Chapter Text
It was early in May. Tuesday.
Spring this year had decided to be cold and rainy. It served good for the daisies and primrose, but not so for those who suffered from hay fever. One of the staff had called in sick today; Hob had to help with the bar after the morning classes. Fortunately, the middle of the week was far less demanding than weekend nights; once the lunch hour had passed, he managed to squeeze out some time to grade papers at the counter—he was the landlord here; no one had the say on what he could or couldn’t do in his own pub, and he had promised his first year to release the marks by Friday. Finals were coming, after all.
It was ‘guild members’, not ‘guilt members’, Evie. It wasn’t a jail. Was that 1159 or 1759 Charlie had scribbled? Neither was correct—Hob paused to get another beer for a customer. A figure wandered through the door from the corner of his eye.
He stared.
It was an old gentleman—not that being an elderly was something unusual, not even back in the Ye Olde days, but this man wore a Victorian cape over his tweed suit, a walking stick clutched in one hand while a fedora hat in another—it was as if he had just returned from a Conan Doyle book club, even though his soft features were too gentle for some murder cases. The man scanned the room over the rim of his spectacles as he marvelled to himself, “There wasn’t a pub last time I was here.”
It must have been quite a long time then—the New Inn had just celebrated its sixth birthday last month.
Hob grinned and set aside the papers. “What can I get you, sir? Beer, pie, beef burger?”
“Right. I’d like a pint of—” The gentleman stopped as he looked up at Hob. “My good lord! It’s you.”
“Pardon?”
“Are you not Robert Gadling?”
“I am, but how—”
“It’s been a long time, sir … Good to see you again.” The gentleman held out a hand, and after years of training in seminars and faculty parties, Hob held out his own despite his confusion. They shook hands. The man was cold to touch. His smile, however, was as warm as a fireplace.
“I’m sorry,” Hob said. “I’m not good with faces. You are?”
“My name is Gilbert,” said the gentleman. “You might not remember me after—after all these years. But I have known you for as long as I know my lord.”
“Your lord?” Hob glanced around, but he found no cameras pointing at him, waiting to put his dumbfounded face on the box. “I do know many lords from the past. Can’t say they know me though.”
“This one does—very dearly,” Gilbert said. “Please, it’s not my place to tell, but His Lordship would be delighted to hear from you. Good day, Robert Gadling. Good day indeed.” He shook hands with Hob again and strode out of the pub.
Hob stood there like an idiot.
Sophia, his waitress, passed by and glanced out the door he was staring at. “Who is that, Rob?”
“Haven’t a clue,” he said.
But at least he wasn’t hallucinating. It could be just a busker, or a fellow scholar playing a prank on him. If he were in fact some long-lost prince of the Royal Family, well, his late cat could be the Pope.
Wednesday.
There was a bird sitting outside the pub.
There were always sparrows and pigeons around the neighbourhood; Hob wouldn’t bat an eye at any of them, but this bird which had parked itself on one of the patio tables sat as massive as a cat, glossy and black with a white breast of a magpie, but too big to be one.
It cocked its head at an unfolded newspaper on the table. The plate beside it was still serving crumbs of chips and sauce cups, the knife and fork on top shining temptingly in the afternoon light, but the bird was more interested in peering at the print, as if it knew what the headline was fussing about.
“Shoo!” Hob marched up. Whether it was reading the news or planning to conquer earth, he didn’t want to clean up after it if it decided to shit on the table.
The bird jumped back and tilted its head at him. Caw.
Hob gave it time to fly away, but it didn’t. So, carefully he picked up the newspaper by its long, sharp claws. “Too late for my Hogwarts letter, isn’t it?”
The raven gave another caw, sounding like a woman laughing. Creepy.
“Well, excuse me if you’ve finished your meal.” He gathered up the plate.
The bird simply watched him, and when he was to slip into the pub, it squawked as if demanding him back. He ignored it and returned the plate to the kitchen. There was no time for a little bird—his inbox was flooded with last-minute questions about the essay due by tomorrow. The bird could take care of itself. It would fly away as soon as it realised there was nothing left around for it to entertain itself.
And yet when he strode back to the bar, the raven was still sitting outside, staring in his direction through the window. He stared back. It fled with an ominous caw only when someone tried to snap a photo of it.
Thursday.
The same bird was crying on the patio when Hob came back from the university. It had somehow fallen under one of the tables, struggling against a fist-sized rock on its foot.
