Stragen dismounted in front of the entrance with an audible sigh of exhaustion. Per tradition, the brethren met all night on the first of October, ever year. Why all night, he still wondered, it was old tradition and stemmed from a time when the brethren were new to their underworld lifestyles. So the tradition stemmed, but still it was centuries ago.

It hadn’t passed any better than he’d anticipated. Tatiana had railed at Droga from raising the docking fees to her captains and not exclusively to the queen’s own and friendly allied fleets. He’d countered that that would have been obvious for those legitimate captains to complain back to her majesty and therefore raise suspicions with the regent. Tatiana wasn’t having it; Droga didn’t care.

Pontas was on the docket for bandit control. Drogas again used bandits to drum up goods for his merchants to sell, but the deal was he stayed away from Pontas’ shipments because they were marked for the brethren and the rest for the crown. Droga once again argued that to exclude the caravans would only look suspicious. Stragen roared at him then that he was stealing from all of them, including himself and Droga only laughed and gently reassured them their interest were secure.

Stragen then brought up his own issue of bandits attacking the farmsteads. In his case, stealing goods and making threats, in one instance the bandits were threatening the farm owner with overturning the ownership of the farm, due to a family dispute. The man had produced no deed or legal title, and as a result of being unable to settle it, was harassing the farm in question and the neighbouring properties with destruction and petty violence, simply because he was displeased with Droga for not offering him his recently passed father’s merchant holdings. A young blacksmith’s apprentice had been killed in the last skirmish and now it was before Stragen as a lawful matter.

Droga’s answer to that was he didn’t know the bandit personally and was not aware of what Stragen was referring. He suggested Sir Rabb might be more appropriate, though the knight had been excused after the first hour and his presentation on the state of things had been completed. Obviously the serious and true business continued only after the law had left the room.

The list and the night dragged on from there, Stragen felt nothing had at all been accomplished. Except maybe that the three aggrieved barons were united in anger against Droga. There seemed to be little for him to complain to the others, which to Stragen seemed like his plan all along.

In the hall before departing, Sir Rabb had reappeared, curious to most bystanders that he would be there at that hour, but to the barons they knew it was a sign he knew there was more about them, and it was a warning. Stragen had considered talking to him about the murder, as Droga had suggested it really was in his area to oversee, but there was no way in hell he was officially involving the Elite in his business, even if it was a legitimate complaint. The other barons would certainly turn on him if he did.

He finally stormed into the house, the sun rising higher over the horizon, just lighting the day from pre-dawn, it was warmer now that the spring was coming on, it would get better and greener at his estate, a welcome reprieve from the constant dank grey of the city. Stragen tried to hold that thought, but he was too exhausted. He was headed to his office, but he changed his mind and instead took the stairs to go to bed.

He awoke hours later, with the sun now streaming through his west facing windows, nearly perpendicular to his bed. It was late afternoon, no one had awoken him.

Still feeling dog-tired, he rose and dragged himself to the bathroom. His mind was sluggish, his body just heavy, and he made his way through relieving himself and brushing his teeth before turning around to go dress but he eyed his bed longingly from his dressing chair.

Laughter reached his ears, a girls light tinkling giggle and he looked out of the window to his left. Swan ran fast through the low, manicured topiary’s, Reba chasing slow enough to not catch her up. They dodged each other a few times, Swan squealing in her delight at the game. He smiled. She was a happy child most of the time. He was proud of that.

As if on cue to squash that happiness, which seemed to be his lot in life, Moira walked through the double doors of his suite, without knocking. It irked him a bit, but he let it lie, too fatigued by it all to get into it. He was still miffed at her for the previous night, though he was not miffed that she’d remembered and actually shown up. So he was confused by it, and that was what irritated him most. Was she trying to stir up drama for them? Ruin his name, embarrass him? What had been her end game?

She came forward, dressed in a large flowing, navy blue dressing gown and soft, matching slippers. House clothes, she’d obviously slept late and not cared to dress either. Her hair was soft and shiny, brushed smooth over her shoulders and he looked at her, admiringly, he couldn’t help it. Moira was every woman to him. No matter their differences.

“How was the conference?” she asked when she stopped just short of him and now stood in the middle of the room. He sighed heavily and let his head fall back on the chair. He was slouched deeply, nearly planked in the long, near-chaise like seat. He latched his fingers loosely over his stomach.

“It went. Not well,” he replied. “As usual.”

Moira nodded but tucked her hands to hold back the generous folds of her gown. He was just about to ask her the reason for her visit when he remembered his request.

“You remembered to ask Terence to set the table for the family at dinner, like I asked?” he queried her. Moira looked unsure. Her left hand rose quickly to rub and tuck an earlobe.

He wanted to bounce off the chair and rail at her, but he didn’t. He sat and stared in utter disappointment.

“I am unclear why you hate me so much, Moira,” he said to her then. “I have done nothing but try to be the father and husband you asked me to be. I am the baron here, I have duties, but so what? I work mostly from home, I am not outwardly trying to screw the world and our queen out of her crown, most of my wealth is actually legitimate. And still you hate me for it,” he added. He sighed then and looked to her, his eyes tired. “You treat me as if I have abused and neglected you. I know the first is completely untrue and the second, if you think it is, it was never intentional. I did what I thought you wanted of me.”

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After a long enough silence, he looked away from her. His head nearly flopping the opposite way in his defeat of it. “You try to mock me, in the conference last night, you show up and put on some display of the debutante, who were you acting for? You’ve known the brethren for twenty-one years, and still you act like a party-favour. Who was that for?”

