The Flower of Serving Men - 1. Chapter 1

Ellis was giggling as he felt strong hands lead him forward. He held his hands against the blindfold so the light wouldn't peek through and hint at his surprise. "Honestly, Dallas. All this farce isn't necessary! And where's Benedict?"

"Over here, Papa!" Benedict cheered behind him. "Daddy's just being silly."

Sir Dallas Gallahad shushed their boy and urged his husband forward, a hand clapped on his shoulder and the other holding his hand. "We're almost there, love. Just a few more steps."

"This is a lot of trouble to go through for a picnic, Dallas. Is there more to this?"

"Possibly," he whistled. "It was a small endeavour of mine and a few friends'. I'm sure you'll love it, but I want to see the look on your face. Those past few months will be worthwhile."

"Past few mo... You mean to say those times you were home late were for this?!" Ellis jerked his hand up, but Dallas caught it with ease. "Oh, honestly, Dallas. If you're introducing me to an actual wife you kept in secret, I will hold dinner, and your balls will be on the menu."

"I don't doubt a doctor of your caliber will be so skilled." They urged him along an unseen path a little while longer before Ellis felt the crunch of grass become a knock on gravel. He felt his husband brush his braid back from over his shoulder, letting it rest against his back. "There. Now open your eyes, love."

And Ellis did...

"Could you untie my blindfold?"

Benedict giggled while Dallas gave a put-upon sigh. "Wise-arse," he whispered to his ear, but the insult was mocking at best, endearing at most. When the blindfold fell, there was a brief moment of blindness from the morning sun before his eyes adjusted to the sight of the large wooden cabin. Ellis took a moment to process it, and he gasped as he held a hand to his mouth, unable to find the words. "Happy anniversary, my sweet."

"Oh, Dallas!" he sobbed, eyes wet with tears full of joy. "It's beautiful. That and all around us, oh my Lord!"

"If only your family could see this," Dallas muttered, but it was faint, barely a whisper. Ellis... wasn't so sure how to feel about it. His father was mostly indifferent, to the day of his death. His mother had been more disapproving, thinking she had raised a harlot instead of a child her own, thinking she had raised a useless son to have run off with another man. They never parted in the best of terms; a spit in the face would have been a kinder farewell. "Sorry, I spoke out of turn."

"Your family loved you, then and now," Ellis whispered, leaning against his husband. "It's to be expected. Mine, however, aren't like yours."

"Such a shame, too." Ellis felt Dallas jostle him closer. "It's a beautiful house. Shall we have a look inside? I promise, it will be to your liking."

The house was beautiful, humble but perfect for them. Little Benedict ran circles around every room, cheering and enjoying their new home. Dallas led Ellis around, showing him the hard work he and his friends went through. How the steel and metal were wrought by one of his blacksmith friends. How the bed was made with lascivious intentions in mind. How everyone poured their heart into making Sweet Benedict's room. How they sought out the spot after wandering in the woods. Everything about it was perfect. He could work with the sunlight and by candlelight at night or dusk. He could easily travel into town to work at his clinic. He could help little Benedict with his lessons. All the while, the home would be an escape from the hustle of town and barracks for Dallas.

And things did go as planned. Everything was smooth sailing as far as transitions went. Ellis quickly fell in love with the home, finding it a peaceful haven from everything he'd dealt with until that point, and he felt, for once, he could let himself be. Some bitter, dark thing, however, nagged inside him. Telling him not everything would stay perfect. His intuition was barely wrong at times; it was how he was such a good doctor.

Sometimes, he wished he could be wrong.

It was a quiet night, and Ellis was tending to some paperwork in the study when his husband joined him. Dallas leaned over the back of the chair and wrapped his arms around him, quiet and tender. "Come to bed, love. It's rather late."

"There are just some things I need to prepare for tomorrow."

"I'm sure that can wait until morning." Dallas looked out the window, warm but somewhat tense. "It's quiet out."

"Well, it is rather late."

"Too quiet," Dallas muttered. "You'd usually hear night birds and crickets out there. They're usually louder than this."

"Mayhap 'tis the seasons?"

Dallas shook his head. "No, I do not think so." Dallas marched out of the room, and Ellis followed him, watching as his husband picked up his sword from the mantle. "Stay inside. You know what to do if something happens."

"Dallas, I'm sure it's nothing," Ellis pleaded, but it felt weak even to his ears.

"Darling, please, I've been to battle before. Something is amiss." Dallas kicked the door open and marched out, sword in hand. "Who's out there?! Show yourselves!" Dallas was seething, breathing hard through his teeth with his sword raised at his side. "You may as well come out!"

For a long, tense moment, there was nothing. Ellis was about to say how silly this all was when he heard the crash of glass against a hard wall. He was about to rush out when he saw fire by a window. He was scrambling to fetch water to douse it when a bottle sailed through the other window, scattering fire between him and the door. Ellis jumped back from the licking flames, and Dallas swore as he ran up to the edge. The fire was volatile, devouring everything it touched with a hunger that could barely be satiated. "Dallas!"

