Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Deep in the countryside of the Kingdom of Florin, lived a young man named Jonathan Sims. He was a farmer, though not through any choice of his own (it was not as if peasants had much say in their lot in life). The farm belonged to his grandmother, who had taken him in after the death of his parents when he was very young.

There was nothing about Jon that was particularly remarkable, compared to the others in the village. Except, perhaps, that he was remarkably unsuited to his family’s trade. He was scrawny, and bookish, and far too curious for his own good. While a childhood spent doing farm chores left him wiry and surprisingly strong for his size, between his slight stature and his grandmother’s advancing age, they often relied on farmhands to keep things running, especially at harvest.

Jon was 22 when his grandmother finally succumbed to her age and left him to run the farm alone. The experienced farmhands and Jon had never quite got on, as they found him obnoxious as a child and acerbic and snobbish as he got older. Without the security of Mrs. Sims’ lifetime of experience managing the farm, they had little incentive to stay, and moved on to find other work, on farms they could be certain would survive the winter.

Loathe as he may have been to hire a practical stranger to help, it was either that or sell the farm, and that wasn’t an option. His nan may have been hands-off in raising him, there was one thing she had been insistent about. She made sure Jon understood that land ownership was a privilege and a great responsibility, something to leave behind to one’s children to care for them long after one is gone.

Selling the farm felt far too much like spitting in the face of his parents and his grandmother. Besides which, Jon was a stubborn ass of a man and the idea of admitting defeat, conceding that he was not cut out for the work, made his skin crawl.

On his next trek into the village, Jon swallowed his pride and asked the woman who ran the trading post if she knew of anyone looking for farm work.

“Actually,” she told him, “we just had a young man in, looking for a job. His mother’s ill, the poor thing. Said he’s willing to work for room and board so long as she can stay with.”

Jon was wary of hiring a farmhand with a sick family member to care for, but space was something he had a distinct surplus of, and money, well, money was always tight, wasn’t it?

“I think I can manage that. Please, send him my way when you see him next.”

“Will do, dear. I know he’ll be happy for the work.”

That makes one of us, I suppose, Jon thought, a bit miserably.

The morning his new farmhand was set to start, Jon was already on edge. Directing people was… not his strong suit. Especially directing perfect strangers. He’d had only met Martin Blackwood once, and that had been the night before, as he and his mother were getting set up in their new quarters. Jon had delivered a hot meal and a curt I’ll see you at sunrise before retreating to his own room. Which, granted, was not his finest introduction. But what was he expected to do? The man hadn’t arrived until well after sunset, a cart half-filled with his meagre possessions and his mother in tow. Even in the low light, he looked well and truly exhausted, taking his meal with a barely audible thank you as his mother settled into bed.

Those dark eyes looked like they were on the verge of bursting into tears, so Jon did the only sensible thing and hastily left.

What on earth was he thinking, bringing on someone with an ill relative to care for?

A traitorous part of Jon’s brain reminded him how easily it could have been him, scrounging to care for his grandmother when her age started to show. Obviously he wasn’t going to send that poor man away now. Jon wasn’t completely heartless. But with the extra mouth to feed, Jon needed to ensure that Mister Blackwood was pulling his weight.

That was it. Jon was approaching this entirely the wrong way. His grandmother had never hemmed and hawed and worried like this. She had made her expectations clear, direct and to the point, and her farmhands either listened and followed through, or didn’t, and didn’t return next season. It was a bit cold, but Jon couldn’t argue with the results.

Right. You’re not offering charity. You are his employer. Just make that clear and everything will be fine.

Jon breathed a small sigh of relief, if only to force himself to relax. He could handle this.

“Kuh-kuh-kuh-kack!”

Jon snapped to attention at his hens’ alarm cry and the telltale rustling of a disturbed roost, followed by–

“Shit-shit-shit-shi– no, no, come on girl, I need you to– Ah! That’s not food! W-well, it can be, but it’s not for you!”

Jon was already on his feet, sprinting in the direction of the chicken coop.

It was an absolute mess. Ruffled hens running panickedly in every direction, supplies strewn about, the gate hanging wide open, and was that…

Yes, that was most certainly a dog – the sheepdog from a nearby flock, to be precise – excitedly circling the nervous hens, yipping happily and nipping at them.

And chasing down the dog was Jon’s new farmhand. The dog seemed to think that Mister Blackwood was playing a game with it.

“What on Earth is going on here, Mister Blackwood?!?”

Mister Blackwood froze in place, an indignant and panicked hen clutched to his chest. He blanched as his eyes met Jon’s.

“A-ah! Um, Mister Sims, I can explain–” he pet a hand across the hen’s ruffled feathers, a bit too harshly. “I-I wanted to make sure I was, you know, really up and ready to start the day, so I took a little walk in the hills, to w-watch the cows? And there was a dog! And I know you’re not supposed to bother a dog while its working, but she was so cute, so I have her a pet, then another, and well, I guess she liked it because she followed me all the way back here and… yeah,” he finished lamely, observing the chaos around him, seemingly at a loss. “Here we are.”