No one was sitting outside at the moment, the sky promising a heavy rain, but there were still people milling about or drinking in the pub. None of them had paid the bird any attention. Either Hob had finally lost his marbles, or folk nowadays didn’t have an ounce of care for a little bird.
Fuck it.
Hob rushed to kneel before the raven. It went silent, but its beak remained wide open like it was going to foam.
“I just want to help you,” he said. “Don’t peck or claw at me, promise?”
The raven stared at him with a beady eye. There was no way it could understand what he said anyway. Hob reached out, palm up, and as the bird remained stiff on the ground, he grabbed for the rock and lifted it off—it was a lot lighter than he had expected. A bird that big should have easily kicked it off, but the raven continued lying there after Hob put the rock aside, not twitching even a claw as if someone had struck its head terribly, and yet there was no trail of blood on its head nor the ground. Nothing seemed to be broken.
Occasionally there were birds flying into the pub windows and stunning themselves for a good while, but this looked odd.
Hob shifted to sit on his heels. The bird didn’t move. And always a foolish man he was, he poked it in the breast.
It didn’t move.
“All right. I’ll be right back.”
He hurried into the pub, snatched a cardboard box and towels from the kitchen, and drew out a Stanley knife to punch some air holes in the box. A few regulars stared at him as if seeing a caveman paunching a deer.
“Science fair,” he said.
Wasn’t the first time he did something eccentric in public—nothing could beat what he had done last Halloween when he got totally pissed and rode the mic stand like a destrier on the stage while yelling in Middle English, trying to have a duel with the chap from the English Department who dressed like Shakespeare that sod, but he had to give up reluctantly because he couldn’t find a real sword in the party. Shame.
The raven still hadn’t moved an inch when he went back to the patio. He threw a towel over it. It made no struggle other than a poor noise when he picked it up with both hands.
“I know. I know.” He put the bird into the towel-lined box and set it on the table. “You have to find a better place to play dead next time. You wouldn’t want some dogs to come up and chew you like a toy.”
The bird popped its head out from the towel, looking alarmed. Hob let out a laugh and went back to get some water and unsalted nuts for it. He shouldn’t reward the bird for such a lazy trick, but it was somehow adorable.
He sat there with the raven as he answered emails on his laptop. The sky cleared up after an hour or so. The bird remained quiet. Hob peeked inside from time to time to check if it was still alive. It simply looked bored, but it made no move to get out even after it had finished the portion, comfortably tucked under the towel like an oversized stuffed toy.
It was too docile to be a wild thing.
There was no post about a missing raven on Lost and Found or any other sites, however. The webs yelled at him to call the RSPCA or at least a vet, but to simply think of doing so was enough to raise all of the hair on his arms. Doctors were the last thing on earth he would want to deal with. They were dangerous.
Hob had never seen anyone get abducted from a hospital; he had no evidence to support his belief, but he knew places like that were not for him since he had been a child. He had bawled like a devil’s spawn in a church every time his parents took him to a doctor. It was irrational, true. He had grown into a well-educated man; one would expect him to act accordingly, but when his instinct had saved him several times from falling off a horse at the stables, he knew better than to doubt it.
The night fell. No one had shown up looking for a bird, and the raven sat stubbornly still in the box. Hob closed the flops and picked up his bag. He took the bird home.
Once he sat the cardboard box on the coffee table, the bird squeezed out and fluttered around, perching on his copies of The Book of Chivalry and Beowulf and such, then the back of the sofa, and then the bookshelves beside the telly, where it pecked at the DVD cases that held his collections of old movies and documentaries, before clicking its long claws on the kitchen counter as it hopped around, looking for rats to eat.
Hob had no idea they made Trojan birds now.
After a quick search on what to feed a pet raven, he prepared some fruits and boiled eggs for the bird, but it seemed to be already satisfied with the snack earlier, and chose to supervise him while he made his own supper. Spaghetti. Marinara. Ground beef. No. No. Unplucked birds weren’t on the menu tonight.
Hob shooed it away from the stove. The raven gave him a stink eye and finally fluttered to the island counter to eat. As he waited for the water to boil, he took some photos of the bird and made a post online.
Found Raven/Crow
Found outside the New Inn by Ham Common (this isn’t an advert, I swear). No leg band or harness. No visible injuries. Contact me if you’re the owner.
He sent the pictures to his colleagues as well, in case they knew anyone who might own a bird like this, and he asked his staff to print out some posters and stick them around. Sometimes folks would come up and ask to put posters of their lost cats or dogs at the pub. Hob always said yes, though it was the first time a bird required their help.
