#braxton fitzroy

The Countess de Rola, a small cameo photograph, c. 1880's (?)

The above photograph was one of the few found among the effects of Captain Braxton Fitzroy upon the re-opening of his file for further research. The Countess continues to remain an enigma to the few scholars who have undertaken to research Fitzroy. What little we know comes from the correspondence the two of them kept throughout their lives. One such letter follows...

To my Soldier, 

I am in Vienna now, and everything is a whirl of beautiful music, beautiful architecture, beautiful dresses, and above all dancing, dancing, dancing. It seems I am forever dancing here. There is always another waltz to be had, another gala to attend, another café one must go to. My nights often stretch out until the first rays of the sun touch the Ringstrasse, and then I sleep and wake only to do the same all over again.

The people here are lovely. There is a courtesy one does not find in Paris, a warmth one does not find in London. I must be careful not to grow too comfortable here, or I might be tempted to stay…but neither you nor I would ever truly be able to do such a thing and remain happy.

But all of these things are little things.

Your last letter worried me. All of your letters worry me. There is always something you cannot say or will not say and part of me has come to accept this but I do not think I ever truly shall. I sometimes think I see you standing among the military men here at the balls, but then they turn and the fancy passes.

The nights are so full of laughter and of dancing and talk, but always I think of our time in Constantinople. We shall soon meet there again.

Captain Mayweather & Lt. Fitzroy, c. 1887

The Sufi Musician, c. 1880's

Recently discovered memoranda attached to the files found on Captain Braxton Fitzroy shed a strange new light on the matter of his disappearance. This author is forced to wonder exactly what happened in Samarkand to shake such an officer's faith so profoundly, and what would cause Lord Elgin to so brusquely dismiss a man who had lived his life in service to Queen and Country.

*~*~*

CLASSIFIED

TOP SECRET

From: The Office of Colonel Durand, Indian Intelligence HQ, Simla

To: Lord Elgin, The Office of the Viceroy

Subject: Death/Disappearance of Captain Braxton A. Fitzroy 

It is regrettable to lose such a decorated and useful officer of the Empire in such an inglorious way, but the accounts of the survivors of the Daedalus Expedition whom could be reached (Pundit Chandra Singh formerly of Punjab Frontier Force, Havildar Agansing Rai/5th Gurkha Reg., Lt. Byron Baker has disappeared, cause/destination unknown) show that as usual, Fitzroy showed only the highest caliber of bravery and initiative in his work in the Himalayas.  

We fear the Russian involvement may have been minimal, contrary to prior reports. Suggest that this information be disregarded and that operations along the border continue as usual to deter further encroachments. 

Survivors report strange usage of some sort of mystical (Indian Intelligence of course disregards mysticism, but prior service records of those reporting and the exact nature of Fitzroy’s demise compel one to give such claims more credit than one would otherwise) powers by the Lama of this unnamed monastery. We suggest the reports be passed to our experts in London (i.e. the LoEG, the gentlemen in Cardiff or Messr. Dr.? At the Viceroy’s discretion of course.)

It is known to Indian Intelligence that Captain Fitzroy had shown a disconcerting tendency lately to question orders and the morality of his work since certain events in Samarkand, however, past work has made him invaluable to this office and the Empire at large, and he has a record of over a decade’s worth of exemplary service to his credit. Colonel Durand and Major Gibbons both recommend he be posthumously commended. 

Signed,

Lt. Markham Lloyd

Secretary to Colonel Durand

*~*~*

From: Lord Elgin, The Office of the Viceroy

To: The Office of Colonel Durand, Indian Intelligence HQ, Simla

Fitzroy’s filed are to be sealed and sent to India Office, London. 

An officer who has lost his faith in the Empire is no longer of service to the Empire.

Commendation denied. 

Claims of mysticism in the Himalayas are nearly constant and nearly constantly false. 

A photo of Captain Braxton Fitzroy, dated 1893, taken somewhere along the extreme northeastern frontier of Kashmir.

As with much else regarding Captain Fitzroy, the specifics of his trip to this lawless region remain vague, but a recent letter has come to light that sheds at least a little light on the subject.

From a court advisor to Maharaja Pratap Singh to Indian Intelligence at Simla...

