#havemercy

Royston made his way down the stairs to the front door, stopping at the mirror in the hallway to smooth down his hair before the knocking picked up again.

“Honestly Owen,” he said, raising his voice enough to be heard through the door, “and you call me the dramatic one.”

He unbolted the lock and pulled the door open, but the person on his doorstep wasn’t who he expected.

“Hello Uncle Roy,” William said. “Who’s Owen?”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Royston found himself at a loss for words. He struggled to find the right thing to say, but the problem was solved for him when, after a moment of appallingly gauche silence, the streetlamp behind his favorite nephew helpfully exploded. 

-

William had grown. It was a trivial detail to get stuck on, not to mention an obvious one; the last time Royston had seen him he'd been a boy of no more than thirteen. He'd come to Thremedon on business with his father, a tangle of awkward limbs that he hadn’t yet learned how to maneuver gracefully. 

The young man on the other side of the kitchen table was more comfortable in his body. Taller than Royston, broad in the shoulders like his father but not nearly as round. An athlete, Royston realized. One of the last letters he’d received from William had said that his parents enrolled him in sports as a way to channel his energy.

Hal was fussing around the kitchen, putting the kettle on and deliberating between mugs like a wrong choice would send William away forever. Royston realized with a pang of guilt that this must be as strange for Hal as it was for him, made even stranger by his uncharacteristic silence. 

William seemed confused, watching the two of them with a pinched brow that bore an unfortunate resemblance to his mother’s, but instead of getting the vapors, he said, “You didn’t say who Owen is.”

It was reminder enough of his poor manners that Royston gathered his wits and cleared his throat before finally speaking. 

“Owen Adamo,” he said, his voice sounding far away even to his own ears. “Former Chief Sergeant of the Dragon Corps. He’s a friend, due to visit next week. I thought you were him.”

William’s face lit up. “That’s right!” he said. “I forgot you knew them. Isn’t he the one who saved the Ke-Han emperor from an assassination attempt?”

Royston would have to write Alcibiades. He'd be thrilled to learn that the zeitgeist was no longer attributing that particular act to him.