Guillaume lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. The wood was dark; pitted. Yet it brought him great comfort. He explored its every detail with his eyes, following each twist of the grain and searching every dark cavity.

It stirred memories of his childhood. This was his room, his bed. This was where, for the first ten years of his life, he came to find peace and solace; to escape the world. In those moments it felt as if nothing had changed: he was a simple noble's son with not a care in the world, and all the time to relax.

And yet it made him realise just how much things had changed.

He looked down at the length of his body. At the jet-black tabard with the large red cross above his heart. This was his life now. His world was centred elsewhere, far to the east. It was governed by rules and regularities; routine and order. For the most part he welcomed the structured life. But he could not help but miss such carefree days, away from the boundaries and restrictions of adulthood.

That was another thing. He was different. Any other boy of his age would still be in that relaxed period of their life, but his decision to join the Temple had taken him down a different path. The Temple had changed him, matured him. He had responsibilities now, and he did not have the ability to cast them aside even for a moment. He lived with one hope in mind - that someday, all of this would pay off. For the moment, that day would be the one when he shed the black mantle for the white.

He lived for that day.

In the meantime, however, he would continue with his life of routine and discipline. And on the odd occasion when he was afforded a break from his life - such as now - he would relish every moment.

The bell of the village church chimed in the distance, announcing the eighth hour.

Guillaume closed his eyes and counted. One. Two. Three. Then it came.

From downstairs came a shrill little sound like birdsong, the product of a much tinier bell. It was right on cue.

Guillaume smiled at the familiarity of the odd little occurrence. It warmed him to know that things had not changed in the four years he had been away.

He rolled off the bed and stood up, straightening his tabard with his hands. He then checked himself in the mirror, and turned to leave the room.

The salle à manger of the manor was quite small in comparison to some of those Guillaume had seen within the manors of other lords during his travels. He always found that it made the room more inviting and snug; not brilliant for a stately banquet, but more than adequate for a quiet family dinner. The sconces lining the furnished walls filled the room with a deep warmth which was enough to vanquish the chill of even the coldest of French winters, and which always sent a shiver of delight down Guillaume's spine upon entering. That and the age-old mahogany dining table filling most of the room made this particular chamber the very heart of the de Montpierre household.

As Guillaume went to take his usual place on the centre chair of the east-facing side of the table a great variety of delicious smells assaulted his nose and made his senses tingle. For a second he paused and just stood there, taking everything in.

Then he smiled. He was home.

"Brother."

Guillaume turned. Standing in the doorway was Luc, his older brother, hardly recognisable behind his close-cropped beard. Guillaume's heart soared. He had not seen his brother in four years.

"You're back!"

Luc laughed deeply. "I've been gone a week, little brother. To Paris. Où t'étais passé?" Where the hell have you been?

Guillaume grinned. "I've been busy," he said.

"So I can see," said Luc, eyeing the cross on his brother's chest. "I like the clothes."

Guillaume grimaced distastefully. "Have you ever seen a real Templar?"

Luc smiled. "Perhaps I will, soon." He paused. "Come, brother, let us sit," he said, turning towards his own designated place at the table. Guillaume followed suit.

As the two brothers sat down to face each other others began to enter the room. Guillaume smiled warmly at his mother as she came through the doorway, helped along by Guillaume's uncle François. Close at their heels was a boy of four years, bouncing excitedly on his toes. Catalina, the family nurse, appeared in the doorway last, clearly trying to keep up with the boy.

There was a comfortable silence as everyone took their places.

Then, when everyone was settled, the waiter entered the room with the first platter.

It was perfect. As the evening drove on and the family talked, Guillaume felt more and more at home. Everything was how it used to be. They laughed and cried, remembering old times and recounting new ones. They talked about anything and everything, and it felt natural and warm. At last, the de Montpierres were a family once more. Even if that was to be short-lived.

