(I need a Herbert icon very, very much. You wouldn't mind telling me where you found that picture in yours?)
Autumn of the Year of Our Lord 1638, Vienna, Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation
The night air already carried the autumn chill, but the ground of the courtyard was still more dust than mud. Kinga was grateful for it as she carried the pail of dishwater to the gutter. Less cleaning to do, especially now that most student lodgers were spending the night outside the city gates at one of the last revelries before the cold chased them back to the wineries and cellars close enough for the boys to drag themselves home once they were kicked out. They would wake her then to open the gate for them, but tonight they’d rather sleep under the stars than chance the long trek.
All except one, she thought. Just one window with the faint light of a candle she’d lit for him before dusk fell. She would have to go there and light another before she went to sleep; otherwise he’d wake and open his wound again trying to do it himself.
Kinga shivered. It was really getting cold at night.
She heard hoof beats, a sharp staccato over the cobblestones. She wondered who it could be, now that midnight had passed. A courier, perhaps, carrying mail from the outer reaches of the empire. She had sent a letter to the boy’s home when he had first been brought to her lodging house, but she doubted he would live to read the answer.
The horse came around the corner at near gallop, pulled back by the rider just as it was about to ride her down. It was a great bay with a dark coat that was almost black in the moonlight. She stepped back towards the gate of the house, out of the reach of its hooves.
Of the rider, all she saw was a swirl of a dark cloak as he dismounted. “Which of these houses belongs to Kunegunde Tiedeman?” he demanded sharply.
Transylvanian accent, flickered through her mind.
“That would be me,” she said, drawing her tiredness and indignation around her. She hadn’t been running a lodging house for unruly students for twenty years without gathering some force of her own. “And I’m not accepting visitors this late.”
The stranger grew still. She had the feeling he was watching her, though his face was in shadow.
“Forgive me, Frau Tiedeman,” he said. “I did not expect the matron of a lodging house to be out on the street so late at night.”
“Usually, I’m not,” she scoffed. She headed back inside the courtyard, heard him following, leading the horse. He seemed to have manners, at least. “I gave the girls the night off – there is a feast outside the gates tonight. I would go myself, but care of the sick comes first.”
“Care of the sick?” There was hesitation in that voice, as if he wanted to say something more.
He really had a remarkable voice, Kinga thought. Deep and melodious, and she was sure the accent reminded her of somebody.
She sighed. “It’s such a sad story. Students duelling – I don’t know why they don’t just settle it with a brawl like normal people. And the boy won’t tell anyone who the other man was, so all I know is that his friends found him in Buchenwäldchen Grove and brought him here. The doctors had hope at first, but now...”
“Now?” he whispered.
“He is dying. One day, maybe two.” Kinga shrugged. “It happens. I’ve done my best.”
For a moment, the courtyard was silent enough that she could hear her own breathing. Then the horse snorted.
“I’m sure you did, Frau Tiedeman,” the stranger said. “Thank you. And thank you for sending the letter.”
She startled. The letter? But it should have barely reached the border of Transylvania by now-
The man dropped his horse’s reins on the ground, as if he were sure the animal would not move without command, and stepped into the pool of light falling from the attic window.
He wore black in the Spanish style, restrained and unembroidered. His hair fell down to his shoulders, straight and thick and dark. His face was pale, but it wasn’t only the paleness that brought such resemblance to the boy.
His eyes were dark as night
“I am Graf Johannes von Krolock,” he said, bowing to her as if she were a princess of the blood, not a simple Viennese bürgerin. “Herbert is my son.”
For when you get back: first scene of Herbertfic take two
Autumn of the Year of Our Lord 1638, Vienna, Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation
The night air already carried the autumn chill, but the ground of the courtyard was still more dust than mud. Kinga was grateful for it as she carried the pail of dishwater to the gutter. Less cleaning to do, especially now that most student lodgers were spending the night outside the city gates at one of the last revelries before the cold chased them back to the wineries and cellars close enough for the boys to drag themselves home once they were kicked out. They would wake her then to open the gate for them, but tonight they’d rather sleep under the stars than chance the long trek.
All except one, she thought. Just one window with the faint light of a candle she’d lit for him before dusk fell. She would have to go there and light another before she went to sleep; otherwise he’d wake and open his wound again trying to do it himself.
Kinga shivered. It was really getting cold at night.
She heard hoof beats, a sharp staccato over the cobblestones. She wondered who it could be, now that midnight had passed. A courier, perhaps, carrying mail from the outer reaches of the empire. She had sent a letter to the boy’s home when he had first been brought to her lodging house, but she doubted he would live to read the answer.
The horse came around the corner at near gallop, pulled back by the rider just as it was about to ride her down. It was a great bay with a dark coat that was almost black in the moonlight. She stepped back towards the gate of the house, out of the reach of its hooves.
Of the rider, all she saw was a swirl of a dark cloak as he dismounted. “Which of these houses belongs to Kunegunde Tiedeman?” he demanded sharply.
Transylvanian accent, flickered through her mind.
“That would be me,” she said, drawing her tiredness and indignation around her. She hadn’t been running a lodging house for unruly students for twenty years without gathering some force of her own. “And I’m not accepting visitors this late.”
The stranger grew still. She had the feeling he was watching her, though his face was in shadow.
“Forgive me, Frau Tiedeman,” he said. “I did not expect the matron of a lodging house to be out on the street so late at night.”
“Usually, I’m not,” she scoffed. She headed back inside the courtyard, heard him following, leading the horse. He seemed to have manners, at least. “I gave the girls the night off – there is a feast outside the gates tonight. I would go myself, but care of the sick comes first.”
“Care of the sick?” There was hesitation in that voice, as if he wanted to say something more.
He really had a remarkable voice, Kinga thought. Deep and melodious, and she was sure the accent reminded her of somebody.
She sighed. “It’s such a sad story. Students duelling – I don’t know why they don’t just settle it with a brawl like normal people. And the boy won’t tell anyone who the other man was, so all I know is that his friends found him in Buchenwäldchen Grove and brought him here. The doctors had hope at first, but now...”
“Now?” he whispered.
“He is dying. One day, maybe two.” Kinga shrugged. “It happens. I’ve done my best.”
For a moment, the courtyard was silent enough that she could hear her own breathing. Then the horse snorted.
“I’m sure you did, Frau Tiedeman,” the stranger said. “Thank you. And thank you for sending the letter.”
She startled. The letter? But it should have barely reached the border of Transylvania by now-
The man dropped his horse’s reins on the ground, as if he were sure the animal would not move without command, and stepped into the pool of light falling from the attic window.
He wore black in the Spanish style, restrained and unembroidered. His hair fell down to his shoulders, straight and thick and dark. His face was pale, but it wasn’t only the paleness that brought such resemblance to the boy.
His eyes were dark as night
“I am Graf Johannes von Krolock,” he said, bowing to her as if she were a princess of the blood, not a simple Viennese bürgerin. “Herbert is my son.”