Off Duty in the Gardens

Colonel Nero did not linger in the great rooms where laughter grew gaudy and the lord’s smile stretched too wide. More often than not, Cecilia glimpsed him at thresholds, on the edges of corridors, a looming shadow that seemed to prefer the silence of doorways to the center of any conversation.

He rarely spoke—never to her, not again in those early weeks—but she began to notice the pattern of his silence.

When the lord’s temper sharpened one afternoon, his words striking like a whip against a hapless servant, she found herself within the line of fire. It felt purposeful, punishing, like a warning to show what awaits those who displease him. Yet, before the tirade could gather speed, Nero appeared in the room, unannounced, as though he had simply wandered in. He leaned against the doorframe with that immovable stillness of his, and though he said nothing, the lord’s tone faltered. The storm that had been aimed at me redirected elsewhere.

Another time, carrying a stack of linen down the back staircase, Cecilia had stumbled on two visiting gentlemen, both flushed from drink and inclined to test their humor on whichever servant passed their way. She braced herself for the usual jeers—until one of them noticed the soldier descending the steps behind her. No words were exchanged, no threats spoken. The sight of his scarred face, the steady, measuring way he watched them, was enough. Their laughter thinned, and they stepped aside, suddenly finding things of greater interest elsewhere.

Always the same—Never an open defense, never a declaration of offense. He would not speak on her behalf, nor rebuke the world aloud. He merely stood there, a sentinel in human form, and the obstacles shifted.

It left her unsure whether he acted with intention or if his presence simply cast a shadow others dared not cross. Perhaps he did not even think of it as protection. Yet Cecilia could not deny the truth—When he was near, she was spared. For the first time, she could feel her shoulders relax at least a touch.

And though he returned to silence as swiftly as he came, she felt a strange comfort in it—that somewhere in this house, where servants were fragile things and lords towering forces, there was one figure who, without speaking a word, had chosen to place himself between her and harm.

Not a friend, not yet. Not even an acquaintance in the ordinary sense. But something quieter. Something sturdier.

An ally.

…

Another day, a new morning—Full of possibilities, as Dmitri would spout, in some sort of flowery prose. The outside air was incomparable to the inside of the manor; it was brisk, fresh, carrying with it the faint perfume of damp earth and clipped roses from the gardens. Cecilia had weaseled her way out of the mansion under the pretense of fetching fresh linens from the carriage house, though in truth, she just wanted a minute of quiet away from the labyrinthian corridors, all so polished that they resounded like a cave system.

Her basket dangled loosely from her arm as she crossed the gravel path, shoes crunching with each step. She let her mind drift, savoring the small reprieve from the scrutiny of the house staff, Lord Olrin, and guests alike.

The sound of a loud, throaty cough made her pause. She peered over the hedge’s edge to see that there, seated on a low stone wall near the property’s pear orchard, was Colonel Nero. His uniform was gone, replaced with dark casual clothes, though the way he sat—rigid, shoulders drawn—spoke of years’ worth of strict routine drilled into his very bones.

“Miss Cecilia,” he said softly, spotting her hesitation. His voice was kind, though hoarse, as if it’d been scraped raw by the war. “Don’t flee on my account. I’d encourage you to find your peace here, if the view would suit you.”

She managed a small smile and stepped closer, resting her basket at her side. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sir. You look like you may want some company, anyway.” Her smile curved into a grin as she added jokingly, “Maybe even as much as me.”

He let out a humorless laugh, eyes fixed on the orchard. The scars along his temple caught the weak light the squeaked through the cloud cover, pale lines against weathered skin. “Company, yes.” He sighed. “But only the sort who won’t ask about medals and battlefields.”

“I wouldn’t know what to ask,” Cecilia replied gently , half admission, half assurance.

Fortunately, that seemed to ease him. He shifted as she took a seat by him on the wall, his hands clasped tight, as though afraid they might shake. “They call me decorated,” he murmured. “Adorned like a hero, as though these ribbons are balm enough for the things I’ve seen. I should be proud, they tell me. I should be grateful I lived.” He clicked his tongue, brow creased as he muttered, “Grateful that I am paraded like a show pony, celebrating bloodshed that killed soil and all who tended it.” His jaw trembled, and his gaze fell to the gravel at his boots. “But all I wish is that it had never happened. I’d rather have stayed home, tilled the fields, lived a quiet life. I’d give every medal back for one year of peace that wasn’t haunted.”

Cecilia’s throat tightened. She did not reach for him—he seemed a man who would flinch from pity—so she spoke instead, soft enough that it might touch him. “No one can fault you for grieving what was stolen. You bore more than anyone should.”

For a moment, the orchard was still, the breeze caught in its branches. His eyes, grey and heavy with sleeplessness, finally met hers. “And yet the world looks at me as though I’ve gained something—Honor. Status. Respect.” He ticked one finger for each item, but his hand fell back to his lap with a pained expression. “But I feel emptied, Cecilia, like I am worse for what I’ve seen, and lesser for what I’ve done.”

She swallowed hard, her own heart pricking with a sorrow that may not have been hers but was shared all the same. “Then let me say it plain, Colonel. You’ve lost peace and time, things you can’t get back, and it was not fair.” She held the man’s gaze, tender yet determined. “But you are still here. And perhaps being here is enough for now.”

His lips curved, not into a smile, but something softer, less burdened. He exhaled, a shuddering breath that seemed to carry with it the weight of his confession. “You speak with more kindness than this world deserves.”

Before she could answer, the distant chime of the manor’s bell cut through the air, summoning her back to duty and under the house’s relentless watch. With a reluctant sigh, she gathered her basket.

“Cecilia,” Colonel Nero said, voice low, prompting her attention easily once again. “If ever you should need sanctuary, you may find it in my company. I cannot promise joy, but I can promise understanding.”

Her chest ached with the truth of it. She gave him one last look and said, “You already do.” And with that, she turned toward the house and set her path back.