All done. Hob stole a grape from the bird’s plate; it didn’t snap at him like his old cat would have. And so, while it was occupied with a slice of apple, he grew a bit bolder and ran a hand over its fluffy back. The way its feathers tickled his palm, and how it leaned into his touch while wiggling its tail, felt somehow, somewhat familiar, as if he was petting a friend’s dog he hadn’t seen in a while.
If the owner never showed up to claim the bird, he might as well keep it. He had a lack of company since his cat died of old age a year ago.
They watched telly together after the meal. When midnight approached, Hob put the raven back into the box. “Not as comfortable as whatever bed your owner bought you, I know. Cross your wings for them to show up tomorrow.”
The raven cawed in agreement.
“Right,” he said. “Shout if you need anything. Don’t panic if you hear me scream at some point of the night. No. I am not possessed nor do I need a priest. Some people snore, and I just happen to scream. That’s it.”
Night terror, they called it.
It had started when he was around four. Despite his protest, his parents had taken him to doctors, sleep specialists, and even psychiatrists. They said it was something akin to sleepwalking. He would outgrow it once he got older, but he never did.
They gave him drugs, eventually, when he went to senior school, but those little pills only made him scream and flail like a dying horse. Then they asked him to lie on some chaise longue which might have only been cleaned once a year, and recount his early childhood to the dusty ceiling.
He told them about the riding centre he would visit at the weekend and the ponies he rode, the city farms his parents would take him to for the goats and sheeps, and the countless displays at the museums of science and arts and history, but from the bottom of his heart he wanted to talk about something else, something else that lurked beneath his childhood memories, of rich country fields, sweet smell of frumenty, laughters and cries of siblings who never existed, and the song of birds, bell of horses, the shout of traders in old languages which he could only understand in his dreams—he dreamt of these, when he wasn’t haunted by nightmares—nightmares of diseases and wars, in which he crawled among dying men and dead horses on a muddy, blood-soaked land, while flaming arrows showered upon them like the wings of death.
Sometimes he dreamt of something else, something he would weep for in the morning despite himself, feeling as though he had lost a large piece of his soul and would never be able to find it back.
Sometimes he dreamt of someone he could not remember, except for the black hair and the blue, pale eyes.
He was drawn to men like this—dark-haired men with striking eyes, especially those who had low, rumbling voices, like what he would dream of sometimes. He had no idea which came first: those carnal dreams or his preference of lovers. Either way, he had pursued men like this, simply for a night or a serious relationship. They all were good lovers. None of them had complained about him weeping at night or talking nonsense when he was drunk, but they all felt like a misfit key to his heart: every touch, every kiss, only made the hollowness in his chest burn stronger.
There were reasons why he lived alone.
Hob bid goodnight to the raven before taking a shower, and he lay down in his bed.
Some nights when he couldn’t sleep, he would listen to the sound of rain or forest—the only useful advice from those therapists he was forced to see—or he would look at some porn and take himself into his hand, simply for the needs of his body. Tonight he wasn’t in the mood for either.
He tossed and turned, and eventually slipped into the darkness.
He dreamt of a tavern, of the laughter of men, of the smoky ale on his lips, and the flash of a ruby around someone’s neck.
Hob woke to the noise from outside his room before the alarm could go off.
Thud. Thud-thud. It sounded like someone was knocking on the front door, but it was fainter than that. Was it a thief? This early in the day?
He slinked out of his bed, grabbing a heavy book from the nightstand for a makeshift weapon. He should have at least kept a knife at his bedside.
The raps paused as he hurried down the hall.
“Jess.” Came a voice of a man from the living room. Hob started into a halt. “What the hell are you doing there? And what’s that box? Shit, did you get caught by a human?”
“No,” said a woman’s voice, exasperated. “Do you think those hairless humans could catch something like me? Me? I am the one who put myself here.”
“What?” Caw. “Whatever. Come out. Boss is turning the whole house upside down to look for you.”
“Ask him to come here.”
“What? Why? You know he hates going out—”
“Shh—” A pause. Caw. “He’s awake. Go back, Matt. Now.”
Hob rushed into the living room. Something black fluttered past the windows, and his feathery guest was sitting before the one which was somehow unlocked and pushed slightly open. The breeze blew in and ruffled the feathers on its back. It cawed to greet him.
Bloody hell.
Hob trod to the window, and the bird fled to the floor like a child being caught stealing a piece of biscuit.
Did you just speak? He wished to ask, but he doubted the bird would answer even if it could.