"Get Benedict and run!" he ordered, just as they heard the neigh of horses around them. "Run and hide! I'll hold them off!"

"Dallas, no!"

"Do it for our child!" Dallas turned just in time to block a bandit, blade parrying a vicious, toothed axe. "Run from here!"

Ellis found it hard to move, but thoughts of Benedict in danger pushed him a step at a time, rushing up the stairs as more bottles sailed through windows and hit the walls. The fires practically rolled around them. Benedict came rushing out his door and Ellis gathered him in his arms. The boy was crying, gasping and sobbing as he made noises begging for his fathers. Ellis cooed to him as he searched for a way out. All the windows were ablaze and the walls were quickly painted with fire. He ran down the stairs against the heat, shielding his son from the worst of it. Through the kitchen, there was a door, and he shouldered through it with all the weakened wood and the unbearable heat. The bandits looked to have forgotten this side of the home, and he made to sprint to town, hearing the clash of metal against metal far away from him, from the house, where he was sure his husband was holding his last stand.

He ignored everything as he struggled to save themselves: the stone digging into the soles of his feet, his skin signed and burned, his heart tearing at the thought of abandoning his husband, his muscles aching with the strain of running and carrying his child. It wasn't long before he felt the vicious maw of despair lick over his skin as the sounds of hooves against the earth thundered behind him.

He didn't have time to think; he ran. He ran even as he threatened to stumble and fall, even as he felt the first lash of that whip against his back, even as they got a lick of a blade against his side. He only stopped when he felt the club against his head. He fell over, face first, clutched over his child. He was gasping for air, struggling to stand, when he felt a foot clamp him down on the ground, his son between him and the cold earth.

"...I love you," Ellis whispered, looking down at his boy's frightened eyes. "Be strong for me."

Before Ellis could get another word in, before the boy could cry, he felt the blade dig into his back. It went into his back, piercing his lungs and his ribs and it burned and hurt so much his vision turned red. But he welcomed it, welcomed it as long as Benedict...

...No, oh no, his son froze. He saw the anguish in his eyes, heard the choke before his son coughed up blood. No, oh no, not his boy. Not his baby, no!

No, he'd hoped they'd miss. He'd hoped he'd stopped the blade with his body. No, not his baby boy! No!

Ellis felt the blood run out of his mouth as his arms gave, and he slid along the blade, falling against his son's cold corpse, eyes glazed as they watched him, the final words of 'papa' having died on his lips.

He felt the blade pull out of him and was prepared to die. Then he heard a howl of pain and the clash of metal.

The cold crept up to him, and he wept as he let the darkness embrace him.

*

Ellis felt sore, his body burning over every inch of skin and muscle. His throat was dry and hoarse, and his head swam at the sight of light. His groan was an agonizing sound, enough to warrant someone's attention in the room to shut the blinds and hand him a glass of water as they gently raised him up to drink it. "Don't move so much. You're still not well; it's only been a week."

Ellis sipped the water, as much as he could, before trying to speak. "Who... are you?"

"Salem," the man explained. Ellis couldn't look up; his neck hurt when he tried to crane it up. "We followed those men when they came into town. They lost us for a bit until we saw the fire. Chased them down and killed who we caught." There was a brief moment's pause before he continued. "How much do you remember?"

"Running..." Ellis began, then tensed as he remembered his son. His husband. "No, Benedict...Dallas..." He began to move, but the biting pain kept him in place. "No, my boys! Benedict! Dallas! Benedict! DALLAS! BENEDICT!"

The man's hands were firm as he kept him down against the mattress. Tears ran over his cheeks and fell to him as he muttered apology over and over. "I'm sorry. Both of them were lost. Your husband died fighting, took about three of them down. Your boy, he had that sword driven through his heart. I'm sorry."

"NonononononononoNO! NO! I can't-!" Ellis sobbed and writhed against the arms holding him. Everything hurt, every stitch was torn open, but they were nothing to how torn his heart was. "My boys... No..."

Once Ellis settled down, too tired to move, Salem began to explain. "Your home was burned to the ground. We... made graves for them. Your husband was a great man to us. We don't understand who sent those bandits, or what they wanted out of it. But, we found something in one of their satchels. I think it might make sense to you. But maybe when you're better."

"Show it to me."

"But..."

"Show it," Ellis hissed. The man was quiet as he brought a letter. It was opened. He gingerly pulled out the letter and read the familiar script, read the order that gave away everything.

'Bring back my boy. I don't care what it takes.'

Ellis felt all-consuming hatred and despair that very moment. He hated everything and everyone, hated how it just fell at the seams. He hated how foolish and naive he'd been to this. He felt it, he felt something could go wrong. And he was right. He was always right. He could already hear Dallas saying so; a small little spat they always had.

"You're always right," he'd say, with the fondest of smiles.

Ellis hated being always right.

