"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
05-08-2016, 09:03 PM (This post was last modified: 05-09-2016, 10:43 AM by The Selection Committee.)
Blazed has been eliminated due to posting after the deadline.
Nixie and Cerva have been eliminated as well. (The committee had a really hard time deciding, all posts were great, and a joy to read)
All three of you will find that when you return to horse form you will remember all of your experiences so vividly that for the next 2 RL weeks you cannot help but speak and act in the most proper and eloquent way possible. Your words will be in the fanciest of forms and your manners will be tip-top.
Royal Notice
You wait with the other selected, some are seated others stand quietly off the to the side. The drawing room, which would usually be filled with light conversation and merriment, was quiet minus the few soft sounds of fabric being straightened or a throat being cleared. The few minutes before the Heir entered felt like an eternity. You look around at the others, they all look nervous save one or two who seem to think that they had already won by the extreme confidence and smug look on their faces. You wonder what they must have done on their date to have such confidence, what they knew that you did not. Your date was one of the first to occur and you know it is entirely possible that the others had better dates or that you had faded into the background. Your mind wanders to all the insecure and unsure nooks of your mind and your nerves begin to soar. Your stomach drops and your heart secures itself in your throat and no amount of swallowing will bring it down. The infinitely long minutes finally ends when Francis enters the room and everyone stands.
The Heir scans the room smiling, though the smile has a small pinch to it, showing the heir’s own nerves. ”Please, everyone sit, the formality is not necessary here.” The heir is trying to make this light, but it is obvious, to you at least, that Francis is uncomfortable and may even feel bad about the elimination. There is a pause as everyone returns to their chairs and couches, and without a further pause Francis continued, “Deciding wasn’t easy, and keeping true to myself, the duties of my position, and to our nation’s needs was hard to balance. My father told me we were finding a ruler within the selected. It’s more than that though, as the winner will not only be a ruler but my spouse. I enjoyed getting to know each and every one of you. I hope you will remember that.” Francis announced 3 names, and with each name your heart flutters, with a moment of panic and then a small sigh of relief when it is not you. You want to rejoice in your advancement but you hold it in, as the three announced exit their rooms to gather their things and depart the palace. Francis leaves after congratulating those of you left as a whole, and with that you all are escorted back to your chambers.
_______________________________________________________
Weeks pass, and there had yet to be another elimination. You have grown even more fond of Francis as the time has passed. You have been on a few more dates and had infinitely more conversations, some short and in passing as you run into each other in the halls, other deep and connecting during time alone. There is obviously a connection between the two of you but you have seen moments of connection between the Heir and some of the other selected as well. The majority of your time has been spent with your court assigned tutor. Since you all are not just here on some courting competition, they have demanded that you learn the full history of Illea, the full duties of all the members of the royal court, the members of the courts that make up Illea's alliances, their alliances' histories, then there are the etiquette lessons, the social engagements (because this is more than just for the Heir, it’s a national campaign to improve relations between the royals and their people), and the dancing lessons. You assume the delay in elimination is due to the fact they( the king, the selection committee and Francis) were watching for who could handle the intense schedule and requirements the royal family had.
Somewhere in there though, you have come to love the bustle of the palace, the business of it all. It seems to fuel you, knowing that each day had a task (or twenty) that had to be checked off your list. It helps distract you from the fact you see Francis leave on a date with another while you are whisked off for some meet and greet, or to a lesson with your tutor. Others don’t seem to handle it as well, there are moments of tension and tears for many of the selected and you suspect an elimination should be right around the corner. Today, everyone is in one of the many day rooms listening to one of the historians go on about the background of Thurick, a strong ally of Illea. It is normal, or well what has become your normal... at least until there is a terrible crash that shakes the walls and startles many into shrill screams. Sirens sound and instantly soldiers are running in the halls and outside on the grounds. The Resistance has risen, and the palace is under attack.
Questions? PM: The Selection Committee or post in Connect
Prompt
Here is where your stories my split, you have 2 options, you may only pick 1. You will have the option to change your choice later in the Quest.
1) Be true to the kingdom: You may go hide, fight or both. You must encounter 2 but no more than 3 rebels, they have knives, swords, or other hand combat weaponry (no guns) -- how do you fight back/ escape? You are not equipped with any weaponry but you could potentially find something if you keep your wits about you. Make sure to describe where you are in the castle and where you go as you fight/hide. You must be injured in this attack- nothing too big, no broken bones, but cuts needing stitches, sprains, strains, abrasions are all fine. At the end of the post, you know that the rebels did not succeed in their ultimate mission of killing the King and Queen. They were chased out by the soldiers and guards. You were ushered back to your room as soon as possible, and you have no idea if Francis is ok.