The raven stayed quiet when they ate breakfast. Hob checked his phone; no one had claimed the bird yet. Andrew, one of his colleagues who taught Tudor history, said it was a pied crow in fact. Hob resisted the urge to ask if this kind of bird was capable of talking like humans do.
When he grabbed up the keys from atop the shoe cabinet, ready to head to work, the bird flew and landed there, cawing like asking to come along with him.
“Nothing I could do to stop you, right?” he said.
The bird croaked. So it came with him to the university in the cardboard box.
His students immediately fussed over it once it wiggled out of the box and perched on the lectern.
“Sure, take as many pics as you want,” he said. “Spread the word around so its owner could see it.”
He didn’t like the idea of keeping it anymore. Who on earth would want a bird that would plot against them behind their back?
Unfortunately, there was still no news from the owner when he went back to the New Inn after five. His staff had taken the find-the-owner job seriously and pasted the makeshift posters everywhere: on the porch, beside the menu board, and even between each window, as if the bird itself were some serial killer at large. Perhaps it was.
While they waited for its owner to finally appear, Hob sat in his usual seat by the bar, and the bird perched at his elbow, watching him write lecture notes.
Crowds filled the pub as the evening hours arrived. Some might find it too rowdy to work here, but there were free drinks and food for him to take, and many gossip and jokes to secretly laugh at. The couple sitting by the window were planning their anniversary trip to Florence; the lads sitting at his right were arguing over the topping on pizza; someone from the bar grumbled for his neighbour’s dogs; then there came a voice, low and rumbling, piercing through the noises and laughter in the pub—
“No, thank you. I am looking for—”
Hob looked up.
The man stopped before his table. He was dressed in all black. Pale skin, dark hair, wrapped in a long, black coat, a carved gold ring hanging on a silver chain around his neck, shining under the bright indoor light, but nothing in the world could rival the sapphire blue of his eyes—too vibrant, too deep to be real, as if he was plucked from Hob’s dearest dream, as if the next moment everything around them would crumble into sand, and the man would stride up to Hob with the familiar, haughty smile, grab his hair and kiss him, softly, hungrily, like the phantom in Hob’s dreams always loved to do—instead, the man crushed the piece of paper in his bony hand, all but shaking. Tears welled up in his eyes.
The raven cawed from its perch on the table.
The man looked down at it. “Jessamy?” The bird took flight at him as a mess of caws and feathers, and he caught her with both arms. “What are you—where—I…”
Caw. Jessamy spread out her wings as if to give him a hug, and he held her close with a tremble—poor fellow, he must have been worried sick about his bird. Hob should have brought a nice cage and bed for her last night instead of letting her sleep in cardboard.
A moment later the man looked up at him, eyes full of tears but piercing like a blade. At that Hob rose to his feet, like a gentleman upon a lady entering the room, but it was more out of the urge to shove away the table and chair between them, to pull the man, strange and yet familiar, into his arms to kiss off the lingering tears for his beloved pet.
“I, ugh,” Hob said, and of course he was as eloquent as alway, “I found her just outside the pub. There was a rock on her foot—don’t worry, she’s fine. Ate well and slept well. I’m glad you could come early for her.”
He shouldn’t have mentioned the rock, because the glint in the stranger’s eyes now threatened to spill over.
Hob was about to rummage for a handkerchief, but the man closed the distance between them until he was blocked by the chair, ribs pressed against the top rail.
“I did not believe it when they told me…” the man breathed. “How are you?”
“Me?” Hob said. The stranger was looking into his eyes, not at his bird or something else—of course he was asking about him. “I’m doing fine. Just having a drink after a long day.” He tugged at his earlobe, and regretted it the next moment, because it made him fully aware of the existence of his hands now. “I—hm, have a seat, friend.” He gestured awkwardly at the empty chair. “Have you had supper? Let me get you a pint. And maybe some chips? I can fetch you a menu if that’s not your liking.”
The man only buried his long fingers into the raven’s back almost helplessly. “Hob?”
“How do you—” Hob caught a glimpse of Jessamy’s photo in the man’s fist before it got scrunched further—it was the poster of Jessamy, of course. The man must’ve seen the post Hob made online, and that must’ve been how he had learnt the pub and Hob’s name. “Yeah, that’s me.” Hob grinned. “In case you’re wondering, it’s a medieval nickname for Robert, ‘cause I’m a nerd. May I know your name?”
It should be a question one would expect to hear when meeting a new friend, but the man’s face went blank. His throat worked but only managed to let out a muffled huff, as if Hob had said something wholly disappointing, and he turned and left.