Here we are, thought Jon, miserably.

“Well,” Jon bit out, a headache already starting to take root in his skull, “thank you for that… enlightening explanation, Mister Blackwood–”

“Martin.”

“I’m sorry?”

His new farmhand looked very much like he hadn’t meant for that to slip out, but continued anyways, dropping the hen back into her enclosure. “I, ah, don’t care much for honorifics? S-so just ‘Martin’ is fine.” He grabbed at another hen, snatching her from the dog’s reach.

Jon was fairly certain there was a time and a place for such a semantics discussion, but historically he had little ground to stand on regarding such things. Whatever, he could shelve it for now. Time to be the boss. His grandmother would be proud.

“Alright then, Martin. If you’re quite done making a fool of yourself, I believe it would be very prudent for your continued employment to resolve this dog situation immediately.”

Martin’s face went pale. “Right. S-sorry, let me just…” He lunged at the dog again, but she hopped out of reach, bending down and wagging her tail in delight. At least she wasn't going for the chickens again. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking around for anything that might help.

“Okay… okay. I’ve got an idea. Grab a cattle lead?”

It took some time, but the two of them managed to crowd the dog up against the corner fence, and as soon as an opening presented itself, Martin slipped the lead around her neck in a makeshift leash. While Martin delivered her back to her home, Jon busied himself making sure all the chickens were accounted for.

And he stubbornly did not think about what a mistake he’d made.

All hens accounted for (although the coop was a right mess), Martin returned, looking, frankly, like a kicked puppy. He wrung his hands together in an almost comic display of guilt.

“Mister Sims, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean for that to get so out of hand–”

“Jon.”

“I- what?”

Jon took a deep breath.

It was too early for this.

“In spite of my… misgivings, the two of us will be working in close proximity for some time, and if you’re so insistent on my using your first name, I see no reason for you to call me ‘Mister Sims’. So. Jon.”

Martin gaped for a moment.

“R-right, of course, Mister– Jon.” He flashed a tiny smile.

And oh. Jon didn’t think his farmhand had smiled at all since he arrived the night before. It was a rather endearing look on him stop it that is entirely unprofessional.

Jon tamped down whatever nonsense was fluttering in his chest with an awkward cough.

“Yes, well. I’ll leave you to finish cleaning this up. Come find me when you’ve finished. We’ve much to do.”

“A-ah! Right. Of course, I’ll get right to it.”

Jon grunted his assent, heading back to the house.

“Oh, and Martin?”

“Yes, Jon?” The poor man had the gall to look slightly hopeful as Jon addressed him. Jon levelled his most severe glare at him and only felt a little bit guilty about it.

“Do try to be quick about it. I’ll not have you wasting half the morning due to this… dog incident.”

Martin’s expression closed off, and he ducked his head, muttering something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“... as you wish,” he said, his tone only a little biting.

Jon narrowed his eyes, but nodded in satisfaction at his farmhand seemingly run out of backtalk.

It was fine. They just had to make it through the season together.

Jon grit his teeth, dreading the coming months.

And so it went like this:

Jon was making dinner, content in the silence, until Martin returned from the barn, bursting the little bubble of peace with his nervous chatter.

“You seen the neighbour’s sheep lately? They look about ready to float up into the sky!”

“I have.”

“R-right, of course you have. D’you think she’d be willing to trade–”

“Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Fetch me some rosemary from the garden.”

“... as you wish,” he said wearily, and did as he was told.

And Jon was out near the barn, trying to coax a stray cat with some dried fish he got at market.

“Psp psp psp, come here, that’s it.” He lit up as the cat bumped its head to his outstretched hand, purring as Jon scratched at its chin.

“Oh, what a lovely one you are, hm?” He slipped it another piece of fish.

Snap.

The cat startled at the sudden noise, and bolted. Jon mourned the loss of his new friend, turning to find the source of the offending sound.

Martin stood there, guiltily. Jon scowled.

“Sorry about that.”

Jon grumbled as he got to his feet. “It’s fine.”

“Really, Jon, I didn’t mean–”

“Martin.”

“...”

“Fetch me the plough, would you?”

“As you wish,” Martin sighed dejectedly.

And Jon was situated quite comfortably under a tree, on a day where, by some miracle, the chores got done early, pouring over one of his books for all it was worth before he inevitably became bored with it. He had just begun to really get absorbed in the text when a soft voice sounded nearby.

“I have seen a glimpse, of softness underneath. The outside stings like nettles, yet I feel I must look deeper still,”

Jon circled the tree, and on the other side sat Martin, mumbling and scribbling in a roughly bound notebook. Of course he would come to the exact same spot as Jon. Which, he didn’t mind in theory, he supposed, but it was rather hard to read with someone composing poetry right in his ear.

“Ahem.”

Martin jolted as he registered Jon’s presence.

“J-Jon! What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask the same of you, but if you must know, I was trying to get a bit of reading in before I was distracted.” He shot a pointed look at Martin.