2) Be a Rebel Sympathizer: You originally came to court to get an inside look at the Palace and the Heir, your end goal was/is to get a someone from the resistance on the throne to force the change that was needed. You may or may not agree with the violent facets of the resistance but you are one of them just the same, so you help them. How do you aid them without getting caught? How do you explain your way out of suspicion when you are found by guards? You must encounter 2 but no more than 3 guards. You do not have any weaponry on you, but if you keep your wits you could find surely find something (hand combat only tools only, no guns). Make sure to describe where you are in the castle and where you go as you fight/aide. You must be injured in this attack- nothing too big, no broken bones, but cuts needing stitches, sprains, strains, abrasions are all fine. At the end of the post, you know that the rebels did not succeed in their ultimate mission of killing the King and Queen, and you somehow were not found out. The invading rebels were chased out by the soldiers and guards and you were ushered back to your room as soon as possible. However, your feelings for Francis are real and growing, and you have no idea if Francis is ok.
All posts are due by Thursday, May 12 at 4 PM EST
Helpful Info
# Remember this is NOT interactive, your story is yours alone, and nothing you do affects anyone else’s quest.
#The Heir may still be Frances for a girl... we just simplified for the majority in the prompt.
# You may power play servants, soldiers, rebels.
# You may write in small interactions with the Heir but the day of the attack you should have no idea where he/she is or if he/she is ok
#Your post should end at the end of the day after the attack in your room, all alone.
#As always, please contact The Selection Committee with any questions.
What was the phrase the old women whispered, when they stood at the market center and spread their vicious gossip? Besra looks around her, the realization finally settling in. This was a pit of vipers who’d not been fed for quite some time. Narrowed eyes and tight-lipped smiles, forked tongues and low hisses. The fun for them had just begun, but for her - oh for sweet, unsuspecting Besra - the terror becomes all too real. Here she was, surrounded by the noble-born daughters of Lords and Ladies and who was she but a country girl? Miriam has drifted over to her, no doubt sensing the tension, to wind her long, pale fingers through Besra’s tanned hand and together they watch the main door swing wide, Francis waiting in the impending dark just outside.
Suddenly, she remembers what it was that the old women prattled on about. Ignorance is bliss, they would say, weathered hands gnarled around baskets of linen and common goods. Until this moment, Besra’s never given it a thought and perhaps that makes her all the more guilty for standing here like a foolish twat while her own people struggle to make ends meet. “Please, everyone sit…” Francis begins, and the assembly calmly gathers themselves to benches, chairs, and stools. He’s kind, even though the lie is the written clear across his face. He’s not been prepared fully for this moment and Besra could see that, maybe the other’s could too.
There’s a tug on her hand - Miriam’s been called. In confusion Besra rises with her, head shaking in disbelief. “Sit down.” Miriam whispers firmly, breaking their grasp on each other. “Besra be strong, you’re smarter than the rest of these pretenders.” She says, leaning in to wrap her arms around the blue-eyed girl in a brief, yet genuine embrace. They pull back, both wordless but understanding before Miriam gathers herself to exit the castle, head high while her flaming hair undulates behind her. It’s terrifying to watch her and the others leave, now here she was, empty-handed and silent as Francis gave a formal congratulations to those remaining. What kind of world was one where no one could be trusted?
It’s not a world she enjoys very much at the moment.
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With the elimination comes changes, though. The remaining have been re-located to private chambers, their numbers small and intimate. They settle into a routine of sorts: breakfast after dawn, exercises and lessons before lunch, court duties and social etiquette preceding dinner, and then, only after they’ve finished their meals properly, did they have a few hours of precious daylight to spend as they chose.
Besra is a slave to her abstractions. Her mind is like a bottomless well, parched of water for so long and now filling rapidly with any sort of information she can get her hands on: Languages, the great battles of the past, foreign countries and whether they excelled in exports or imports. It becomes like a retreat for her, those last hours of daylight where she can scour the library and uncover long-forgotten tomes. It’s not long until someone else takes notice, either. There comes a late evening when the light slants through the thick-paned windows and Besra is interrupted by a cough.
