O Brother, where art thou? - Adieu Eduarde

With the bouncing rumble of iron bound wheels the lone freight wagon headed eastwards towards the Montaigne-Eisen border and thence to Wische or maybe even Freiburg. Sitting at the front of the wagon, Lucerne (a.k.a. Louis Rois et Reines) grumbled softly to himself as he stiffly held the reins of the two mercifully docile draft horses drawing the wagon. To his chagrin, he still wore the less than fashionable red cloak with which he had escaped Le Coiffure. Whilst fraternal love and genuine gratitude to his rescuers were certainly present, a Montaigne's offended fashion sense is always a somewhat volcanic force to be reckoned with. Indeed, Lucerne's panache was further sorely dinted by the green dye with which his hands had been coated, in part to further his disguise as a pickle merchant, and in part to conceal the tell tale marks of Porté! Lucerne thought to himself:-

"Next time, I get to be the dyer!"

At the back of the wagon, dangling their feet just above the rutted road, sat Eduarde and Jamais. Eduarde was still heavily bandaged from the numerous musket balls and sword thrusts that he had taken in the course of so recently rescuing Jamais and Lucerne. The occasional bounce of the wagon as it struck a particularly deep pothole caused him to wince, but nothing could dispel the growing sense of hope and joy that this journey gave him. Jamais and Eduarde had spent the last few days talking over the long years that had separated them. Their shared tales contained much that was painful, and at times slightly discreditable to them both, but the process of unfolding their stories to one another created an undeniable mutual catharsis. Even more surprisingly, for once Jamais felt little need to sink barbs in to her conversationalist, as she spoke freely and without the urge to hide herself in scorn, wit or repartee.

Eduarde told Jamais at length of his deep affection for his friends. His sadness for the loss of Pierre, Franz and Giancarlo. His fond amusement at the actions of that wise fool, Dandelion, and those of the more simply foolish fool, Pistol. Both Jamais and Eduarde laughed at his recounting of Borstennskoldmund's efforts to be sinister and dour in spite of his truer humanity as shown by his penchant for self parody in his efforts at clownish disguise and opera singing. He spoke about Don Carlos' constant need to prove himself, but of his no less constant courage. Jamais laughed long at the several antics of Antonio, Sir Robin and the tumbling Bouchikis. He told of her of his brushes with the dread Schattenman and the Fleischwulf, his journey to Ussura to rescue Montegue, his sundry adventures in Eisen, Castille and Vodacce, of the horrible fight with the Verschlingen and the desperate Battle of Freiburg. Remarkably for Eduarde, his tale contained a minimum of boastfulness or exaggeration. He felt that for them both, this was a new beginning, and one that should not be marred with anything less than total honesty.

Jamais spoke of her life at L'Empereur's Court, with its elaborate facades and intrigues, and all of its excesses and delights. She told him candidly of the men and women that she had wantonly destroyed in battles of word and etiquette with other courtiers, struggles no less deadly than Eduarde's own dealings with the Moerdebande. But as she quipped with Eduarde, at least he could have tried to reason with the Moerdebande! Her sense of guilt at times caused her voice to choke and falter, but the gentle press of Eduarde's hand lightly holding her own, always gave her the strength to continue her account.

As the days passed, the crispness of Winter and the force of the joining of their hitherto separate histories seemed to cleanse and uplift the two travelers seated at the back of the wagon. Lucerne for his part was happy to remain at the reins, for as he thought, the quicker they got to Eisen, the more quickly he could don decent attire again. And each night as they camped or stopped at a wayside inn, Lucerne could see the bond growing unconsciously between his two companions. Ever discrete, Lucerne was loathe to stifle the growth of anything he thought might be of potential beauty.

The only real excitement in their journey east was at the Montaigne border. There several Montaigne customs officers interrogated them at great length about some buffoonish Avalon called "Pierre O'Toole". Apparently this fugitive was a liquor smuggler of some notoriety, even if his schemes sounded to be more daring and dependent upon blind luck than they were ingenious. The three Montaignes could truthfully swear that they knew no such man. Although Eduarde later remembered some congenital idiot of an Avalon (please forgive the tautology he thought to himself) in a pub brawl in Freiburg calling Pistol something like "Peter the Fool" or something like that, But they could not possibly be the same man... or could they?

Eventually satisfied that Pierre O'Toole was not on board the wagons, the customs officers waived them on. As the wagon bounced its way into Eisen, a horribly scarred customs officer wearing an eye patch called out to them, "If you come across O'Toole, tell him that Commandant Fauché has a little gift for him, one that is both sharp and hot and is guaranteed to cure him of piles for life." Jamais' half cocked eyebrow said it all for the travelers' regard for this very strange man! After all, one would have thought that escaping Porté powered nobles might rank more highly on his agenda?

As the Montaigne border disappeared into the distance behind them, Jamais turned to Eduarde.

"Ah, now at last we can truly commence our free start."

Eduarde thought for a moment and replied. "Say not, a free start, Jamais, we have both paid a very high price to reach this day."

Jamais immediately thought of an utterly mind disemboweling response but stopped herself. As she kissed Eduarde instead, she could not help but feel that sometimes there were better things to do with one's tongue.