Cameron To Candy

The morning mist still clung to the hedges, silvering the air. The Elwood backyard, large and tidy, had a section that had long been flattened into a training patch, one corner for drills, one for weapons, and a makeshift rack of practice shields.

Candy adjusted her training skirt, the hem short enough to move freely but long enough to remain modest, or rather to hide certain aspects of herself. The thin leather leggings beneath squeaked softly when she stretched. It was one of the only times Paddlewick law allowed women to wear trousers, under the training exemption.

Marcus stood opposite of her, sleeves rolled, watching her stance. “Alright,” he said. “Remember, weight through the hips, not the knees. Center foot on line.”

“I am centered,” she said, puffing a strand of hair from her eyes.

He smirked. “Show me.”

She spun into motion, a pivot that was almost too fast, then twisted— tap! The flat of her rod catching his side.

Marcus froze mid-step, his eyes flicked up in startled amusement.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Where’d that come from?”

Candy straightened, grinning. “Guess I remembered it. You said pivot, so I pivoted.”

Marcus rubbed his ribs, still smiling faintly. “Yeah. You did.” His voice softened for half a second.

Over by the fence, Greg had been watching them. He’d planned to spar with Marcus next. Marcus was the better fighter. He was precise, polished, and every move had purpose. Greg was a bit more of a wild card. He was good, but more erratic; however, he had a full five inches on Marcus. The extra arm and leg length made them fairly even on the sparring mat, though Greg won a little over half the time.

“Cam always favored that move too.” Greg thought. He chuckled and said nothing. After watching for a bit longer, he called out, “Not bad, Candy!. Mind if I hop in? The more folks you spar with, the better, yeah?”

Marcus stepped aside, hiding his nerves under calm. “Go ahead. Try not to break her.”

Greg grinned, setting his mug on the fencepost. “Like I could.”

He stepped onto the dirt, rolling his shoulders. “Alright, missy. Show me that fancy footwork.”

Candy smirked. “Missy? Okay, you asked for it.”

They circled, her eyes bright, her steps light. She moved in—pivot, twist, the same motion—and Greg blocked it perfectly, catching her wrist before she could finish.

“Gotcha.”

Candy blinked, startled. “Wait—how did you…?”

Greg laughed, releasing her. “Cameron used to do the exact same thing. Guess it runs in the family, huh?”

“Oh,” she said, searching for a steady voice. “Yeah… I guess it does.”

“Let me guess,” he went on, “your granddad taught it? That pivot-twist thing?”

“Uh… yeah. That’s right.” She managed a smile, letting him role with his own rationale.

Greg winked. “Knew it. Family move. Funny thing, I tried to tell Cam there’s a counter to the counter. Never quite stuck, but I can show you.”

Marcus watched silently, expression unreadable.

“Here,” Greg said, demonstrating. “You bait the parry by rolling your hip first. Get ‘em to commit early, then pivot again, see? Reversal strike. Bam! Simple.”

Candy nodded, but her thoughts were far away. The dirt underfoot, the rhythm of their sparring, it all felt too familiar. The sound of Greg’s boots. Marcus’s low hum of approval. Her own heartbeat racing as she remembered her old life.

Just for a moment, it felt like then. Their youth. Three teenagers, friends, in a backyard, testing each other, teasing each other, no ranks or titles or marriage rules between them. The nostalgia took hold and for a wonderful moment, she felt like Cameron again.

Greg straightened. “You alright? You looked a mile off.”

“I’m fine,” she said, smiling faintly. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he said. “Almost as bad as buying invisible swords.”

Candy frowned. “What?”

He grinned. “I was gonna buy one… but I didn’t see the point.”

Marcus groaned. “Greg, please.”

“Hey, I spar better when I’m funny,” Greg said, shrugging. “It disarms the opponent.”

Candy laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that made Marcus’s heart twist. It was his laugh. Hers now, yes, but it still came from the same place. For the first time in a while, she looked completely alive.

***

Later that night, after dinner, Marcus cleared his throat, fiddling with a slip of parchment. Candy glanced up from the hearth rug. “That’s your ‘I got news’ face. What is it? Are we getting another fine?”

“The ceremony. For my promotion. Banner-Man, Tier Two.” He gave a wry grin. “There’s a little tradition.”

“Oh gods,” she said immediately.

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah. The pip gets placed by a woman of the family. Wife, in this case. You pin it to my collar, and you’re supposed to… uh, kiss my cheek.”

She groaned. “Oh for the love of the gods, Marcus, is that a real law?”

“Uh, technically just a tradition, but it’s the kind where they send you letters if you don’t.”