It’s one of her tudors, Lord Winston, or as everyone else knew him: manager of coin for the crown. Besra smiles in welcome, rising from her seat and putting aside a weathered book before curtsying lightly. He seems pleased by this, hands hidden behind his back while he bends his neck in a familiar bow. “Lady Besra,” He begins, striding forward to gaze down at her with a keen eye, “surely there are other activities that hold your interest?” He says, questioning stare turning away from her to wander about the terribly empty room.
“Just Besra, please. I’m no Lady.” She tells him, following his eyes. “And you’ve no cause for concern, Lord Winston. I have many things that interest me, but none quite as alluring as these books.” She offers, hoping it will suffice as an answer to her separation from the other girls. His eyebrows betray him, one quirking rather precariously up into the wrinkles of his forehead before he reveals that he's gripping a parchment letter, still sealed. “You may very well not be a lady yet, but someday that could change.” He tells her as she takes the letter, watching her reaction. She flips it over; the handwriting unmistakable. It’s from Rury.
A nervous chill runs along her spine but she tips her chin up, brief smile fading over her face. “I should be so lucky.” She tells him, hands falling to her side though the weight of the letter in her hand feels like it could drag her to the center of the earth. Lord Winston only nods, satisfied with her answer. He turns to go but pauses as if he’s forgotten something, turning back to Besra with a concerned look. “It would do you well to get out, My Lady. A breath of fresh air always puts things into perspective for me.”
She widens her smile, nodding graciously until he’s shut the grand door behind him before collapsing into a chair, fingers grasping for the seal to break it and tenderly unwrap the gift that was her friends doing. The words are so familiar she could kiss them; that scratchy, sideways lettering and rushed thought process. Her fingers trace their loops, their curves, and she presses the letter to her heart, closing her eyes to picture his face. Sweet Rury, holding true to his word. With a sigh she releases her grip on the parchment and sets it upon her lap, smoothing the creases she’d made in her excitement.
Besra,
I struggled to write this damn letter more times than you would ever want to know, so be gentle in your thoughts of me when you read it.
I miss you, firstly. Your parents and your sister miss you, secondly. Baby Vlinder isn’t much of a baby anymore. She’s sweet, much sweeter than you ever were, but smart like you. Said her first word the other day - Rosy it was, if you believe it or not. Point is, it’s not the same without you flouncing around. In fact, nothing is the same. I’m not sure what they have you doing up there in the Castle, but be lucky you’ve missed out on what’s happening out here in the real world. People are starting to want answers but they’re not giving us any, only raising the taxes. I can’t help but wonder what strain this extravagant ‘selection ceremony’ is putting on the kingdom. Father had to trade hand-tailored clothes for good meat yesterday... It’s not right.
But ignore me. You usually do.
I hope that you’re happy and well-fed and that despite everything, you’ll come back to me whole and still with some affection in your heart for us common folk. I may not be an Heir or have any royal clippings to my name whatsoever, but I know (try as you might to deny it) that somewhere you love me. I could see it every time you looked at me and I want you to know that I will never, ever, lose faith in you. Even if you never choose me, or you cast off the place that was never big enough for your wandering mind, I’ll still be here to dry your tears and love you like no Prince ever could.
I have, and always will be, faithfully yours.
~All my love,
Rury
P.S. - Try not to miss me too much, we may be seeing each other sooner than you think. And do me a favor, keep both eyes on that dashing Francis for me.
The ending makes her laugh and that’s when she realizes her cheeks are wet. How long has she been here? Wrapped up so selfishly in her thoughts and dreams of marrying the Heir that she’s forgotten Rury, her family? It makes her sick to think of how concerned he’s been for her while she’s been off taking riding lessons and stuffing herself on three square meals a day. How far she’d fallen, and so quickly. Besra dries her tears and rises from her seat, contemplating the riddle of his goodbye. Seeing him sooner than she thought? What did he mean by that? The way Lord Winston greedily eyed the letter didn’t help. With solemn regret she turns to the dying half of a fire, bending low to deposit the paper into its embers.
Slowly, she watches the way the golden flames lick up the side, eating away at the ink and the double-meanings until they’re nothing but ash.