“Oh.” Martin’s face darkened in a blush. “Oh! S-sorry! Um, here, I can go.” He immediately fumbled around, gathering his things.

Shit, Jon didn’t mean to make him leave. It didn’t feel right to kick him out when he was just looking for a bit of peace. Hadn’t Jon been doing the same thing?

“Martin, wait. You…” Jon grimaced, “... don’t have to do that. Just try to be a bit more quiet. Or compose in your head, if you must, but…” christ, why is this so difficult, just come out and say it Jon. “... I might actually like the company?”

Martin regarded him strangely, settling back down in his spot.

“As you wish,” he said cautiously.

Martin said nothing else for the rest of the afternoon.

In spite of himself, Jon wished he had.

And Jon was on his way back from the barn, having just done the milking, and, as always, struggling with the load. Lord, where was Martin and his big strong arms when you needed him?

As if on cue, Martin crested the hill, and upon seeing Jon, was running over to help him.

“Here, let me get that.”

Despite Jon’s deep-rooted instinct to bristle and insist that he was fine, he was grateful for the help.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Martin’s voice was nasally, as though he was all stuffed up, and his eyes were red and puffy. Jon wondered if it was hay fever, but it wasn’t the right season.

“Are you alright?”

Martin stopped.

“Fine,” he said, clipped.

And oh, Jon did not like that at all.

“You don’t sound fine, Martin. Is there something I should know?” Good lord, if Martin was becoming ill, Jon would be saddled with all the farmwork and caring for him and his mother while Martin recovered. And that was the only reason Jon felt uneasy about Martin’s appearance. Obviously.

“It’s nothing, Jon. Don’t worry about it.” Martin turned to keep walking, taking the pail with him.

Jon bristled. “Martin, if there’s something you’re hiding from me–”

“Oh for god’s– It’s my mum, if you must know, and it’s none of your business so drop it!”

Jon froze, stunned.

Martin didn’t shout. Not like that, teeth bared and face flush with anger.

Martin, for his part, looked mortified that he just blew up at his boss, but said nothing. He sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands. Jon, not entirely sure what to do, sat down across from him, pointedly looking anywhere but Martin.

“... She gets really upset, sometimes.” Martin heaved a sigh as he rubbed at his face. “She said some things. I-I know, she’s in a lot of pain, and she’s doing her best, but–”

“So are you.”

Martin looked at him as though Jon had lost his mind. Jon felt indignant that Martin’s mother would say anything that would make Martin this upset. Martin, who had a gentle voice and composed poetry out loud when he thought no one was listening and would probably carry the world on his shoulders if you asked him to and always greeted Jon with a smile even when Jon had been a standoffish prick.

How could she look at this man and say something to hurt him?

Jon had some errands to run in the village, but the idea of leaving Martin alone anywhere in the vicinity of that woman made his skin crawl.

Martin seemed to be calming down a bit, at least. But still. The last thing Jon wanted was for Martin to have to worry over chores right now on top of keeping one ear open for his mother while he was like this.

“Ah, Martin. I-if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I’ve got some things I need picked up in the village, but I don’t think I’m up for making the trip today.”

Martin snapped to attention.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine, just tired is all.” It was a flimsy lie, and Jon knew it, but he was on the spot here. “I was actually wondering… if you would make the trip for me? It’s a bit of a ways, but I’ve always found the walk quite lovely.”

Martin opened his mouth to speak.

“O-of course, I’ll pick up your share of the work here. It’s only fair.”

“... what about Mum?”

“I’ll be here.”

Martin eyed Jon warily, before heaving himself up on his feet.

“As you wish.”

Jon smiled. Small victories.

And it had been a successful Harvest. The kind where there was actually excess enough to comfortably sell in the village and not worry what would come wintertime.

Jon realised that it would be Martin’s first Harvest in the village, and though he himself wasn’t much of a party person, he recognised the occasion and invited Martin to join him. Martin shyly accepted.

They weren’t able to stay long, of course. Martin’s mother had to be tended to, after all. But in the meantime, they ate well, and Jon learned Martin’s repeated trips to town had gotten him quite friendly with the villagefolk. They greeted Martin jovially, and Martin seemed to be familiar enough to greet most by name.

Martin stuck fairly close to Jon’s side throughout the festivities, something Jon was privately grateful for. But when one of the more boisterous drunks grabbed Martin’s hands and dragged him out to dance with everyone, Jon couldn’t help but laugh as Martin helplessly joined in.

“Seems that farmhand of yours has really settled in,” Jon’s neighbour, the one with the sheep that Martin so adored, said conspiratorially to him.

“Yes, I suppose he has.” And Jon smiled, because he found that it made him happier than he’d been in a long time. “Ah! While I have you, I was wondering…”

The two of them started their trek back to the farm long before sunset, leftover food bundled up in Jon’s bag (along with some other cargo Jon snuck in when Martin wasn’t looking).

“You really could have stayed longer, Jon. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Nonsense. That crowd is only going to get more raucous as the evening goes on. You’re much better company.”