She stared at him, then sighed, “Fine. But you owe me. Top shelf chocolates. A full box.”

“Deal.”

***

The Ministry drill hall was half-empty, echoing with the scratch of quills and the shuffle of boots. Municipal ceremonies weren’t meant to be grand. just recorded. Sure, they all had a ceremony, technically, but it was a small affair.

Banners hung from the high beams. red and silver, each bearing the Mark of the Rod. A few rows of men stood in trim formation, boots gleaming, collars pressed.

Candy sat in the wives' gallery, her dress shimmered softly in the lantern-light, a pale steel-blue number that Penny had helped her pick out two weeks ago. Penny had called it “tastefully radiant.” Candy had called it “too much.”

Her mother-in-law had sent money, insisting, “You’ll need one for proper occasions, dear. It pays to look the part of a proud wife.”

And here she was, proving her right.

Alyssa had styled her hair into soft cascading waves, pinned with a small silver clasp that caught the light each time she turned. Vivian, steady-handed as always, had applied her makeup with that Paddlewickian restraint. barely there, but enough to elevate.

A touch of eyeliner to widen the gaze. A dusting of rose across her cheeks. Lips with only a whisper of tint. They’d skipped the lashes entirely; she hadn’t needed them. Her lashes were naturally full and lifted, a detail that always seemed to draw too many stares.

And she hated that.

All of it; the primping, the polish, the way eyes lingered.

She’d been looked at before, as Cameron, once in a blue moon, for what he’d done. But this, being looked at for her body, felt like a punishment layered beneath satin..

She did it anyway. Partially because it would be suspicious if she didn’t, but partially for the promised chocolates. And if she was honest maybe a little bit for Marcus, because this was his moment. Because he deserved to have a wife who made him look proud.

But mostly for the chocolates.

Marcus stood at attention as the clerk droned through the names, but his eyes kept flicking toward Candy in the wives’ gallery. She was shifting her weight, smoothing her skirt again and again, her face pink with nerves.

When the clerk called his name, she looked up, eyes wide, then gave a tiny shake of her head, half dread, half disbelief. His chest tightened. He’d told himself this would be quick, harmless, but seeing her now, flushed, trapped under so many stares. She must be hating this. Did he have to worry about what she’d do? Would she be flippant with the wrong person? Would she do the ceremony in a mocking half-assed way? Or would she quietly hate this and take it out on him later? Maybe none? Maybe all of the above. Sometimes it was hard to guess with Candy.

Marcus Elwood’s name was called. “Step forward with your household.”

He inhaled once, straightened his uniform, and offered his arm. Candy rose from her seat in the wives’ gallery and placed her gloved hand upon it.

At the podium, the clerk squinted at his scroll and began in a flat, nasal tone.

“Thank you for your service. In recognition of a steady record and reliable duty, Marcus Elwood is hereby advanced to Banner-Man tier two.”

He paused, dabbed his quill in ink, and added, “Wife, you may pin that cuff.”

Candy’s stomach twisted. She stepped forward, hands trembling slightly as she lifted the small velvet box. The pip was plain brass, stamped with Paddlewick’s sigil, but it felt as heavy as iron in her fingers.

She leaned up on her toes to reach his collar. Fumbled once, nearly pricked him, then fastened it crookedly before straightening it with shaking fingers. Her knuckles brushed the side of his neck, warm and solid.

Then came the part she dreaded most.

The kiss.

She rose again, lips brushing his cheek. Immediately, she felt the rough scratch of his beard scrape her skin, hot against her mouth. Heat from his jaw seemed to cling to her lips, and his scent, soap and leather and the faintest musk, flooded her nose.

Gross. Gross, gross, gross!

She pulled back a little too fast and blurted, “Congratulations, husband.” Her voice cracked on the word.

The applause were light. He bowed and they returned to their seats. Thirty minutes later the ceremony concluded with one last general round of clapping, which quickly thinned into the polite murmur of post-ceremony chatter. Silver trays drifted across the room, teacups clinked, and the smell of varnish and mint filled the air. Paddlewick’s way of celebrating was as restrained as everything else it did — tea, crackers, and conversation in tones polite enough to echo off marble without offense.

Candy followed Marcus through the crowd, her gloved hand brushing the side of his arm before she released it. The room was already dividing itself: husbands toward the banners, wives toward the tables. She stayed with the latter, if only because it was expected.

Marcus leaned close before parting. “Don’t let them trap you in questions. You don’t owe anyone a performance.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But if I hide, they’ll call me timid. Better to stand still and smile.”