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Surprisingly, she takes Lord Winston’s advice, trading history for afternoons in the stables. Her riding improves in the following days, but Rury’s letter runs rampant through her mind. His father bartering clothes for food? Why hadn’t they been informed of this in the Castle? Those people were her people. Starving, frantic, agitated in the hundreds of thousands. She finds it hard to believe that news of the unrest has been kept at bay. Or maybe, she’s been too blind to see it this whole time. It irritated her to think she’d been a pawn through the entire ordeal, kept only for something that the low-born people could hold on to as hope. “Look,” They’d gossip on the square, “if one of us can make it onto the throne, then we may just find a voice for us in the capitol.” Besra can picture it now, so vividly that she throws her brush aside in a rash show of anger. What would they think, those countless people, if they could see her now? Taking leisurely strolls and learning to curtsey to the many fancy Lords and Ladies.
She wishes, more than anything, that she had Rury here. Or counsel from her parents. Anything at all to guide her in the right direction. A sound rises up from the lower castle walls - a single howl, soon followed by several more. Besra smiles, knowing it’s been far too long since she’s had the comfort of a wet tongue against the back of her hand. She knows her way there by now - Francis had been eager to show her the newborn pups on their last outing. He’d cradled a little spotted pup to his chest and asked her to name it and she’d obliged, blissfully happy in the memory.
His name was Ruckus and he lunged at the gate for her when she strode through. “He remembers you.” A voice says, causing her head to snap around in surprise. “Francis! You scared me.” She breathed, one hand pressed to her diaphragm in surprise. He was some feet back, bent over in the shadows of a corner on a stool. An empty bottle clatters across the floor when he rises and it takes her only a second to discern that he was, indeed, rather drunk. She’s a bit shocked - she hadn’t supposed he’d like the drink so much and she wouldn’t have pegged him for a lonely drunk at that.
“You’re crocked.” She accuses, watching him struggle to shuffle over to her. He gives up about halfway, posting against a support beam. Ruckus is whining at the gate but Besra’s forgotten him in the moment. Francis waves his hand jaggedly through the air, sweeping away her words with nonchalance. “I’m picking my next wife while my country scavenges for food and plots against my father.” He tells her, drawing a flask from his hip to try and undo the top with dumb fingers. Besra reaches across to snatch the case, twisting open the lid before pulling back a swig herself.
“Good point, but it’s not your country yet.” She coughs, face contorting with mild disgust. God he had a heavy tongue. He’s taken aback, silent as she extends the flask to him but he accepts it anyways, pulling a lopsided smile at her boldness. “So you know then?” He asks, nodding slowly before sipping at the dark liquid. “Everyone around here is all blah blah keeping appearances, and settling the common folk - whatever that means.” He says, turning his back to the beam so that he can slide into a sitting position on the floor.
Besra looks at him - really looks at him - and feels a hint of sympathy. She grabs a bucket, flips it over and takes a seat near him, the two switching the flask from hand to hand. “And here you are, facing the problem head on.” She mutters, a hint of disgust leaking into her tone. Faster than she would’ve given him credit for, his head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “You think that if I had any semblance of real power I’d be down here with the dogs, drinking away my troubles?” He spits, shaking his tousled head. “My father gambled away, wasted money on tourneys and horses, and let my mother run rampant with our expenses and now it’s up to me to either marry rich, or marry in hopes that the people won’t rise up against us.”
Besra’s shocked, it’s obvious by her round, stupefied stare. This whole ordeal had been a sham, right from the beginning. It wasn’t true love or kind-hearted intentions that had brought her, but a political maneuver to let some of the lucky, few, low-born citizens get a glimpse of the castle before returning to their true lives so that they could spout amazing things about the royal family. Besra had never been more repulsed in her life. She can feel the urge to retch at the back of her throat but she swallows instead, watching Francis take another plentiful gulp. “Don’t worry, I loathe myself too.” He mumbles, head lolling to one side limply.
Soundlessly, she rises from her seat, righting the bucket and picking it up to take it to the water trough. She fills it, turns back to where the Heir apparent lays sprawled on the ground, and dumps the contents over his head. It sprays them both and he’s not expecting it so he jumps to his feet, roaring his displeasure. “WHAT THE HELL?” He yells, wiping bronze curls from his eyes. Besra throws the bucket aside, fury consuming her. “You’re nothing but a spoiled rotten brat who doesn’t deserve the crown if all you do is sit down here and slowly turn into your father while your people starve!” She yelps, voice rising to match his. “You have the chance to make things right and you’d rather fall on your ass and play the pity card.”