They arrived home, and Martin cared for his mother, as he always did, warming some of the harvest leftovers by the fire to bring to her.

When he returned, Jon presented him with a small bundle, feeling only a little foolish.

“I, um… I wanted to give you something. T-to thank you for all the work you’ve done this season.”

Martin gaped a bit, wordlessly taking the package from Jon.

Crossed a line, a small voice in the back of Jon’s head taunted, but he tried to shush it. He was realising, more and more, that he valued Martin as much as a friend, perhaps moreso than, as an employee.

Martin unwrapped the bundle, revealing a few skeins of pale yellow wool yarn. Jon had been lucky to get any at all, this late, and it was one of the last dye lots, hence the pale colouring, but he hoped Martin would like it.

“Jon…”

“I-it’s not the fanciest, but I know you were talking about how you enjoyed knitting, and I thought–oomph!” Jon was suddenly wrapped up in Martin’s arms, and oh, that felt rather nice. Tentatively, he hugged Martin back.

“I love it. Thank you.”

You deserve so much more, Jon thought as Martin released him.

“God, I know you said you didn’t mind, but I really wish we could have stayed longer, if only for the free ale.”

Jon could only be grateful for the foresight of his past self as he revealed the keg he’d purchased a few days prior. He was once again treated to Martin’s surprise.

“What do you say to having a little harvest festival of our own?”

Martin laughed, and it was everything.

“As you wish.”

And Jon found himself at his little hearth, cooking for three and marvelling at how normal it now felt to do so. Martin came inside, sweaty and smelling of the barn animals, and Jon served up a portion for his mother. Martin took it with a thanks and disappeared for a bit to care for her.

Jon moved the food away from the flame enough to keep it warm without burning, and waited for Martin to return.

When he did, it was with a scowl. Jon, now long familiar with this mood, serves up two bowls, setting one in front of Martin.

They don’t talk about it. Later, when they’ve both had a pint too many and Martin’s wounds are no longer fresh, maybe. For now, they ate in silence.

Once everything is cleared away and washed up, the two part for the evening.

Jon gave Martin’s arm a squeeze.

“Rest well, Martin.”

Martin looked at him tiredly, but smiled.

“As you wish.”

And the village doctor had come out to the farm. Martin waited anxiously outside the door. The doctor told him she didn’t have much longer.

Martin took the news with tired resignation. Jon sat with him all night.

And then, one morning, Mrs. Blackwood did not wake.

And Jon stood with Martin as she was buried. The priest said a few blessings, and then they were alone, standing in front of a hateful woman’s grave.

Jon wasn’t sure if his presence was helping or hurting.

“If… if you want to say a few words. I can go, for a bit.”

Martin grabbed Jon’s hand, eyes on the ground.

“Stay,” he whispered.

“As you wish.”

And Martin told Jon he had taken a job on a cargo ship, The Dorian.

Jon didn’t want him to go.

“I-I know I haven’t always been the best to you, but-but I’ll be better! I’ve been better! I can’t provide much but I thought– weren’t we happy? At least for a bit?”

Martin looked like he’d been stabbed.

“Yeah. Yeah, we were.”

“We can still be.”

“Jon.” Martin took a deep breath. “You’ve given me so much, more than I deserve, and all I’ve done is take from you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Please let me finish. This has been everything I could ever hope for. But you deserve so much more than I can give back here. I-I need to earn my keep. I can make more out there, I can give you– us– a better life.”

“I don’t need a better life!” Jon seethed. I just need you. “This is absurd, Martin! This isn’t some sort of-of contest. You’re not going to risk your life at sea just because you feel guilty!”

“I don’t remember asking your permission. It’s my life and I can very well do what I please with it!”

“Martin, please don’t throw your life away over this.”

“Why do you care?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I care about you?”

Martin said nothing, staring at the ground, trying to keep his breaths even.

Jon took his hand.

“Martin, please. Stay.”

Martin screwed his eyes tightly shut.

“I’m sorry.”

Martin was leaving today. And if Jon was honest, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Martin?” Jon called out softly as he knocked on the doorframe. The door had been left slightly ajar, but Jon had learned his lesson about barging in unannounced after he had walked in on Martin sans-tunic and nearly died of embarrassment. Jon still flushed at the memory, but now it was accompanied by dull ache that he daren’t give a name to.

When no response came, Jon pushed the door open to stick his head in. No Martin, but his packed bag was still there.

Relief flooded through Jon that Martin hadn’t left yet, not without saying goodbye. They had hardly been civil during their argument discussion about Martin’s taking this job, but Jon at least wanted to be able to send him off.

Jon took in the small room Martin had occupied for the last year and a half. It was practically barren, with a tiny bed shoved against the far wall, and a small writing table near the window. Martin had never had much in terms of personal affects, but he always managed to make the room feel homey, with mending projects scattered about and something always half-written on his desk.

Speaking of. There was a note left on Martin’s desk.

Back soon. Saying goodbye to the cows.

Jon couldn’t help the small smile that broke out reading Martin’s looping script. Of course. Not certain how long Martin had been gone, Jon took the note with him as he made way to the hearth, so he would at least know Jon was about.