"...We deeply thank the English for putting a stop to that...which had grown embarrassing to us...and for creating circumstances favorable to the Maharaja and Her Majesty in the realms of trade in the eastern reaches of the Kingdom of Kashmir and Jammu...the Captain Fitzroy whom you sent was instrumental in these dealings...and once again proved his value through his bravery and initiative. We enclose with this letter our most sincere thanks to him..."

“Sahib! Down!” Braxton flung himself into the snow as Benny Fish cocked his rifle and began to fire at the red and black robed man that stood unmoving at the entrance to the bridge. His hands moved automatically, firing and reloading more swiftly that the eye could follow. But each shot went strange, twisting impossibly or stopping short. 

Lieutenant Baker ran to Fitzroy watching dumbstruck at what could not be.

 “Faith. Faith is more powerful than any bullet, English.”

The Lama moved forward, but his feet did not touch the earth. His robes fluttered in a wind that did not reach the others. 

Chandra Singh moved after Baker, he kept his rifle trained on the Lama, whose movements blasphemed against natural laws.

Zukharov adjusted his monocle, blinking hugely. The air seemed very thin to him suddenly, and he groped in his coat for something he had kept unused through all the fighting. His insurance.

Baker rushed to the Lama, swinging his sword with a savagery that would have cut any other man clean in two. He was carelessly tossed aside with a wave of the Lama’s hand, landing feet away in the snow. 

Singh began to fire now, moving closer and closer to the floating Lama, his mouth set in a hard scowl as the crack of gunfire died too quickly in the silence that enveloped them. The bullets all went wide. Benny Fish joined in the fusillade with his own dwindling ammunition. The Lama’s face twisted in a grimace. It was clear that whatever puissance he had called to his aid was not easy to maintain. He was exerting himself.

Baker picked himself up again, rushing to the Lama with a defiant cry. He was swatted away again, less far this time. The mad monk buckled slowly, sinking closer to the ground. He spoke, nearly pleading, and a twisted beneficence passed over his face.

“Can you not see that I only wish to save this world? Can you not see that I am salvation? I am here to break the endless cycle of violence. I am here as peace. I am here as love. Death brings new life, and I will bring death in order to bring life. To love all so deeply and not act, that is the crime!”

His words went without understanding to the ears of all save Zukharov, Fitzroy and Singh, and none of them were ready to accept such things.

Singh kept firing and reloading, and not a shot touched the man. This could not be.

Baker shook his head as blood trickled from his nose, and he rose unsteadily once more to his feet. He staggered to the Lama and swung again as Singh fired ineffectively. The Lama barked words that twisted and snaked through the air, flinging the pundit backwards against an exposed gnarl of stone, and as he did so, he stretched out a hand, catching Baker’s sword mid-swing and wrenched it from his grasp. With a yell, a blast of impossible air knocked the Lieutenant backwards, flat on his back.

Benny Fish fired one last shot before he tossed the spent rifle to the ground, drew his kukri and rushed this man who had killed his men, who had denied them a warrior’s death. He did not get far before he joined Chandra Singh, knocked out cold by the stone he had landed against. The world went dark for the Havildar.

Braxton Fitzroy stood cold in the silence that followed. Not a shot sounded, not a blade cut true, and the wind even had ceased to blow. He looked about. Baker lay collapsed in the snow, and Benny Fish and Chandra Singh had been knocked unconscious. It would be up to him. There was no fear in his mind. Only a rage moved through him as the Lama’s robes touched the snow. The monk spat blood. His magic had taken a toll. His small eyes caught Fitzroy’s own, and now the Englishman could see the weird glow that smoldered deep within them. He said something, a whisper. Fitzroy didn’t care. He was going to kill the man with his bare hands.

He took only a few steps when he realized that his feet would move no more. His boots had been stuck fast, ice clutched at him, rooting him to the mountain. 

The Lama labored for breath.

“Your time will come, English. But first…first…I must deal with those who would betray me…”

Zukharov had stayed at the rear of the fray throughout, his hand in his coat. He began to step backwards as the Lama moved to him, closing the distance with a shuffle that could not have carried him as quickly or as far as it did. He snatched the Russian’s collar, breathing heavily, his words slow with pain.

