Valerian had finished his glass of whiskey by the time he made his way over to the window. It had been a celebratory glass, but had quickly shifted into a necessary one as his thoughts went off on a tangent about how he would handle Macmillan. His letters made it clear that he was completely in the dark about the day's events, but Valerian did not want to be the one to reveal them. It wasn't his choice to make. He decided the best course of action was to go along as if it had never happened.
As if Tatiana had never agreed to be his wife, even in the wake of Macmillan's betrayal.
It was dark outside and there was nothing of not to watch, so he'd ambled over to his bookshelf and grabbed out a dusty old book from the farthest corner of the bookshelf. He settled himself back at the window and flipped open the book, and was almost immediately seized by a fit of coughs as a cloud of dust filled the air in front of him. He waved it away, and only then became aware of the little light coming from the yard. He couldn't see anything around it, but there was no mistaking it: it was a wand light.
He took a deep breath and moved from the window. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged it on, and then paused. Did he really want to see Macmillan? The answer was no, of course, but he also knew that refusing to meet him in his yard would make him a coward. He had no reason to hide, anyways; he wasn't a cheater, he wasn't dishonorable, and he wasn't a liar. He'd won the duel, cleared his name, and now Macmillan was the one who should have to answer for his actions. He was in the right.
With his wand raised he apparated into the field, where he was immediately greeted by a gruesome sight.
The bird: dead.
Its feet: too close to where he stood.
Macmillan: looking like he ought to be lying in the hospital.
"What is wrong with you?" he hissed, his nose scrunched in disgust.
As if Tatiana had never agreed to be his wife, even in the wake of Macmillan's betrayal.
It was dark outside and there was nothing of not to watch, so he'd ambled over to his bookshelf and grabbed out a dusty old book from the farthest corner of the bookshelf. He settled himself back at the window and flipped open the book, and was almost immediately seized by a fit of coughs as a cloud of dust filled the air in front of him. He waved it away, and only then became aware of the little light coming from the yard. He couldn't see anything around it, but there was no mistaking it: it was a wand light.
He took a deep breath and moved from the window. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged it on, and then paused. Did he really want to see Macmillan? The answer was no, of course, but he also knew that refusing to meet him in his yard would make him a coward. He had no reason to hide, anyways; he wasn't a cheater, he wasn't dishonorable, and he wasn't a liar. He'd won the duel, cleared his name, and now Macmillan was the one who should have to answer for his actions. He was in the right.
With his wand raised he apparated into the field, where he was immediately greeted by a gruesome sight.
The bird: dead.
Its feet: too close to where he stood.
Macmillan: looking like he ought to be lying in the hospital.
"What is wrong with you?" he hissed, his nose scrunched in disgust.