Jon was immensely grateful that Martin eventually made his way to the hearth and that he didn’t have to physically drag him away from his bovine charges.

“Jon?” Martin ducked inside, a blush blooming on his cheeks from the chill outside. “Did you get my note?”

“Yes, I thought I’d leave you and the ladies to your goodbyes in private. They always did prefer you anyhow. I’m sure I’d only have soured the mood.”

Martin smiled, a small thing, and Jon felt his stomach do that little flutter. When was the last time he had seen Martin smile? In the early days, they seemingly came easy, nervous but genuine, and Jon now found himself wishing he had paid more attention to them, instead of whatever perceived inadequacies he had surely been berating Martin for at the time.

Jon had forgotten how it felt to be on the receiving end of one of Martin’s smiles. He missed it.

He must have been staring too long, because Martin averted his eyes with a small cough.

“I should probably get going soon,” he said softly, gaze fixed in the corner.

“Right… umm,” Jon dusted himself as he stood upright. “I suppose this is it, then.”

Martin chanced a tentative look at Jon. “Walk me to the road?”

Jon wanted nothing more.

They walked in relative silence, side by side across the property. It’s not as if there was anything left to say.

Not on Martin’s part, at least, Jon thought just a touch bitterly.

Soon they reached the place where the farm ended and the road into town started. Too soon.

Martin stopped a bit abruptly, and a small, foolish part of Jon dared to hope that he’d changed his mind.

Jon stepped up beside him, eyeing him with concern. He looked terrified.

“Martin?”

Martin took a shuddering breath. “Sorry. Just…” he turned around to look over the farm. “It’s ah, a bit real all of a sudden, isn’t it?”

“You don’t have to leave, you know.”

Martin smiled, sadly, still not looking at Jon. “I do, though.”

Jon faltered. This wasn’t the irritation, the indignation Martin had shown when Jon prodded him before. It sounded like resignation. Somehow, that was far worse.

Jon gently took Martin’s hands in his own, turning him so they faced each other.

“Martin, I…” Jon stopped, the words dying in his throat as Martin’s gaze flicked up to meet his, eyes wide.

Oh.

“You what?” Martin asked, voice hardly a whisper.

Jon knew what he wanted to say. A truth that he had pushed down for months until it was quite literally staring him in the face. But he couldn’t. It was unfair to put that on Martin, right as he was leaving for who knows how long.

It could wait. It had to.

Jon swallowed. “I… I’ll miss you.”

Martin tightened his grip on Jon. “I’ll be back, I promise. I just…” Martin’s face scrunched up, seemingly struggling with what to say. “This is just something I need to do.”

“Alright,” Jon said softly. “I… I’ll be here, when you’re ready to come back.”

Martin smiled again, this time gentler, kinder. “I sure hope so.”

“T-travel safe, alright?”

Martin stared at Jon, bottom lip between his teeth, an uncertain look on his face. For a brief moment, Jon worried he’d said something wrong, until his hand was being lifted to meet Martin’s lips.

Oh.

It was chaste, nothing more than a feather light press to his knuckles, but Jon could have sworn his heart stopped in that moment.

Martin lowered Jon’s hand again, gazing at him with a dusting of pink on his cheeks.

“As you wish.” He gave Jon’s hand a squeeze, and turned down the road. He gave a little wave as he crested over the hill, and, helplessly, Jon waved back.

It was the off-season. Jon was quietly grateful that he didn’t have to worry after the crops. Without Martin around, tending the livestock was work enough to leave Jon exhausted at the end of the day, leaving little energy for reading or writing. On nights where his insomnia was particularly bad, restless energy finding no outlet, he did try, but he found himself repeating the same few lines over and over, eyes catching on sentences without absorbing them and quill stalling on the page where it once flowed.

So, when he wasn’t working or sleeping, Jon was thinking.

There was a lot of thinking. A lot of it about Martin. Most of it about Martin.

Of mediocre poetry and the soft, perfect voice that recited it when he thought Jon couldn’t hear. He thought of big, dark eyes and seemingly permanently tousled hair and full cheeks that always carried a blush. About shared moments of laughter, tentative and nervous at first, then knowing and easy, over warm drinks, and on some occasions, warm drinks. And of many more shared moments of quiet, each recognising the familiar grief the other carried.

Jon thought about the soft press of lips on his hand, the gentleness with which Martin had held it, caressed it, as though it were a precious thing, as if Jon were a precious thing.

In spite of all reason, Martin cared for him. Jon wished he hadn’t been so foolish, in the beginning. Wished he hadn’t taken so long to recognise his own feelings, and again to admit them. He didn’t even manage that, in the end. No, Martin was the one who took that plunge, in his own way. Perhaps Martin would have stayed if Jon had just bit the bullet and confessed his feelings. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt that he needed to pay Jon back for what was really only the bare minimum amount of basic human decency (and at times, not even that).

