A Golden Brown Feather

It had arrived on a bright and sunny day, the weather not quite in tune with the somber mood Arlin’s head of training seemed to carry with him. It wasn’t like anyone could really take note of his fouling mood. He’s excused himself for the weekend, assuring his brother that he was only down with a stomach bug. Nothing more. Heinrich had understood.

In truth, Hason was worried sick. His daughter had yet to return from her mission out to the border to the east, some situation regarding missing persons to be dealt with. From where he sits in the parlor, he feels tense at the thought. Typically, Illanya only needed a couple of days before she was sending a report back, or returning home, having completed her job. It had been almost a week and no letter, nothing to assure him of his daughter's safety. 

His brother had been quick to remind him that they couldn’t send out someone to search for her until she’d been missing for two weeks, as much as they both disliked the thought. They couldn’t give her special treatment just for the sake of family. Hason had bit his tongue at that, irritation mixing with defeat. He knew better than anyone that exceptions couldn’t be made. Favorites couldn’t be played. Even for his daughter. A gentle knock on the office door pulls the retired knight from his thoughts and he glances up.

“Enter.” Even his voice seems to match his mood. The man that enters does so quietly, weary of worsening Hason’s already foul mood.

“My lord, a parcel has arrived for you.” Hason grunts, sitting up and looking at the man with tired eyes, a frown tugging at his lips…

“A parcel? From whom?” It takes him a moment but he stands and crosses his arms across his chest. The smaller man at the door pulls a nervous face and raises his hands with a shrug.

“A caravan passing through brought it here. They said they’d received it from an anonymous source, and that it was important that it came to the Mariold Household.” The servant glances back out the doorway. Hason sighs and nods, stepping past the servant into the hall beyond, the portly man falling into step behind the retired knight. 

Of course, it’s a surprise when he finds Finley, a former lieutenant and veteran knigh, standing in the front room, arms crossed. Hason looks to Finley with a mixture of uncertainly and weariness, but is happy to see his old friend: The lieutenant stands near a large brown canvas that had been placed on the floor of the room, tied shut with leather cords.

“I wanted to make sure nobody opened it before you got here. When my men got it from the merchants they were awfully curious. Too nosey for their own good.” Finley snorts, nodding towards the windowed door, where he can indeed see the figures of two men standing outside, oddly close for simply guarding the entrance of his home.

“No, I suppose they don’t. Though I’ve never met a soldier who wasn’t shoving their nose into someone else's business.” Hason tries to joke, though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Finley huffs a faint laugh and shrugs.

“Truly, they don’t really get how much trouble they’ll get into.” The Lieutenant says rather loudly, and the two figures outside the door stiffen suddenly and move away from the door. “I also wanted to check on you. I know it’s been a long two weeks, and well… I’m also worried so I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

The old knight simply nods humming. “I’m doing okay. We’re finally close to the time where we can go investigate, to try and find her. I’m hopeful.”

Hason watches as the figures fade slightly fro view, before reaching down to undo the ties on the bag, a somber look on his face.

“I’ll tell you though, getting this here was quite difficult. It was a lot heavier than we-” Finley’s voice stops in his throat when Hason pulls the fabric open, the guardsmen lifting a gloved hand to his mouth. 

“Tell the guards to stop that caravan, chase them down if they have to.” Hason’s voice is dangerously quiet, and the man who’d initially informed him stirs into action rushing from the room briskly. Finley moves to leave himself and Hason raises a hand.

“Wait. Please.” The man’s voice breaks and the lieutenant stops. 

With shaking hands, Hason lifts a tattered and torn cape, the green of it turned dusty and brown by stains and dirt, the remaining fur lining its edges stiff with rusty splotches. The fabric crumples in his grip as he stares hard at it, fear and panic growing on his expression. Hason drops to his knees, the cape temporarily forgotten as he pulls the parcel open all the way.

All that’s left among the stiff canvas is a  battered shield, a piece of an antler, and a yellowed envelope. The shield’s emblem is half torn off, blood crusted along the face of it and the edges. Hason is careful as he pulls the last few items from the canvas, the sinking feeling in his gut only growing as his familiarity of each grows. It could be anyone’s shield. The antler could’ve come from any stag or adorned any helm.

