And he was back on the battlefield.
And it was far too quiet. Unnaturally dark too. As though the sun, moon, and stars had never existed, and light had never been experienced by man. By him. What did sunlight feel like? He couldn’t remember.
“Mr. Theodore, where are you?”
Flickering candle in hand, Clara searched for him among the fallen. Theodore wanted to run to her but refrained. He needed to stay far away and protect her from what was coming. Anyone close to him would die.
Clara spotted him and smiled. “There you are, Mr. Theodore. Come. Share my candle.”
Theodore staggered back as she drew near. “Get out of here, Clara. It’s not safe.”
“You’ll protect me. I believe in you.”
How he wanted her to be right. Theodore grasped for her hand as a cannon blast snuffed the candle’s flame. Darkness snatched Clara from him. Flailing, he crumpled into the mire. Crippled once again. The pain he remembered all too well coursed through his stub of a knee, but this time, it seemed numb compared to the gut punch of loss.
No, no. He couldn’t lose her too. Not his Clara. He had to get her back. He had to find her! Theodore floundered through the mud, his useless stump trailing behind as he clawed, grasped, searched. He laid hold of her candle and clutched it, despite the hot wax searing his hand. This proved Clara was nearby. She just had to be.
Theodore dragged himself forward and slipped headlong into a pit. Landed on Turkish carpet.
He was back at Kingsley Court.
A fire crackled in the hearth, but Theodore couldn’t feel its warmth. Sprawled on the floor, bloodied and encrusted in mud, all he could feel was the weight of shame gripping the back of his neck. Holding his face down to the plush carpet. Smothering him with the sight of the stains he’d left on the intricate pattern of crimson vines and golden birds.
A pair of polished shoes came into view, reflecting the firelight. Theodore gritted his jaw, attempting to squelch the tremors writhing through him body and soul. Father was going to be so angry. He shut his eyes, unable to bearthe disappointment, the disgust that was sure to come. Not again.
“Lift your head, dear boy.”
Theodore’s eyes flashed open, still an inch from the dirtied carpet. That voice—those words—could not belong to his father. Who was with him now? Wearing Father’s shoes?
“Son, I can’t tend your wounds if you won’t meet my gaze.” The man knelt, resting his pressed trousers in the muck that dripped from Theodore’s hair. Fingers warm and calloused took his chin and tapped three times. “All will be well. Just lift your head.”
Theodore pushed against the carpet, against the weight, to sit upright. The broken crutch lay across his lap just above his tattered uniform and bloodied knee. Though he wished to meet the man’s gaze, he could only stare at the pristine trousers kneeling in the mess of his making. “I’m s-sorry.”
“Why?”
“For tracking in all this filth.”
There was a smile in the man’s voice. “Anything that can be made filthy can be made clean again.” He produced a bowl of water and a rag and proceeded to bathe what was left of Theodore’s leg.
How could this man bear to touch him? To look at him?
Once he’d been thoroughly cleansed, the man bound his wounded leg with gauze and pointed toward the crutch. “You don’t need that anymore.”
“But it is mine to carry.”
“Who told you it was yours to carry? I didn’t. I would never burden you with something so heavy and useless. Give it to me, and I’ll give you something in exchange.”
Who would offer to trade for something ugly and useless? Not an ordinary man.
At last, Theodore met the man’s eyes, which seemed to be composed of every possible color, aglow with the mostimpossible light. Yet the radiance was not blinding. It was inviting. Loving.
A tear slicked down Theodore’s cheek, and he placed the crutch in the man’s outstretched hand. When the shattered wood came to rest in his weathered palm, the crutch was set aflame and glowed like a burning coal.
Theodore blinked, and the glow dimmed.
The crutch vanished.
In its place sat a golden crown fitted with bloodred rubies.