Moira animated at his last comment. “A party favour? Is that what you thought I was doing? I was trying to socialize! I was trying to put on the face of a united front, you and me, friendly and open, nothing to hide. I sat and chatted with them, because they are our friends. I see them socially, Stragen, I see them more than I see you,” she added accusingly.

Stragen felt his face colour then. He lifted his head and slowly his shoulders followed.

“You choose to spend your days AND your nights in bars and décor dens, Moira, I find that lifestyle distasteful. You knew this! You knew I was an honest man. You gave me a choice; a wife and a daughter. I thought I was getting that, the family that wanted the shelter and the support. The love I had to give. You only wanted me to pay for your lifestyle! But as soon and as fast as you could you went back there and you took our daughter with you!”

Stragen stood then, his anger well lit. Moira held fast, but her eyes watched him warily.

“Where is she? Our lovely daughter. Did you tell her about tonight? I expect her there, Moira, with Swan at her side, caring for her daughter!” he railed at her then. Moira nodded, and tried to shh him, but it was too late for that.

“She is here, Stragen,” Moira assured him but her husband shook his head and pointed out the window.

“Not with her daughter, though,” he pointed out to her. “Like I asked.”

Moira shook her head. She reached her hands and moved to take his arms in comfort. He refused her touch, shaking her from him, but she persisted and retook his arms, then moved closer to place them on her torso. Still angry, Stragen grabbed her wrists and held them off of his body. His eyes didn’t lift to hers, she saw he was struggling with something.

Shaking his head he dropped his grip but he didn’t move again. They stood silent, near the edge of the bed, the light soft in the room, the house quiet, he didn’t hear Swan outside anymore, perhaps she moved to the gardens further away. It was a lovely day.

“Stragen, let me take you,” Moira whispered and raised her hands again to touch him. He huffed, a very small incredulous sound. “Please, husband. Let me make this feel all right.”

He wanted to shove her away. He wanted to rail at her, blame her for everything that was missing right now, even in this very room. It was all her fault. They had no children nearby, no family functions to plan or birthdays to sing about because no one was around for them because no one wanted them. Grandchildren graced their halls now and no one played hide-and-go-seek in his study unless he paid them to do so.

In his home, he’d wanted to build a sanctuary the likes he’d had growing up but better. His father had been distant, only his mother had kept him company and feeling loved. He’d found out much later the previous Baron of Weatherstone had been more cruel and sadistic, much more than Droga and Pontas and Tatiana combined. Stragen had hated the criminal factor of his inheritance but learned early on he’d had no choice but to maintain it if he wanted to protect the good people in his charge but that hadn’t meant he’d bring it home or live his private life like a thieving, murdering pirate. He was an honest, monogamous man to his wife, a heartsick, concerned father to his daughter and now a broken, and lonely grandfather to his granddaughter, who he loved to distraction but didn’t know how to show it.

Moira moved against him, kissing his face and moving to his neck. In moments he was stripped of his loose bedclothes and sitting slowly down on the mattress with his wife moving against him, leaning back to drop the voluminous robe off her shoulders.

His mouth crashed against her and then against her skin, her hands rubbed his back and shoulders and she leaned to sit with him, to straddle him and he helped her. Gently he positioned her and guided her until she was seated and they both gasped lightly to settle, breathing strongly and feeling the warmth of their skin, now connected. She moved against him lightly and Stragen gave into it, leaning his head back with his eyes closed, his hands strongly on her hips to help roll and steady her.

Moira made small noises, her body getting hotter in his hands and slick. She whispered his name and moved faster. He growled to know it wouldn’t last, it wasn’t a session she meant to heal or reunite, she was rewarding him, satiating him, biding him until next he asked her for something she just couldn’t bring herself to do.

But Moira put her best effort forward, he had to admit. He’d keep telling himself it was because some small part of her loved him and wanted him. That he didn’t disgust her at least.

Finally they were coming to it, Moira was tensing and moving in harsher, sharper movements. She was calling to him, her mouth open above them, her eyes closed shut. He pulled her face down to see him, like he always did. He wanted her to see him when she took him and he in return, so there was no illusion it was between them, she couldn’t imagine him away.

He saw her eyes watered, but she was close. “Stragen,” she huffed. “Stragen, lover, give it, come now, give it to me!”

“Give me another, Moira,” he huffed in return. He thrust into her hard and she exclaimed in deep pleasure and surprise. “Give me another child and I will set you free,” he added.

Her eyes opened wide and she looked to argue but she shattered instead. Her expression went confused and unbridled and she exclaimed loudly in the room, he felt her body quiver inside and shudder outside in waves while he pushed to finish his own.

“Give me another child, Moira,” he roared at her then and felt his own climax explode and consume him, temporarily inhibiting his ability to speak.

When it was over, they breathed strongly, barely able to hold the other up. Moira was draped across his shoulder, her arms limp at her sides, her body heavy against him and his lap.

“I don’t hate you, Stragen,” she whispered in his ear. He had no reply. “I hate myself.”

He was about to reply now, lift and look at her, but Moira pushed his hands from her body and she stood fast, dislodging herself and making it suddenly cold. He sat dumbfounded and only able to watch her as she stooped quickly to gather her robe from the floor.

“Moira,” he called to her gently, his heart breaking at her confession. He wanted to know more, he wanted to bring her close to him. It was the biggest confession she’d given him in twenty years.

“I can’t give you another child, I’m too old,” she told him tersely while she swirled her robe high over her shoulders and worked to fasten it around her waist. She never looked at him.

“My mother was forty when she had me,” he told her mildly. Moira laughed but it was humourlessly.

“I can’t give you another child, Stragen, I made sure I couldn’t a long time ago,” she qualified and shoved her feet into her slippers. Without another word, touch or eye contact, she moved fast away and across the room, closing the door loudly behind her.