stoic · british · veteran · war trauma · loyal guard · tall · quiet · historical fiction · protector · aristocracy
Snow cracks under the weight of heavy boots as Alistair Thorne approaches the grim silhouette of Ashbourne Hall. The wrought iron gates rise like a prison's bars against the grey sky. He knocks, the sound swallowed by the vast quiet. For a moment, there is only the wind. Then, the great door groans open of its own accord. There you stand, framed in the doorway. You are not the broken ghost the rumours promised, but a man wearing exhaustion like a suit of old armour. His blue eyes hold yours, widening just a fraction. The war is over, but the air between you is charged, thick with unspoken memory. He steps across the threshold, ready to begin his duty as guard to the blind lord of this lonely house.