“I saved you, cur, and you have the…audacity…to dishonor me so… When I found you in Cairo you were a shell of a man… You were nothing… Riddled with vermin…wounded…impure with whore-gotten diseases…hiding with rats infested houses to avoid the men who wanted you dead… I bought your freedom. I had seen you in my visions, traitor… I knew you would be the one to bring guns to my monks, but I had not foreseen this…and for this, you will die.”

Zukharov twisted his hand inside his coat, and a shot rent the air.

The Lama looked incredulously downwards to the hole in the Russian’s jacket, and the hole in his own robes. 

“Insurance,” said Zukharov with a smirk, pulling out the smoking Mauser he had kept hidden there.

“Folly,” smiled the Lama.

Zukharov’s face fell. The Lama delivered a backhanded slap that send the arms dealer reeling, as he pulled from within his robes a dagger, and advanced with murderous intent. The Russian’s monocle popped from his eye as he tripped backwards into the snow, a desperate panic seizing him. His eyes flickered to all those who might have intervened. Only one still stood, pulling impotently at legs that would not move. Zukharov did not think about what he did next. Instinct guided him. The arms dealer gripped the Mauser by it’s searing barrel and threw it with all the strength and accuracy he could muster.

“FITZROY!”

The gun arced in near slow motion through the air, spinning in lazy circles as Braxton and the Lama both looked up. The Englishman over extended himself as he reached out his hand, his momentum causing him to fall forward and crack the ice that held him fast. He landed face first on the stones and snow. The Lama looked behind him with a snarl and turned once again to advance on the prone and helpless Zukharov.

“Your aim is as poor as your judgment, cur.”

Zukharov swallowed. Perhaps that had been a poor idea after all.

Down the way, Braxton smiled. 

He had caught his gun during the fall. The ice around his legs had snapped. He could move once again.

The Lama knelt on his betrayer’s chest, his old knees jutting hard from his robes, pushing the breath from the Russian’s lungs. Zukharov’s insurance had obviously had an effect though. The Lama’s movements and words were thick with fatigue and blood flecked his mouth.

“You destroyed my house… You betrayed my monks… You have thrown away salvation to lie with dogs… Perhaps I was the fool to think you could have been saved in the first place. But now it matters not. Goodbye, cur.” He raised his dagger for a killing stroke, when an unexpected crack rang out. 

The Lama arched his back in pain, his free hand flying to the new wound. He forgot his pain, rising from the Russian’s chest and began to move through the snow to his attacker.

Captain Braxton Fitzroy walked slowly towards him as he kept firing, his arm held straight, his aim true. 

Step, step

Fire

Step, step

Fire

Step, step

Fire

Step, step

Fire

Step, step

Fire

Step, step

Fire

The Lama staggered after each shot, but still he moved, still he advanced, and his eyes still burned with an unnatural light. Braxton did not stop. The two closed to yards, then feet, closer and closer and closer until only a few steps separated them.

Step

Fitzroy aimed at the Lama’s heart.

Step

The Lama faltered, but kept moving.

Step

Fitzroy sighted down the barrel of his gun.

Step

The Lama drew back his dagger to end this.

Fire.

The Lama looked curiously at Braxton. The Captain looked back. He had made himself a stone once more. The monk staggered, he moved his mouth to speak, but only managed two words.

“…Storm…crow…”

The monk collapsed forward against Braxton’s boots, slumping into the snow.

The wind began to blow again.

Fitzroy looked down at the dead mess of robes and wrinkled skin and fading sigils that lay pooled at his feet, stepped over them, and walked to Zukharov, who had begun to stand. 

“I knew you would get him, ol-…”

Braxton kicked Zukharov square in the gut, grabbed a handful of his coat as he doubled over, and brought the butt of his Mauser down onto the back of his head. The Russian curled up in the snow, coughing and sucking in air. He looked pleadingly at Fitzroy.

“Old friend…”

Fitzroy knelt and grabbed a fistful of his hair. 

“Old friend…”

He placed the barrel of the Mauser to Zukharov’s head.

“Braxton, please old friend, please…”

Zukharov smiled with a sickening desperation. All Fitzroy could see were his dead Gurkhas. The stone in his chest hardened.

He pulled the trigger.

…Nothing happened.

The Mauser was empty.

“I am not your friend.”

Fitzroy let go of the arms dealer’s hair, and stood.

*~*~*