She’s done with him. With a muffled scream she tightens her jaw and clenches her fist, turning around to fling open the pups kennel and gather Ruckus in her arms. Blast him if he thought she was going to keep the poor thing down here with a sorry sop like him. Francis is spitting dirty water out of his mouth but he’s not said anything, even though what she’s done is punishable by death. Fear replaces her anger and she knows that she can’t take back her rash actions, she’d been too hot-headed, too stupid. The kennel gate clicks shut and she turns to leave, scared to face him. “Besra wait!” Francis calls, but she’s out of the kennel with Ruckus in hand, racing over the lawn and up into the castle before he can catch her.
Out of breath she returns to her room, slamming the door and locking it behind her before turning to collapse on the floor. Ruckus bounds from her arms to wander the room and leave her in peace to contemplate what she’s done. Night descends and Besra knows she’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.
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Tomorrow comes, but there’s no one to come and throw her out. Breakfast passes as usual even though she feels at any moment someone will descend upon her and throw her in irons. Ruckus is still in her room when she returns right before lessons - the maids having taken quite a liking to his rambunctious nature. She gives him leftovers, changes into a casual, pinstripe dress and heads back to the common area for lessons. Francis is waiting in the hallway, leaning deftly against a low table. “Besra.” He calls to her, eyes downcast. She almost wants to ignore him but she knows she’s in hot water, so she meets him calmly instead. “Francis I -” She starts, but his hand rises to silence her. “I owe you an apology.” He tells her calmly, fixing his hair. “You were right, last night.”
She could laugh but she doesn’t, instead choosing to take the high road. It’s obvious by the strain on his face that he wasn’t used to this. Her hand rises, fluttering above his as if to grab it and then a door slams, stopping her in the act. A woman, the same dark-haired witch that had given her a hard time with her necklace, strides down the hallway to link her arm into Francis’. He turns to her, smiling broadly before looking back at Besra with a nod. The tight-lipped female at his arm beams before turning to stare at Besra. She sniffs and the two turn to traverse away from Besra and the hallway, whispers causing them to lean in close to one another.
Besra only sighs, heading to her lesson. They learn of Thurick, a strong ally to the south of Illea. Thought of as a more ‘wild’ country, what Thurick lacked in diplomacy they doubled in natural resources. Her mind begins to wander and then suddenly, there’s chaos. The doors to the lecture hall slam open, everyone turning in surprise to look at a disheveled O’Brien. “To your rooms girls!” She heaves, eyes wild with fear. In the hallway, a crash resounds and the girls are suddenly frantic, gathering themselves into a flock to patter down the back corridor to their chambers. Besra, pushed along with them, tries frantically to look around. Behind them, the noise grows louder until it crashes over them like a wild cacophony of mayhem. “What’s going on?” She asks Ms. O’Brien, pushing her way to the front of the group.
The scornful woman hesitates with an answer, stopping at the end of a hallway to peer around another corner. She turns back to look over her shoulder, contemplating what to do. “A rebel attack.” She tells her finally. “Get to your room, lock your door, and wait there for someone to come and retrieve you.” With a wave of her hand the girls come around, racing down the empty hallway to do as she bid. Besra slams her door behind her, hands shaking as she turns the lock. Where was Francis? Ruckus! She turns around and standing in her room, puppy firmly in the crook of his arm, is Rury.
“Missed me?” He says, dropping the puppy on the coverlet gently before striding across her room to gather her firmly in his arms. Besra is powerless against him, weak as he runs his strong fingers through her golden hair. He’s smiling, the expression lighting up the corners of his wild green eyes and she simply can’t push him away or tell him to stop. Against her will, her arms wrap around him and suddenly her head is buried in the crook of his shoulder, body shaking with a mixture of fear and happiness. He strokes the top of her hair, chuckling at her reaction. Through his thin shirt she can feel how lean he’s become. “Why are you here?” She asks him as she pulls away. “To see you, mainly, but also because I need your help.” He tells her, grasping her gently by her shoulders to hold her stare. “You have to take me to the King’s chambers. This has to end.” He pleads, letting her think for a moment. Besra doesn’t need to think though, she’s seen all she needs to see and she’s made her choice. “Follow me.” She tells him, turning around to unlock the door and lead him back through the castle. The King’s quarters are near the rear of the estate and they make their way quickly and quietly, trying hard to avoid guards. Through the kitchens and past the banquet hall and then they’re in the hallway, peering around a corner to see the doors and the guards outside of them. Rury holds her back, waiting for something. A shout comes from the end of the hallway and a man attacks the guards, flinging himself at them with a sword. A distraction - and a good one. He draws them away from the door and Besra and Rury rush to try and break the lock.