He gave her a knowing look, then turned toward the other officers. She exhaled, smoothing the front of her blue dress, then reached for the nearest cup and saucer just to keep her hands busy.

“Excuse me,” said a voice beside her.

A younger wife stood there, dark-haired and bright-eyed, her sash still too new to hang naturally. “Forgive me for intruding, but your husband’s new appointment, Banner-Man Tier Two, wasn’t it? That’s wonderful.”

“Oh,” Candy said, smiling a beat late, “thank you. Yes, it’s… something.”

The woman laughed quietly. “Mine just reached Tier One. He got the news last week. He’s been talking about this nonstop since.”

Candy managed a smile. “Well, he should be proud.”

“Thank you,” the woman said warmly, “it is a worthy accomplishment. Perhaps a bit small by Paddlewick standards, but it’s the kind of thing men relish anyway. My brother talked about his last promotion for months.”

“Really? I didn’t think it was that big a deal,” Candy replied incredulously. “It’s just the civilian emergency ranking.”

“I know, I wouldn’t have expected it either until I saw it,” the woman shrugged, and hesitated before adding, “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but, you are so lovely in that dress. Truly.”

Candy looked down, cheeks warming. “Oh. Thank you. You look very nice as well.”

“You’re kind,” the woman said, returning the smile before she was called away by another cluster of wives.

Candy lingered by the table, tracing the rim of her cup. Her gaze drifted back toward Marcus.

He stood surrounded by officers now, posture straight, calm, dignified. A few clapped him on the back; others shook his hand. One or two wives approached to curtsy politely before retreating again. He tried to look modest, but she could tell, he was enjoying it, in his quiet, careful way. Fighting down the grin, but it kept threatening to escape.

She hated all of this — the noise, the scrutiny, the way everyone watched and measured. But watching him there, she understood. He needed this. Something to look forward to. Some reminder that he was still moving forward, too.

She lifted her cup. The tea had gone cold. Still, she drank it.

She could do this. The dress, the hair, the stares, the quiet envy. All of it. Not all the time, she wasn’t built for that, and never would be, but here and there she’d push through, for him.

The walk home was silent. Candy sulked, muttering once about beard-scratch being “government torture,” and Marcus only smirked faintly, letting it drop.

At their door, she flounced inside, already shrugging out of her sash. “I’m taking a bath. Don’t follow me.”

“As you like,” he said.

When the latch clicked behind her, Marcus finally sat down by the hearth. He pulled the little brass pip from his collar, turning it over in his fingers. The sigil caught the firelight, plain and serviceable. Nothing grand. Just a notch of rank, a sliver of duty.

He should have felt proud. By rights, his wife should have pinned it with steady hands and kissed his cheek with pride. A small, ordinary joy. A memory to tuck away for tougher years.

Instead, Candy had fumbled. Stiff. Panicked. Eyes darting like a trapped bird. Her lips on his cheek had been cold with reluctance.

Marcus swallowed hard. The pip blurred in his sight, and before he knew it he’d wiped at the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand. Just once. Just enough.

He would never let Candy know. For her sake, and for his. Men in Paddlewick weren’t supposed to feel that kind of softness. Not for ceremonies, not for wives, not for anything.

But he couldn’t help it. And it was odd. One might have expected the bigger things to have hit him first. He’d not father children, he wouldn’t have normal sex, he wouldn’t be entering the couples games in the spring. But no. It was the little things he noticed the most. And this little ritual had driven the truth home more than anything else: even the small, everyday little local customs wouldn’t be easy. He would not have a normal life. Not the kind others did. Not the quiet happiness of pride in a wife’s eyes. His “moment” was just another tightrope. Another duty that pressed on Candy until she cracked jokes or winced her way through.

He leaned back in the chair, pip still resting in his palm.

What will she do? Will she explode? Will she quietly hate everything?

He'd spent a lot of the ceremony worrying about what she would do, or how she felt, instead of just enjoying it. The fire popped. He closed his fist around the pin. And alone, he admitted the smallest truth: yes, it made him sad.

Marcus sat there a long while, the brass pip still warm in his hand. He felt the ache rise, but he swallowed it down. That was the part Candy would never see, not because he didn’t trust her, but because he refused to let her carry it.

He would shoulder the sadness alone. Protecting her meant more than standing between her and the Ministry. It meant shielding her even from his own disappointments.

So when Candy finally padded back in, hair damp from her bath, she only found him polishing the pin with a rag, calm as ever.

“Don’t prick yourself on it,” she muttered, curling up on the far side of the hearth.

He smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She didn’t see the tear he’d whipped from his eye. She never would, because Marcus Elwood protected his friend, always, even from himself. He’d do it for her.

***