TGIF. It’s a Domestic Fringe Fiction Friday, again.
Please be sure to drop by and give her comment love on this glorious summery Friday.
Find below, my entry to the fray. It’s not much, but it’s a start on a story I’m working on in dribs and drabs.
I’m posting it for this Friday and continuing it next Friday. All in the hopes that I may finish it!
Enjoy. 
The Henchman’s Daughter
Unknown photo of a girl who looks just as I picture her.
Captain Forsythe marched forward into the cavernous room illuminated by flickers of candle flames slowly dying in puddles of wax. Tapestries hung beside long stone windows. His footsteps fell with rhythm against the hard floor as he approached the president. The echoes trailed behind him.
President Cardon sat behind a large, black wooden desk. He turned from the window, to smile at the captain of the guard.
It was a fat, bearded smile, framed by a gray face—patched, scarred and mottled from too many battles lost and wars won. His eye gleamed behind the mask of age with all the fire of the predator inside.
“Forsythe, I’m glad you could come.”
“Yes sir, your secretary said you wanted to speak with me. “ He stood at attention, several feet from the desk, staring ahead with a face hung heavy with duty and reverence.
“It is.” The president motioned to a rigid iron seat beside the desk. “Come sit, my friend. I need your advice.”
Henchmen softened, and approached the desk with care. “My advice, sir?”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to you about the storm, and an old sick man we know.”
The president opened a drawer and removed a dusty bottle and two small glasses. Placing them on the table, he filled them with a thick green liquid. “Here.”
“Thank you, sir, but I…”
The president winked and pushed the glass. It slid toward him with waves of emerald threatening to splash over the rim.
The president leaned back in the massive chair. He downed the green syrup leaving only a film behind. “So, how is that daughter of yours?”
“Fine, sir. She’s healthy. You know youth, sir.”
A cough, which started as a laugh, rumbled in the president’s chest and rolled like thunder around the stone walls of the room. “Yes. I know youth.”
He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and spat into it, leaving his lips lined with crimson.
“Youth. They don’t know what they have. They are so ambitious—and stupid.”
“I agree, sir.” Henchmen adjusted his position in the seat. The ironwork dug into his legs. Sweat trickled from his receding gray hair.
“Drink up, Forsythe, don’t make an old friend drink alone.”
He gulped the green liquid. It was thick, and as he swallowed, it caught hard in his throat. His wince was followed by a smile only his lips knew about.
“I’m sitting here, thinking about youth, a dying old man, and a storm.” The president massaged a temple. “These are weighty things, my friend.” He waved his empty glass. “I need medicine to see me through it.”
The captain nodded. “As always, sir, I am your servant and I am here to help.”
“Good.” President Cardon turned back to the window and pointed at the tumbling grey mass of clouds on the horizon. “From here, it is beautiful. I love the raw power of a storm. It reminds me of childhood.”
He stood with the help of a cane. “Some of the boys feared the storms. The thunder would scatter them from the fields and back to their mother’s skirts.” He shook his head. “Not me.”
“You’ve always been brave, sir.”
“Yes, I still love the storms. But, I’m worried about my friend. This may be his last storm.” Again, he turned and winked his remaining eye.
Captain Forsythe shifted in his seat. His mind grew warm and blurred at the edges, but he fought to keep his body rigid as the stone walls of the chamber.
“You know what they called pneumonia once?”
“What?”
“The old man’s friend.”
“Interesting.” Forsythe nodded.
“It was his friend, because it took away his troubles and ended the suffering of old age.” President Cardon shrugged. “My friend is dying. One more storm and he will be lost forever. There’s only one question left, my dear Forsythe.”
President Cardon walked around the desk, circling his captain as his cane thudded against the stone floor in time. “It’s one I want to ask you. And I have to ask you, because you are the one bringing the storm.” He stopped behind Forsythe.
Captain Forsythe craned his neck around to see his president. The man he had fought beside, and protected with his own life for decades. “Storm? How could I?”
President Cardon waved his hand and shook his head.
Forsythe exhaled. “What is that, sir?”
“Tell me what my friend should do.” He swept his arm up, presenting the mountain on the tapestry. “Should he stand on the hilltop, and scream one last time into the wind? Or should he stay home and let the end come to him in his peaceful bed?”
President Cardon placed a massive hand on Captain Forsythe’s shoulder.
Forsythe gazed up into the steely grey eye above him. His mind tumbled down a flight of steps as his heart found itself roasting in a flame. Forsythe looked away. He inspected the tapestry with his eyes, ran over the desk with his imagination, and revisited the battle fields of a youth spent beside his commander. “Was your friend a warrior?”
“Yes.”
He stood, and faced President Cardon. Forsythe straightened his broad shoulders into a perfect T and shook his head in approval. “Then you know what he should do.”
“Yes, I know. I just…” He patted Forsythe’s shoulder and smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you and I were in agreement.”
Forsythe saluted. “Always, sir.”
“Well, then, I guess that’s all of the business we have for today.” The president clasped his hands and then rubbed them vigorously. “May thanks to you, for sharing a drink with an old friend.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Forsythe turned to leave.
“One more thing,” the president called out. “Will my friend be alone when he meets the storm?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Forsythe.”
“I hope so, sir.”
To be continued….