A hand curls over her shoulder and whips her around. The distraction didn’t last long enough, it would seem. The guard's hand flies to his hip as if to strike Besra down, but Rury is faster. He pulls a knife and presses it to Besra’s throat, holding her against his chest as a shield. “Not so fast.” He tells the guard, and the man in armor hesitates. The two back slowly away, rounding the corner again until the guard is out of sight. Rury releases her, breath coming quick and eyes darting around him. He’s out of time. With a longing glance in her direction he yanks her to him, pressing his lips against hers before breaking the contact. “Sorry about this love.” He whispers.
Stars swarm her vision and then everything goes dark.
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When she awakes, Ms. O’Brien is at her bedside, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. “There there dear, easy now.” She whispers, taking the cloth away to sit instead by Besra’s side. “You received quite a blow.” She says, watching Besra’s fingers fly to the gash above her left eyebrow, near her temple. “Not to worry, it won’t be permanent.” She smiles, patting Besra’s hand. “You were so brave, keeping your calm as a hostage when those savage ingrates stormed the castle. The royal family is indebted to you.” She tells Besra.
This can’t be right, can it? Besra helped Rury, didn’t she? It’s hard to remember exactly what happened, her head’s so fuzzy and the events seemed to happen so fast. He must’ve lied to them then. Did that mean Rury was a prisoner now? Worry freezes her thoughts and Besra turns to the madame, genuine concern in her eyes. “And Francis?” She asks, knowing that she can’t mention Rury without it seeming suspicious. “Is he alright?”
Ms. O’Brien seems happy to hear the questions but she pauses, taking a moment to gather her breath for a reply. "None of that, you need your rest." She tells her, tucking the sheets at her feet before leaving her alone in her room with only Ruckus for company.
05-10-2016, 08:44 AM (This post was last modified: 05-10-2016, 10:21 AM by Kirin.)
you're metophorical gin and juice so come on give me a taste of what its like to be next to you
It is hot but the palace staff has thrown the windows open in hopes of coaxing the gentle, if nonexistent breeze from the grounds. Kirin sits, silver-hazel eyes staring through the palace historian as he drones on and on about one of Illea’s allies, Thurick. Select pieces of the allied realms history lesson grab his attention, particularly points on the territories legion and a few about their agriculture as well. For the most part the monotone speech is a bore and it is apparent on the faces of others gathered in the day room that they feel much the same. Well, that is save for one or two that eagerly hang on each word that falls from the stiff man’s lips, his thin mustache twitching as he speaks.
Lately, palace life has been a blur, a welcome blur but a blur nonetheless. Every day is filled with a mile long task list and every day Kirin dutifully performs all that is asked of him. Not only does he do as asked, he finds himself wanting to do as asked. All these chores and lessons are the only things keeping him tethered to the competition at hand. If one thing is for sure Kirin wants the throne, he wants the glory and the riches- and believe it or not, he also wants the girl. With the girl comes the power and Kirin could do wonders with that kind of magic, now couldn’t he?
All the time they have been spending together lately only cements this fact, each date they have seems to provide more assurance to the lavender haired man- more confidence. Before long Kirin himself is looking the part, he is acting the part, speaking and carrying himself as one of noble blood would do. This he does with a charming smile and a glint of fire in his eye, each time he steals a kiss from the Heir his blood is left on fire, boiling for all things to come. Countless are the times he has imagined deflowering the woman because he can only speculate that the Heir to the throne would be nothing more than a virgin. This prospect only adds to the allure of gaining the Kingdom, ruling the people and having the beautiful caramel skinned beauty at his side.
For all this gain he must endure and endure he would, make no mistake that he was in this for the long haul. What more could he want in life?
A resounding crash shakes the walls, the seat beneath him trembling and pulling him from his reverie back into the present. Gasps and screams from others (particularly the women) echo about the large room, shocked by the noise and violence of the occasion, several fragile items fall from tables landing with a shatter against the floor. Grabbing the arms of his chair Kirin steadies himself, looking around the chaos with eyes wide but curious all the same. To be true this was the most excitement they had had in days and his first thoughts conclude that this is the beginning of some sort of extravagant task. Moments later sirens sound, splitting the air with their wailing calls and assuring Kirin that this was no drill.