Finley steps closer, his own expression a mixture of pain and sorrow as Hason carefully looks over each item. The retired knight almost reverently sets each item gently onto the floor in front of him and with trembling fingers opens the seal on the envelope, pulls the yellowed parchment out, and opens it. 

His breath catches, far before he can even read the words written in ink. Tucked neatly into the folds of the page is a lock of brown hair and what looks to be a hawk's feather that seems to catch the light in odd angles.

Hason puts a shaking hand over his mouth, tears springing to his eyes as an agonized whimper leaves his throat, the paper falling from his grasp as he curls inward. 

One of her feathers and a lock of her hair sit before him, tucked between inked words in Common, a warning, a threat, a taunt. All wrapped in broken tokens belonging to his daughter. He reaches for the cape draped across his lap, pulling it closer to him with shaking hands 

It smells strongly of blood, enough that it’s nearly overwhelming as he clutches at the fabric. The smell is tinged by the harshness of smoke, herbs, and tobacco. His fingers dig into the cape, the fabric pressed desperately to his chest as the broad man’s anguished cries finally break the deafening silence in the front room.

Finley’s breath catches, shock and horror mixed into one as his eyes take in each item. He crouches low, his hand running over the bent shield.

“It cannot be… it must be some kind of-” His words die on his tongue as his eyes catch sight of the message on the page and the feather and lock of hair. Finley’s face crumples and he runs a hand down his face, looking at the items in disbelief and sorrow. The feather couldn’t come from anyone or anything else.

Hason’s sobs turn to pleading, denial of the words on the page, of the damning proof of the items in front of him. 

Through the doors, all the remaining guards can do is listen from beyond the door. The maid with a shaking hand pressed over her mouth and guards with trembling faces as they try to ignore the heartwrenching noise.

---

“So, we’re just supposed to believe they weren’t involved? They’re the ones who brought the damn thing here.” Finley’s agitated voice sounds from the doorway to the parlor, enough that Hason almost looks up from where he’s slumped by the empty fireplace, a dwindling glass of brandy held loosely in his hand, the feather held tightly in the other.

With Finley and the servant’s help, he’d made his way back to the parlor, with Illanya’s items. They were laid in front of the fireplace. His red-rimmed eyes stare exhaustively at the cold hearth. At least at anywhere but the carefully laid out items in front of him. He’d just only been able to stop sobbing, though he suspects the brandy was a big help with that, he fears beginning again should he look at them again.

It’s the feeling of Finley’s weight, settling onto the seat next to him that jostles Hason enough for the old knight to look at him, his face slightly disheveled. The lieutenant is speaking, but he can’t understand, at least not at first.

“-some rest. It’s been a long evening.” When the other man’s words begin to make sense, Hason grimaces, taking the glass and bringing it to his lips one last time, swallowing the strong amber liquid and sighing. His green eyes make their way from the man next to him down to the feather in his hand and the cape on his lap. 

Hason’s free hand goes to his head and he lets out a shaky breath.

“Yes, I think you’re right, I just need to lay down.” He nods, his voice is hoarse and scratchy. Finley nods and helps the older knight up. Not that Hason would have needed it normally, but to be fair he doesn’t know if he even had the strength to move on his own at the moment.

He doesn’t remember the walk down the halls to his room. He only seems to realize it as he arrives at his bedroom door. A calloused hand grabs the doorknob, hesitating for only a moment. He doesn’t dare turn around to glance at the door across the way, knowing now that its occupant will never again open that door. He steps into his room shutting the door behind him, Finley forgotten for the time being, off to gods know what. 

Hason hardly thinks as he collapses onto his bed, Illanya’s cape and feather clutched in his hand. He seems to have enough consciousness on his mind to put the feather onto his nightstand. The cape stays held in his arms, just as tightly as he’d held it this afternoon. As he dozes off, he can only hope that when he wakes in the morning, his daughter will step through that door, scold him for stealing her cape and be off to work for the day. It’s a pleasant thought, enough to lull him to sleep for the night.

Even though it’s a lie.