Fallen Son

[Lent]

Myrken Wood gives and Myrken Wood takes away. People only focus on that last part, the taking away. They cry, they moan, they kick their feet, all because what this place takes from you. Here's the truth of it though. People come to Myrken Wood for a reason. If you were born here then your parents came here for a reason, your grandparents, whatever. Either way, you come into this world with nothing. You come to Myrken wood with nothing and it gives.

It gave me a wife who they tell me was beautiful; it give me children who they say were as beautiful as my wife; it gave me friends who tell me of this beauty now that I can no longer recall it; it gave me a partner and while he certainly wasn't beautiful, he WAS a friend.

Which is why I'm standing here, outside this damn tomb on this balmy fall morning, surrounded by a bunch of people rich enough to avoid all that Myrken loss. Except for when they can't, like today.

See, Charles McCoy's father over there, Artemis McCoy, or Arthur, or honestly I don't care. We'll call him Artie. Well, Artie's about as well off as they come. Self-made too. Merchant. Had been doing well for himself and when his former business associate Helstone reached the top, it paid off for him all the more. That's partly why he pushed his son to join shortly after the Constabulary's creation, past getting the lovable, underachieving bastard out of the house, of course. Public Service is well and good when you like who's in charge.

I look at the chubby, red, bald vulture face and I see regret. Good. He pushed a kid who had no right to have a sword, ever, into a life of danger, for the sake of his own over-the-hill pride, and trust me, I know a thing or two about that.

Too many rich folk here for a man's comfort. The brats who wonder why their childhood playmate had to lower himself like this, the older generation who wish, secretly, that it was one of their own children to die now. Just think of what having a dead hero in the family will do for business. Trust me, they are.

Artie McCoy isn't like that, though, not today.

See, there's an honor guard here too, pretty much every Constable we could spare for the hour or two. Damn if it I'm not sick of hearing how sorry they are. Sorry doesn't put Karolinger in irons, does it? Pah. They mean well, especially the ones who knew me before Haberdasher's Row. Some of them have known me for years, have apologized to me before. Just sick of it. Bet they are too. Myrken. Hnn.

But no, like I was saying. Artie McCoy's not like the rest of the creampuffs today. He's serious, seriously upset. Was when I told him too. He expected continued mediocracy from his son, not this. Yeah, I painted a pretty picture for him. What of it? McCoy went down fighting against the Marshall. Worth something, that, with his nerves too.

So Old Man McCoy's talking to Calomel now. He's got no heir anymore. Nothing to do with his money but to wallow in it. Why not just give it up to the Constabulary, right? If the boy can't be his legacy, then this will. Just like it's Helstone's legacy, 'cept for the fact it's neither, see? Never will be, not so long as Cinnabar Calomel is kicking. Still, some good might come of all this. Charlie would have liked that.

So he regrets the boy's death, his role in it. I think what I regret the most, this very moment, is that Artie had this damn tomb built for his family, so I can't even poor out my flask on the grave. Some things are just proper, yeah? This isn't one of them. Hell of a day. They can do the rest of this without me. Work to be done.