Dedication: For Alex/sylum Jim.
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"Uh oh." Was the first thing that came to Blair's mind as he dismissed his class and saw the knot of men waiting near the door, hats tucked precisely under their left arms, watching his students alertly as each one filed out of the lecture theatre.
The three of them, tall, straight backed, grim faced, all had an unmistakable military look about them, despite wearing civilian dress. And the sharp, too pale eyes....flaring nostrils, hair shaved high and tight on each side of their proud heads, up over their ears, no facial hair, gloved hands....they were Sentinels. Could be nothing else.
Blair prided himself on his powers of observation. He was an anthropologist, experienced in field work, archeology, linguistics to be sure, but his first love was people. If he had to pick a title, he would call himself a cultural anthropologist above all else. And cultural anthropologists spent vast amounts of time looking at their subjects, listening to them, and making evaluations based on those observations after wards. But even superficial observation was too much to ignore with these men, the conclusion too obvious to take long, the answer springing to his mind in an instant.
His eyes dropped to their waists. Sure enough, the gleaming curves were there, swords fastened to highly buffed, dark leather belts, polished, heavy, deadly weapons. And not tied into their sheathes. Coats short, not overhanging the blades, not in the way, nothing to stop the smooth movement of hand to hilt to naked steel. Ready to be drawn. Sentinels under orders then. With permission to use deadly force to accomplish it. And they were here, in his Boston classroom. Waiting for him.
Professor Sandburg was a well known member of the Guide Society. A pacifist. He couldn't think of a single reason they might need to bare swords in his presence. Carefully he sorted his papers, stacking them with rather more attention that he would on any normal day, collected his pens, aligning them in a neat row and stoppered his inkwell. The papers he placed in his scuff -sided, once brown carry-all, the leather now so stained and scratched, splashed with years of ink spills, coffee stains, even a dash of whiting bleach discoloring what had once been an expensive gift given on his attaining professorship.
The last student reluctantly filed out, too intimidated to stay and ask Professor Sandburg his usual, post-lecture questions, glancing at the ominous men in awed curiosity, and Blair was suddenly alone with the men. All three were focused on him, he could feel it, without a flicker of doubt, despite the way they looked around the room, tilted their heads listening to things going on far away. He was their primary focus. He had no question. They approached him, slowly. Serious expressions not altering as he buckled his case and finally gave them his full attention, having no other excuse to absorb his concentration.
"Guide Professor Sandburg." The man in the lead said. He did not offer his hand to shake as any man not a Sentinel might. "You are being called to your duty." He held out a sheaf of ivory paper, thick, official, the sides perfectly squared, the massive seal of the Office of the Army-Sentinel/Guide Division blazoned red on the top sheet. A Sentinel standing at alert, a Guide at his shoulder. Intricate, yet simple artwork.
Blair took the pages, set them on the lectern table in front of himself, and looked from face to face. Despite the slight variations in skin color, the fractional differences in height and in body musculature, they were as all Sentinels were, as if they all came from one vast family. Some so alike as to be twins, others brothers or cousins. All tall, steady, slim, strong, classically featured, eyes penetrating, more pale than their coloring would suggest they should be. So a Sentinel with dark skin would have eyes more fitting for a man of far fairer complexion. It gave them all an intensity of gaze that rattled any they turned their full stare onto.
They waited, not saying more, and giving in, Blair turned his own attention to the orders he held, for that is what these papers were. Orders. Detailing him to go with these men, collect his belongings and accompany them to his duty station. A Match had been found. A Sentinel was in need.
Blair felt every drop of blood flee from his head, he smelled the whiff of ozone that preceded a faint. No. Not after all this time. It wasn't possible. Guides who matched did so young. He had been on the roles in Boston since his fifteenth year. He had, and still did, put in his time at the local infirmary and clinic, meeting the needs of the unbonded Sentinels. Now, as he approached his thirtieth birthday.....now, he was called to Match? He shook his head, gripping the edge of the lectern, trying to steady himself, to catch himself before he fell.
Strong, gloved hands caught his elbows, keeping him on his feet. He looked up, his face dazed, he was certain. Blinked. No. it wasn't possible. He had a life here, he had given up the traveling, the exploration and digs, become a lecturer, a professor, started developing ties. He was to be married in six month's time, the Department of Sentinel and Guide Statistics had approved his application....and now...they demanded he leave all of it. And travel to the Northwest Territory. To Cascade. And take up his permanent Guide's duty there.
It was too much. He crumpled into the arms that supported him, the bright day going black.
ne'ichan
A Guide's Duty by neichan