Then again, perhaps not. Martin had seemed to make up his mind about it long before he even told Jon. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe they both did. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. If that was true, then when Martin returned Jon was fairly certain he would be kissing that man within an inch of his life.

Jon realised that he was thinking about the future. He was thinking as though Martin’s return, his survival, was a certainty.

It had to be. Martin was resilient, and beyond that, he was stubborn. He would come back, and… oh christ, they would have a life together wouldn’t they? A real life, not just scraping by, not dancing around each other as they had before.

They could be happy. Together.

Jon had never been a particularly patient man, but he could wait for this. He would wait, for Martin.

But in the meantime, he had a farm to run. Jon set to work, letting the hard labour distract him from the ache of longing in his chest.

Jon was in the village, when he heard. It had been a few months since Martin left, and while Jon had never been a patient man, for this, for Martin, he was content to wait.

He had just made his way to one of the merchants who frequented the village. New reading material wasn’t exactly in the budget at the moment, but Jon had recently gotten a bit restless and was hoping he could work out a trade if something caught his fancy.

“Ah, Mister Sims. Just a moment, I have some selections I know you’ll enjoy. I’d tempt you with some tea for that farmhand of yours, but unfortunately my shipment got lost at sea.”

Jon pushed past the small ache in his chest at mention of Martin. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Jon said, perusing the new stock.

“It’s a loss for sure, but I feel worse for the crew of The Dorian. Poor bastards.”

Jon stopped. That… he couldn’t have heard that right.

Because that was Martin’s ship.

“I-I’m sorry, did you say The Dorian?”

“That’s right. Pirates, they say. The Tundra. And you know what happens when a ship’s marked by The Tundra. Crew, cargo, gone. Whoosh. You’d be lucky to find your cargo on the black market, but the men? Well, no one’s been attacked by The Tundra and lived to tell the tale.”

Jon’s blood turned to ice. He barely registered the sound of the book he’d been holding hitting the merchant’s table.

“Oi! Careful with the merchandise!”

“S-sorry, I-I-I…”

“You alright, Mister Sims?”

“I-I-I… I need to–“

He ran. There were too many people. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe for all the eyes he felt on him.

Martin was gone.

A wretched gasp escaped Jon’s lungs. He grasped his hand over his mouth.

Martin was gone.

He ran.

And ran.

Until he was far enough that no one could hear his sobs.

The next day, Jon rose with the sun, eyes red and puffy, tear tracks dried to his cheeks, and set straight to work. Nothing for it, really. Stiff upper lip, and all that. He couldn’t just let the livestock starve because he was mourning sad.

Besides, he would have to truly learn to manage this place himself now that Martin was truly gone one of these days.

Get up. Feed the chickens. Collect the eggs. Feed and milk the cows. Plough the field.

Don’t think about it. What’s done is done.

The days would leave him exhausted, but sleep held little appeal. So he read by candlelight, retreading well worn passages )and cursing his limited access to information). And wrote, notes and and analysis and observations like “common trade routes of the Atlantic Ocean,” and “legends surrounding sea travel,” and Martin Martin Martin–

On the fourth day, Jon finally broke.

He had fallen asleep at the table he’d been reading at (again), roused by the rooster making a fuss.

Right. To work.

He managed a few steps before his legs gave out, sending him straight to the floor. Jon felt faint. When was the last time he had eaten.

As luck would have it, he had collapsed directly in front of the entryway that led to Martin’s quarters. Christ, if Martin found out Jon had been skipping meals–

And then it hit Jon again.

Martin was gone.

It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be.

Because if Martin was gone, then that meant Jon was alone.

Jon dragged himself to his feet, some unseen force driving him to stagger towards Martin’s door. As though it was all just some nightmare he needed to wake from, and Martin would be on the other side.

He pushed on the door, letting it swing open. Deep down, he knew there was no point in knocking.

“Martin?”

Empty. Martin had few personal possessions, and fewer he could bring on the boat with him, but he had always managed to make the little space feel homey. Maybe it was the wildflowers he always brought inside, or the knitting projects he would pick up when poetry was too much mental effort.

Maybe it was Martin himself.

Now the room felt just like, well, a room. Just another room, in another house, on another farm. It certainly didn’t feel like home.

Something caught in the corner of Jon’s vision. A flash of yellow, from the small bed.

Try as he might, Jon had found himself unable to enter Martin’s room after he had left. It simply felt too insurmountable a task. He once made it as far as the door, rag and broom in hand, before suddenly remembering there was something else he needed to do. He had silently apologised to future Martin for all the dust that was surely collecting.

Now, though, standing in the entryway, Jon could see that something was draped across the bed. A familiar soft, pale yellow that made his heart swell.

Martin’s cloak. The one made with the yarn Jon had given him as a Harvest gift.

Jon wordlessly made his way to the bed. Atop it was a note.

To keep you warm until I get back.

Jon took the fabric into his arms.

Martin was gone.

No.

Martin had been gone. For months. At least then Jon had harboured hope that he would return. Not anymore.

Martin was dead.