“Wait—”
Caw!
Jessamy flew back and stamped on the table. Caw!
The man looked back at her, eyes brimming with tears again. “Go home, now.”
Caw!
“You are too old to throw a tantrum.”
Jessamy flopped down like a hen sitting on eggs. The man tossed away the poster and grabbed for her, but she pecked at his hands with furious caws, fluffing up her feathers so he couldn’t get a grip.
“Jessamy,” the man hissed. The flash of teeth made the raven duck her head under her wing.
“Maybe she’s just hungry,” Hob said. “Let’s get some food for her? And for you as well.”
“I am not hungry.”
But he looked so skinny as if he had been starving for weeks. “At least have a drink. Are you not thirsty?”
Finally the man looked back at Hob. His gaze turned sharp and dark, brushing past Hob’s throat and jaw before meeting his eyes. It would have rendered Hob’s knees useless if everything didn’t feel so off at the moment.
“Beer?” Hob hazarded.
“I have drank.” The man forced out each word as if he hated to admit it. It was a weird answer.
“You could always have more.” Hob offered a tiny smile and pulled the chair for the stranger, who remained still, staring down at Jessamy for a long while before perching on the edge of the chair, clasping his hands on his knees. Hob wished to touch him, to hold his hands, and kiss his face to make him less tense, but it would clearly scare the man away. So instead, he closed his laptop and tidied up the papers. “Sorry for the mess. Was just marking the essays of my students.”
The stranger parted his lips, scrowled, and eventually deigned to ask, “Your students?”
“I teach Medieval History at Birchford.” Hob gestured vaguely in the direction of the university, not sure if the man lived nearby.
The stranger however kept his gaze pinned on the table. “An interesting choice.”
“Is it?” Hob settled back in his seat. “I’m just curious about this sort of thing. Also wanted to pursue literature back then, but I hate—”
“Shakespeare.”
“How—you also read my posts ranting about him, didn’t you?” And here he thought he was being too forward by just asking for the stranger’s name.
“Your posts?” the man said. “Are you also writing for newspapers?”
What?
Jessamy cawed like laughing. Perhaps it was a joke and the stranger was just too deadpan for that. Adorable. Hob wished for nothing but to lean over and kiss the stranger, but he held himself still despite his heart aching to spill all over the floor.
They had just met, and hell, he didn’t even know the name of the man, but he craved for him, and it wasn’t just some spark of lust he would feel when he met other men bearing the resemblance. This man, was the very one he had been dreaming of for his entire life. But how could he explain it without making himself sound like a pervert? Like a naive child believing in the silly concepts of past lives and soulmates?
“How long have you had your raven?” he asked instead. Because even if he hadn’t gone dating for years, he knew well that pressing a stranger against the nearest wall in public like an animal in rut would never be a good idea.
The stranger titled his head like Jessamy did, and his face softened at the mention of his raven. “Jessamy has been by my side for a very long time.”
Could a man be possibly jealous of a tiny bird—now Hob knew the answer. And as if to make it worse, the stranger lifted a hand to give Jessamy a fond stroke on the back. His nails were painted as black as onyx, a beautiful contrast to his snow-pale fingers and the gold ring on his hand—
Ring.
On his left hand.
The fourth finger.
Hob grabbed up his half-finished pint. Stupid. He was too head over heels to not notice that at first glance. “I’m—just glad that you found her back.” He waved vaguely at the raven. “You and … your partner must’ve been so worried about her.”
“My partner?”
Hob gulped. “Yeah.”
The stranger looked down at his hand—his ring. Hob drew a breath, ready to bear with the fond smile the stranger would show him, but the man suddenly looked sick. He took hold of the ring around his neck as if seeking for comfort. “He is dead.”
Damn. Damn his stupid mouth. Stupid. There was no other reason for a man to wear two wedding rings on himself. Why couldn’t he think before opening his mouth? “I’m sorry—”
“He died over two … many years ago.”
“I’m terribly sorry. I’d no idea—”
“How could you not?” The man drew himself to his full height, his whole form trembling as if he was fighting down the urge to punch Hob in the face. “How could you not?”
“I didn’t mean it.” Hob sprung off his seat. “Please, I’m sorry—”
“Enough.” The stranger strode off.
Jessamy cawed after him, but he trod past the bar without a backward glance. She had no choice but to follow. Hob wished to chase after him as well, but he had nothing else he could say, except the hollow condolences the stranger must have heard countless times.