The family worked their way through dinner, and by the time the bell for the tenth hour struck the table was clear once more. The room seemed dimmer now, as if the increasing weariness of its occupants was subduing the flames. Soon the day would end and they would all retire.

There was a knock at the door.

The room went suddenly quiet. François raised an eyebrow curiously, glancing across at Guillaume's mother. When he spoke his voice betrayed his puzzlement.

"Entre."

The door opened to reveal Pierre, the steward of the manor. He had a troubled look on his face.

"Master," he said, nodding his head respectively. "I am sorry to disturb you on such an occasion, but Guylain has brought you a visitor."

François' face creased with exasperation. "You know we don't accept visitors this late, Pierre. Why have you brought this to me?"

"He said it was a matter of great importance, sire. I was going to turn him away, but..." Pierre frowned.

"Go on," said François impatiently.

"He told me that if you would just agree to see him for a moment... He said he'd wait at the door."

François stared impassively at his steward. Everyone else was silent, glancing between the head seat and the door in anticipation. Eventually, François nodded. He rose slowly from his chair and headed towards the door.

"This had better be worth it."

When he left everything remained still. Guillaume looked across at Luc, who looked back with matching curiosity. Léo yawned sleepily and sank into his chair. Guillaume's mother stared at the door.

Many long minutes passed before the door reopened and François came through. His face was suddenly gaunt; pale. He moved with a slight awkwardness. His voice was blank; emotionless.

"Catalina," he said, not looking at the nurse as she stood up, "take Léo upstairs."

Catalina obeyed instantly, shaking the young boy awake and leading him towards the stairs. They disappeared out of view.

François waited until his son was out of earshot, and then he moved out of the doorway towards his seat. He didn't say a word.

There was a rush of breath as everyone turned and looked at the door.

At the dark figure who stood there, observing them from beneath his hood.

There were many moments of complete silence, before the figure stepped fully into the room and closed the door. Four pairs of eyes remained fixed on him as he did so.

"I expect you're wondering many things."

Guillaume jumped at the voice. It was not the voice of a seemingly middle-aged man, but that of someone much younger. And yet... there was so much wisdom in his tone.

The figure indicated the chair to Guillaume's left. "May I sit?"

He didn't seem to be asking anyone in particular, as in the silence that followed he dragged the chair round to the head of the table, directly opposite where François sat, and sat himself down. He leaned back and placed his hands modestly on his lap, all the while being observed by the family he had intruded upon.

Guillaume's eyes flicked across to Luc as his brother broke the silence.

"Who are you?" he said, anger in his tone. "What did you say to my uncle?"

The figure remained still; composed. Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled back his hood.

Guillaume had been right in thinking that the man was middle-aged. The rest, however, he could not have expected.

The man was blind. His eyes were blank; a perfect, milky white. Yet they were intelligent, wise; somehow seeing. His hair was silver-grey and short, the crop impossibly symmetrical. His face, though slightly wrinkled with age, was otherwise flawless. Not a single scar adorned it.

The man spoke again, and Guillaume was taken aback at how mismatched the voice and its owner should have seemed, but didn't.

"By instruction I go by the name Aquilo," he said, looking at Luc. Guillaume saw his brother shrink back slightly, clearly unnerved by the man's strange gaze.

"What do you mean, by instruction?" asked Luc shakily.

The man - 'Aquilo' - smiled. "That is of no importance tonight."

Luc shook his head. "What did you tell my uncle?" he repeated.

The man's smile vanished, though he did not become serious. "I told him the truth. And I told him what he needed to hear, which is what you all need to hear also."

Everyone's eyes again fixed on the figure. There was an anticipated silence.

"What is that, then?" asked Luc meekly.

'Aquilo' looked squarely ahead, past François at something beyond the wall. His words were calm, though somehow blunt and chilling.

"I told your uncle that his brother, Jacques de Montpierre, is dead."

-----------------------------------

"No."

