09-07-2025, 11:31 AM
The pain, worry and memories he couldn't quite suppress, took up most of his mind. Still, Tristan couldn't help but note this John Blacke's kindness. There was a selfless determination in the way he took control of the situation. A generosity in the way he assured Tristan it was no trouble. And Tristan felt a little ashamed of himself for having judged the young man so quickly on their first meeting on the basis of no more than his looks, the hour, and the information that he was an army officer. He did not reflect on this long, however. His mind was spinning. It was something to think about later. Whenever. Was there anything after this night?
"Right... Thank you" he said. There was a problem. He'd have to get fresh clothes from upstairs. He took a gas lamp from his desk, lit it, and opened the door as noiselessly as he could. A dark hall greeted him. Were the stairs further away than they had been? Were they longer? Shadows danced under the flicker of his lamp and he remembered how the alley had been full of shadows, barely touched by the indirect light of distant street lighting. Until one of the shadows, seemed to get larger, take a stout shape, grabbed him by the collar, knocked him back into the wall, and he was staring into a face... Tristan felt himself getting hot. His clothes seemed damper. He felt like his legs were going to give out. Then he remembered that this was his own home.
He had never been afraid of the dark in his own home before.
He did not know how he made his way up and down again so noiselessly, while he struggled to control his own movement under pain and trembling. He knew the steps that creaked and skipped them. When he did accidentally make a noise, he stopped and wondered where it came from. It was another trap! Only when he had managed to convince himself that it was only his mind playing tricks, could he get his legs to move again.
He returned at last, closing the door behind him quietly. All the blood had drained from his face, but he held a clean set of clothes. "Thank you, John," he said sheepishly as he passed the young man. "You did a very decent thing, half-carrying me out of there. I thought I was a goner." He grabbed a wash bowl and filled it with cold water from the tap. Then he opened a cabinet and took out carbolic soap and a clean cloth.
"Right... Thank you" he said. There was a problem. He'd have to get fresh clothes from upstairs. He took a gas lamp from his desk, lit it, and opened the door as noiselessly as he could. A dark hall greeted him. Were the stairs further away than they had been? Were they longer? Shadows danced under the flicker of his lamp and he remembered how the alley had been full of shadows, barely touched by the indirect light of distant street lighting. Until one of the shadows, seemed to get larger, take a stout shape, grabbed him by the collar, knocked him back into the wall, and he was staring into a face... Tristan felt himself getting hot. His clothes seemed damper. He felt like his legs were going to give out. Then he remembered that this was his own home.
He had never been afraid of the dark in his own home before.
He did not know how he made his way up and down again so noiselessly, while he struggled to control his own movement under pain and trembling. He knew the steps that creaked and skipped them. When he did accidentally make a noise, he stopped and wondered where it came from. It was another trap! Only when he had managed to convince himself that it was only his mind playing tricks, could he get his legs to move again.
He returned at last, closing the door behind him quietly. All the blood had drained from his face, but he held a clean set of clothes. "Thank you, John," he said sheepishly as he passed the young man. "You did a very decent thing, half-carrying me out of there. I thought I was a goner." He grabbed a wash bowl and filled it with cold water from the tap. Then he opened a cabinet and took out carbolic soap and a clean cloth.