Jon pulled the cloak to his chest and wept. Heavy sobs wracked his chest, and each time he thought he had it under control, another wave would crash over him.

It must have been hours before he had been reduced to wet, quiet sniffling. At some point, he had curled up on the bed, staying upright just too much to ask of his body. Lying there, in the rare quiet of his mind, a dangerous idea planted itself.

How much do you really know about The Tundra?

No one had ever seen The Tundra firsthand. Not at sea, anyways. It was as much a legend, a ghost story, as it was a real, sailing ship.

Now, Jon was not so much of a fool as to dismiss the supernatural out of hand. The existence of miracle men and giant, man-eating spiders (Jon suppressed a shudder) were better indicators than any of the forces at work in this world.

But there could be any number of reasons a crew could disappear at sea.

Jon had no great wealth of maritime knowledge, but surely “abducted by a ghost ship” wasn’t the only plausible cause of disappearance.

He needed information. He couldn’t simply rely on the grapevine and say “well that’s that.”

He needed travel logs, firsthand accounts, to even have the barest idea of hail sailing worked, for christ’s sake!

Martin Blackwood would not be a mystery. Not if Jon could help it. He resolved then, that he wouldn’t rest until he had conclusive evidence of Martin’s life or death.

Jon had a lot of reading to do.

It didn’t take long for the first problem with Jon’s plan to make itself known: books were not exactly easy for Jon to come by. And beggars couldn’t be choosers. There was no library in the village, and the church’s texts were largely unhelpful. He couldn’t very well wait around and hope the merchants had something new the next time they came around.

…

Well, Jon never had been cut out for farm life, had he?

Jon could scarcely believe it, walking into the Royal Library for the first time. Even in his wildest dreams, he hadn’t imagined it would be like this. He could probably stay for a decade and not read every volume contained within.

He shook himself. He was not here for leisure. And he couldn’t afford to become distracted.

He marched over to the reception desk, putting on his best “please take me seriously” face.

“Good morning. Do you have any job openings?”

His early findings were promising. Trade ships in and out of Florin were well documented in public records, easily accessible via Jon’s new page position. Of course, given said position, the amount of time he could spend researching was limited, which was… well, it wasn’t fine. But it was what it was. Besides which, the staff’s quarters were directly adjoined to the library itself, allowing Jon to do his personal research after hours.

As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one in the capital who had a vested personal interest in the volumes contained within the Royal Library. In a few short months working there, Jon had begun to recognise some of its patrons. Namely, the only two that didn’t seem entirely put off by Jon being, well. Jon.

Sasha James was an assistant to Lady Gertrude Robinson, one of the nobles who advised in the King’s Court. Sasha was often in the library fetching items for her, and while she didn’t often need help finding anything, she still managed to track Jon down in the stacks, ever curious about the new face in the library. She poked and prodded and asked him questions that were just a touch invasive, but she had a sharp wit and could match and surpass Jon’s snark any day. Despite himself, Jon found he looked forward to the occasional lunches they shared.

The other, one Tim Stoker, was a stablehand at the palace, and Jon had encountered him several times racing between shelves, covered in hay and sweat and grime, trying to finish whatever work he was doing before the library closed for the evening. And, incidentally, making quite a bit of a mess, which Jon, in turn, had to clean up. Jon had been complaining to Sasha about yet another instance of this, when she confided in him that Tim’s job as stablehand meant he hardly had any time to do his research before the library closed, so he had taken to coming straight there when he was finished with his work, hence the filth. That made Jon feel at least a little bad.

When Jon asked what it was Tim was researching, that perhaps he could find and set aside materials for him, Sasha went quiet.

“It’s not for me to tell. But you two have a lot more in common than you might think.”

Jon hadn’t told Sasha about Martin. Not in so many words. But she knew about his research, into The Tundra, his late nights in the library. She knew he was looking for answers. Jon realised it was a bit foolish, to think he was the only one.

The next time he saw Tim, he approached him first.

“Tim.”

Tim greeted him with a winning smile. “Hey, boss, closing time already?”

“Not quite. I actually wanted to talk to you about your patronage moving forward.”

Tim stilled, cautious.

“Everything alright, Jon?”

“Tim, your recent behaviour is unacceptable. You’ve been leaving an absolute mess behind you that I have to take time away from my actual job to clean up. Besides which, I’m extremely concerned that you’re going to damage our collection with how filthy you’ve been.”

“Now hold on–“

“I understand you have limited time due to your job, but that does not excuse you from maintaining a bare minimum of hygiene. I’m going to escort you out, and please feel free to come back once you’ve cleaned yourself up.”

Tim looked like he’d been slapped. He opened his mouth as though to argue, an angry tilt to his mouth, but stopped short before gathering his things. Jon walked Tim through the halls, nodding his head discretely as they passed a small side door. He spoke lowly.

“See that?” He made sure Tim noticed the direction he indicated. “Two taps. After dark. I’ll let you in.”

Tim looked at him incredulously, but a small smirk made its way onto his face. Jon kept walking. When they reached the front door, Jon spoke up again.