Guillaume barely heard the word leave his brother's mouth. It echoed in his own mind. No. He was rooted to his chair; every muscle in his body had gone rigid. Every bone in his body began to ache. He stared at the stranger, who sat there so calmly and indifferently. The man could have been his own father, the way he sat there... In his mind Guillaume saw his father's face, the angelic visage he had treasured as a young boy, twist and contort. It was smiling disdainfully; pitifully. How could he have been so foolish, to ever have hoped to see his father again? Flames flickered around it, and it faded away. Guillaume felt cold.

The world was a different place now; far-off, distant. The only thing in existence was that one tiny room. Guillaume was suffocating. His throat was constricting. Despair flooded his mind, and a wild hunger for air, for space. He was trapped. Then he saw his father's face again. And his mind filled with rage. How could he have left? How could he have so callously just abandoned them all? He wanted to tear out his father's eyes, to rip out his throat, so that he could feel the pain he had inflicted on his own family. But that urge suddenly scared him. How could he want that for his own father? He felt suddenly very cold again.

It was like drowning. It was slow and painful, and the sky - the world - seemed very far-off. And yet he was not dying. There was no moment of absolute peace, no moment of blissful release. He would stay here forever, consumed by the pain. Buried under the surface; condemned to live a life of misery and memories.

And then, ever so slowly, the world began to bleed back into existence.

It was like the aftermath of an explosion. Guillaume was dimly aware of voices and movement, but his senses were blurred and dysfunctional. His vision converged on one person, her gaunt face swimming into focus. His mother. Isabel.

Guillaume could not think coherently; his mind was a churn of emotions. For her he felt deep pity and sorrow. She had spoken seldom the past eleven years, ever since Jacques had left. Only God knew if she would ever speak a single word again. Guillaume could not imagine what unfathomable pain she must be going through. It put his own grief into perspective, and he sobered a little.

Next Guillaume became aware of his brother shouting. He could not make out the words, they were too incomprehensible, but it was obvious they were spoken in a fit of rage. Guillaume saw François move over towards Luc, say something about upsetting his mother. Luc would not listen. Savagely he fought against his uncle's grip but to no avail, and he was led flailing from the room.

François returned seconds later, though it could have been minutes or even hours. He moved stiffly across the room and sat down in his chair. He took Isabel's hand in his own.

"Tell us what happened."

They were the first words Guillaume could fully hear, though at the same time the last. The man began to talk. Guillaume did not know what he said, nor did he care. For what now seemed like hours he stared at the pitted table, following each twist of the grain and searching every dark cavity with his eyes. He poured his hope, his ambition into every dark hole. He would never see his father.

That was all that mattered.

Some time later Guillaume became aware that the man had stopped talking. He saw François rise from his chair and move to help Isabel do the same. He guided her carefully to the stairs.

His words drifted slowly back to Guillaume as he disappeared from view. Show the man out.

Guillaume turned his head. The man was staring at him with those blank, all-seeing eyes. Suddenly it felt unnatural to look at him, and Guillaume wanted him gone. He was obtusely aware of himself rising from his seat and taking the man's arm; leading the stranger like a dog towards the door.

The night was warm, but Guillaume shivered. The moon was startlingly bright. The man tried to disengage his arm as he walked through the doorway, but Guillaume held it firmly. Then he let it go. He spied the tattoo on the stranger's wrist as it fell to his side: the outline of an open eye.

Then the stranger was gone. The night was replaced with wood. Guillaume was left alone.

-----------------------------------

Guillaume made his way back through the house to the dining room, navigating by instinct. He passed through the tiny room without a second's thought, the customary shiver of pain sliding down his spine. He located the stairs, and began to ascend.

A minute later he was lying on his bed. His black mantle lay on the floor beside his sword, which had fallen with a dull clunk as Guillaume brushed past.

He stared at the wall.

And then he broke down. Every emotion poured out all at once, a torrent of despair and anger and confusion.

The hot tears cascaded down his cheeks, as the church bell tolled for the twelfth hour.