It began as a sob, then a whimper. It ascended into crying and crescendoed into a wail, visceral and guttural, rending heart and stomach alike as his agony was conveyed in the most tortured voice imaginable. Tears bled from his eyes but he did not care. His chest heaved with every breath but he did not care. He was alone again, alone against a cold world.

How could he care?

*

Ellis visited the graves of his beloved family, sitting by the clearing of where the ashes and ruins of his home once stood. It had been almost a month since the incident, and he recovered fine, but he refused to stay in bed. He had to see them as soon as he could; he owed them that much.

He knelt by the grave of his husband and his son, kissing the hilt and resting his head against it, giving a silent prayer. The mound of dirt beneath his knees had begun to grow a bit of grass. Ellis figured they deserved to be commemorated with flowers and trees. Dallas always loved a good tree and Benedict was always foraging flowers with him whenever he came along. Nursing his arm against his side, he went to find flowers to gather and seeds to plant. There were some close by; there always were. He wept as he sang and planted the flora in place. His song was merely a hymn, but it was enough to ease the stabbing ache in his chest.

Ellis had his hair braided before he came here. He had a dagger with him, as well. He looked for a large stone to rest his head on, found one some ways away. He laid his head down and pulled his braid taut. With blade in hand, he cried as he sawed off his braid, each one giving him a soft flash of memory of how Dallas used to play with his hair. Some days, they'd wrap it around his head like a crown. One day, he smacked it in his face in the middle of a rainstorm. Some days, Dallas would braid it for him, just to have something to do with his hands. And with a final thrust, the blade cut off the whole braid, and it unravelled until it stopped at the string that held it in place.

Back at the grave, he tied the strands until it made a bow. "I never said goodbye," he whispered, choking on tears. His fingers brushed against the hilt and blade, wistful and mourning. "I'll miss you two. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

He rose to his feet and wiped away what tears he could. "Goodbye. I'll always love you both. So, so much."

*

When he was better, well-meaning folk gave condolences and money to start over. Everyone had been Dallas's good friend, and thought kindly of him and Ellis. He thanked each one with the bottom of his heart, but he just couldn't bring himself to stay. Everything he saw, everyone he saw, reminded him of Dallas. His loss was still too fresh for him. He needed to go elsewhere, find different work. He couldn't function as a doctor anymore; his hands trembled with every needle he held. It took him to long to steady himself for anything.

He spoke to Dallas's parents for the first time since the incident, and he felt bad for it, especially since it was to bid them farewell.

The Gallahads were very warm to him since the first day, finding him to be a good influence on their boy. WHen they were told of his intentions to leave, their heartbroken looks dug like the blade did from that night, but they held nothing against him. There was no contempt of his mother, no hatred nor judgment nor blame, just a gripping loss that echoed with his. They lost Dallas.

"You have our blessing, Ellis," they told him. "But where will you go?"

"No clue, honestly," he told them. "I just can't stay here. It's too much."

The leaders of house Gallahad nodded solemnly. "I have an idea. This could do you good. His brothers hold rank in the king's court, almost as much as we do. We could have you work in the castle as a servant. Would you like that?"

Ellis considered it before nodding. "I think I can manage. But... there's a small request I must make."

"What is it, child?"

"I'd rather change my name when I get there, if you wouldn't mind."

The Gallahads were surprised by this. "Why would you do that?"

"I'd rather be forgotten. I think... I died with Dallas that night. I don't feel like I'm Ellis anymore. Plus, maybe it would be safer."

The Gallahads were quiet for a moment, before the father spoke up. "We don't understand this decision of yours, and this request will be a bit harder to handle. But we will respect it, and we shall do what we can. Just know that you will always have a home here."

And Ellis's smile was soft and bright, laced with an underlying sadness but struggling to look forward. "Thank you."

*

"You're sure about this?" Turmeric asked as he helped Ellis with his satchel. It had all the notes they salvaged from the home and some clothes and food to help him along the journey. "You're my brother's husband. You could always stay with us; we wouldn't mind."

"I'm sure, Turmeric." Ellis wiped away a tear as he sheathed one of Dallas's old swords. "I'll miss you, though."

"I'll miss you, too," he answered, tightening the laces of the bag. "There. Well, we better ride out before the stagecoach leaves us stranded."

"Thank you for doing this, Turm."

"Bethany told me she'd feed me to her cats if I didn't." Turm was clearly putting on a front if the way his eyes glazed was any hint. "You write back, yeah?"

"Of course."

"Tell us how being 'William' goes for ya."

Laughing, Ellis nodded. "Sure. And you can tell me how that errand for your darling wife goes once we part ways at the capital."

Later that day, they rode the stagecoach out to the capital. On the way, Ellis hoped he could start anew away from this, away from all the pain. But his intuition nagged again, telling him how unlikely he would be able to run from his past. How unlikely he would find a happy ending by fleeing like this. Perhaps it was so, perhaps it was self-doubt. But for now, it was enough. He needed to heal first.

And he couldn't do that here.

With one last look, he silently bid goodbye, to everything and everyone he once knew. Maybe he'd find his way back, someday. It just wouldn't be soon.