“Now, please feel free to come back when you’ve cleaned yourself up. I’ll not have you damaging the Royal Library’s collection.”

Tim grinned at him, all teeth, and saluted as he walked out.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Which is how Jon learned to enjoy the company of a friendly face again, as he continued his search for answers.

Finding records of The Tundra proved significantly more difficult than Jon had anticipated. Ghost ship, indeed.

He had just hit another dead end, of the sort that drained him instead of fuelled him, and was about to turn in for the evening, when he spotted an envelope on his desk. It was addressed to him, sealed with wax but no crest. Cautiously, he opened it. At the front was a note.

Found these while fetching some documents for Gertrude. Thought you might like to borrow them. Tread lightly.

Sasha’s handwriting. Odd. He inspected the other papers. Jon’s breath caught in his throat.

They were documents detailing the registration of a particular ship to sail in Florin’s waters. The Tundra, belonging to one Peter Lukas. Where Sasha found these he had no idea, but he could only hope that these would provide a trail he could follow.

He made mental note to buy Sasha a drink the next time he saw her.

Rather predictably, Captain Lukas was a difficult man to track. Were it not for the fact that The Tundra was officially registered to him, Jon would have dismissed Lukas as a myth out of hand. But what few accounts and records of him did exist were eerily consistent in their description.

Tall and pale, with a thick beard and a strangely agreeable manner. Always wearing plain, but quality clothing. Only appearing on dreary, foggy days, at dawn and dusk, when the world is just a little too quiet. Those who had seen him and managed to make record of it had only done so on land, usually at port.

No one’s been attacked by The Tundra and lived to tell the tale.

Frantically, Jon reminded himself that he had no way of knowing that Martin’s ship had been attacked by The Tundra, not really. Maybe… maybe they hit a storm, wrecked the ship and washed up somewhere! It would certainly explain the missing crew. Hell, how could he be certain Martin even made it aboard The Dorian in the first place? Maybe something happened on the way, or he got a better offer, a more lucrative job.

Jon made his notes, and continued his search, and steadfastly ignored the looming dread in his chest.

Jon couldn’t breathe. Over a year of research, grasping for any crumb of information he could find, and the evidence he’d been searching for was practically dropped into his lap.

Port of Florin - Operator’s Log: 1XXX-1XXX

The Royal Library had just received it for public records. Jon had watched it get filed himself, so he would know where to find it, come nightfall.

He clutched his cloak, Martin’s cloak, tighter around himself, a talisman against the chill deep in his bones. He willed the documents he held to have the answers he sought. He prayed they did not.

Jon couldn’t kid himself about Martin’s fate. Not anymore. If this log said anything conclusive, Jon knew it wouldn’t be good.

This could not be the end.

Jon opened the book, pretending he didn’t know what he would find. It took little searching to find the range of dates he was looking for.

December Eighth

The Dorian

Yes, yes, Jon didn’t care much for whatever cargo they were ferrying. He scanned the list of crew names.

Blackwood, Martin.

Right, so Martin had left port with the rest of the crew.

Date of Return: Not applicable, see notes.

Jon flipped the page.

Ship arrived back to Port of Florin on January 16. Cargo missing. Crew missing. Correspondence with destination port confirming unloading and loading of The Dorian suggests interception. There are reported sightings of Captain Peter Lukas near destination port during The Dorian’s docking.

All Dorian crew members declared deceased.

End report.

Jon stared at the page.

There it was. The closest thing to conclusive evidence he could reasonably get.

Martin was dead. Captain Lukas had killed him.

Distantly, Jon was aware that his breathing was getting shallow. He gripped his arms, curling in on himself, eyes not leaving the page.

Was this closure?

“… Jon?”

What was he supposed to do now?

“Jon.”

What was even left for him?

“Jon.”

Jon gasped a breath as he noticed something looming in his field of vision. No, not looming. Crouching.

Were they speaking to him?

“M-M-Mar…”

Tim’s expression softened.

“Hey, hey. It’s just me, Jon.” Tim put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“He’s gone.” Jon’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. Tim spared a look at the log Jon had been reading. Understanding dawned on his face.

“Oh, Jon.”

Jon couldn’t help the sob that wracked his body. In an instant, he found himself in Tim’s crushing embrace. He was full-on weeping now. He didn’t care. Not as though anyone could see, what with him wrapped up in Tim’s arms like this.

“I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon just cried harder. What else was there to say? Martin was truly gone, and Jon was alone. He felt a slight tug on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Tim said gently. “You with me, boss?”

Jon sniffled. It was a stupid nickname, and inaccurate, besides.

He nodded his head, not meeting Tim’s eyes.

“Y-yeah…”

“Okay.” Tim reached over, gently closing the book. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He draped his arm around Jon’s shoulder, leading him away from the desk. Jon found he was leaning into it, unable to trust his legs at the moment.

That night, warm and full from tea and biscuits pilfered by Sasha from the palace kitchen, Jon started to make his peace.

Martin was gone, and Jon felt truly adrift.

But at least now he knew he was not alone.