the extensive grounds, through the front door, and past a series of familiar rooms, Morris was hit by a wave of nostalgia. For all that he hated his time here, this was the house he grew up in. Some part of him always recognized this as home.

Theodore led him up to the door of his father's study, and turned to regard him. "Are you ready, young master?"

"As ready as I will ever be." Morris replied, his stomach already squirming with anxiety.

He pushed open the door and entered.

The tidy and well-appointed study was lit by a combination of an elaborate fireplace and several glowstone lamps. Rows of packed bookshelves, the priceless collection of the Graveston family, lined the walls. Paintings from famed artists provided tasteful counterpoints to the matching leather furniture. However, none of the understated opulence entered Morris's sight. He was too focused on the slender man sitting beyond a refined, dark-wooded desk.

His father had looked much the same as Morris remembered, save, perhaps, for a little more grey in his immaculately maintained goatee. A tailored maroon tunic clothed the man's frame.

Count Graveston set his quill down, three tidy stacks of documents and an inkwell were the only other items on his desk. He fixed Morris with one of the cold and dismissive stares that had so intimidated him as a child.

"So you have returned, at last."

"Yes." The younger Graveston replied.

"Let me guess why you are here. You are too stubborn to come back, even in the face of your…..infirmity."

Morris gripped the stub of his severed limb unconsciously.

The Count's cold voice continued. "Neither are you here to return to your old place in the family. We both know you long ago forsook that, and even the looming threat of poverty would not drive you back here."

He stood and walked in front of his desk, arms behind his back. "No, you are here for something, or should I say, someone else. A newfound friend who has been making a few too many waves, and is now facing some serious consequences."

"How long have you been keeping tabs on me?" Morris croaked, mouth dry.

"Do you honestly think I would let one of my children go so easily?"

"From the very beginning?" He whispered, mind reeling at the implications.

The Count didn't bother answering. "Now, Morris. You know me, I don't do anything for free. You want to save your friend from the consequences of his actions, you will have to compensate me for it."

Morris hung his shoulders in defeat, "What do you want?" He asked, huskily.

Count Graveston walked sedately over to a bookshelf and examined the spines of books for a moment before answering. "What I want is simple. I want you to return to the family, once again take up the family name, and fulfill your noble obligations."

Morris blinked, not expecting this in the least. The last time they had spoken, his father had made it clear that if he left, Morris would never be welcomed back into the fold.

"Why? What changed?"

His father glanced at him, and for a brief moment Morris thought he saw a deep sorrow, before the Count returned his gaze to the bookshelf.

"Your brothers are dead. Henrik's ship was lost in the Crystal Sea on its way to Bergell a little more than a year ago. Robert fell from a balcony and died before we could summon a skilled enough healer to save him."

Morris was stunned. This wasn't a scenario he had planned for. "The....They're both...dead?"

"My sources have suggested that both events were orchestrated, but I have yet to identify the offending party." If Morris had been paying more attention he might have seen his father's whitening knuckles, as he clenched his fist tightly.

"And Josephine?" He asked shakily.

"There have been a few attempts. Luckily, our enemies don't seem to consider her particularly valuable. I suppose we have her condition to thank for that."

Morris felt his stomach churn. "Why....Why wasn't I told? You could've sent a message?"

"What? And risk them coming after my last son? No, it was better to let them believe I had completely forsaken you. At least until I was ready to bring you back. The actions of this friend of yours has forced both of our hands it seems."

The Count turned suddenly to Morris. "In any event, I now find myself in need of an heir. The branch families have been growing restless, and while they don't present a real threat, I would rather spend my resources in other areas. At the same time, those fools in the capital are stirring up trouble with Tennundi again. When the king issues a call to arms, the Graveston family needs to be represented."

The younger man's shoulders were trembling with barely controlled emotion.

"So that's it? You threw me away so easily before, but now that you are out of options, you want me back?!" Morris's voice rose in volume until it thundered in the quite room. "I AM NOT YOUR PAWN, FATHER!"

The Count frowned. "I had hoped your time outside would have taught you a little bit about the ways of the world, but you have disappointed me once again."

He returned his seat behind the desk, and resuming his work, "No matter, though. Either you accept my terms, or your friend will find himself in very difficult situation. The choice is yours."

Morris raged in his heart. It was this! This casual dismissal of his every thought and feeling, that so infuriated him about his father. It was as if nothing he did mattered. As if Morris himself didn't matter. He was just another piece to be laid on the board, another step in the master plan of Count Graveston.

For a moment, he almost left. The old emotional scars, buried for so long, had burst open once more. However, with a titanic effort of will, he controlled himself. For all that he was loathe to admit it, his father was right.

He thought once more of his energetic young friend, and the way he had offered Morris a hand during the darkest period of his life. The way Mike had offered trust and friendship without asking for anything in return.

He knew what he needed to do.

"I accept your terms." A resigned, weary voice issued forth from Morris's mouth.

The corner of the Count's mouth inched upwards in something resembling a smirk, the closest thing to a smile he had displayed since seeing his estranged son.

"Maybe there is some hope for you after all."

Chapter end