They were under siege, the palace, this palace, now. He could not help the giddy feeling that bubbled in his stomach as he came to terms with what exactly was happening. This was marvelous, this was well overdue and Kirin had pent up aggression to spare. Guards flood the halls, and from the windows he can see that regiments are pressing into the yard as well, armor glistening in the heat of the day. As the tall man stares down out into the manicured grounds another group of soldiers usher themselves into the day room, calling for arms or hovering over frightened contestants and servants alike. Another crash sends Kirin sprawling, tumbling over an ottoman and spinning out over the carpets as he comes to a stop. Glass tinkles to the floor from the shattered windows, and makes crawling under a table for shelter from debris a precarious endeavor.
As he scuttles along the floor his clothing snags on sharp, uneven shards and once or twice he winces as the material gives and his flesh parts. A few superficial cuts to his thighs and his elbows and forearm, nothing to write home about but it pulled a frown to his lips all the same as he then sucked in air. “Damn it,’” he breathes, taking cover beneath an oak table and gaining his bearings once more. Around him both contestants and soldiers and servants scramble, some are seeking cover, some are rallying others to the fight and still others just want the hell out of this room. Regardless of the hysteria, Kirin has to decide what he is doing next, to help the castle of course, he can’t lose everything now. Step one is probably to get out of this room, he was doing no good under his table-sheild and there certainly were not any weapons with which to fight.
Deciding that he too must break free of the day room, Kirin pulls himself up from under his bunker, darting for the door and pushing aside a wide eyed blonde contestant in the process. Soldiers are already doing what they can to assist others to a safe room below, those that can not or will not fight. One such soldier seizes him by the arm, pulling him towards the frantic group and Kirin recoils with a firey glare to his gaze. “No, I want to fight, I have to make sure Frances is safe.” Without considering he wrenches his arm free, pulling away from the war-hardened hand and running into the hall heedless of the soldiers directions. They wanted to round him up like cattle with the others, tuck him away like some sally-girl that couldn’t hold her own, too bad.
Particles of brick and mortar fill the air and to shield his eyes Kirin raises his forearm to his brow, the cuts from earlier are already leaving bright blotches of red against his clothing. With his free hand he brings a fist to his pouty lips, hacking into the tight ball as the dust irritates his passageways. Around him the battle is in full force, rebels grapple with armed soldiers and with their sheer numbers they are overtaking a few without incident. Along the ground there are bodies, some long gone from this world and others choking for their last breath between dark blood that bubbles from their twisted mouths. With luck there are several swords, knives, shields, maces, and axes lying around- arms lost or fallen during the fight along with their masters. A suitable dagger catches his eye and as he is trying to jostle it free from a dead man’s grip, another rebel is charging him, a war cry on his chapped lips.
Kirin is barely able to wrench the long-dagger from the dead man’s hand in time, thrusting it with a snarl into the raging rebel’s gut. With a twist he smiles, sinking the blade in deep until his thumb is touching hot flesh and wet blood, growing damp and slick as the raised sword clangs to the ground from the limp grip of his enemy. “The element of surprise is not your strong suit I see,” the lavender-haired man drawls, ripping the blade free and pushing the stiffening body to the floor with the other fallen. From the departed Kirin takes what he can and quickly. In addition the the long-dagger (or is it a short -sword?) he finds a pair of iron bracers, and a leather corslet, both of which he puts on in haste.
Another corner brings a new hall, one with a wirey rebel hacking at one of the castle staff who is also scarcely at arms. Armed with an axe the freedom fighter swings in great arcs as he brings his weapon down over and over again against a wide shield that the castle dweller barely managed to raise. The crash of metal on wood is sickening and the resulting splinter of wood brings about the hired helps untimely death as Kirin rushes to take up where the other left off. Using his bracers he deflects the axe, dodging the heavy swings that grow noticeably heavier as the man half-heartedly continues. Muscles aching as the pretty, lavender-haired man dances away, this is why Kirin had chosen his weapons carefully. For one he had little experience with weapon wielding, heavy long swords and axes and halberds were not meant for the inexperienced. He had left the great shields alone as well, along with the majority of iron armor, he didn’t want to be weighted down, choosing instead to rely on free and easy movements.
Using the others momentum, Kirin strategically steps to the side, leaving the rebel’s forward motion to bring him unfortunately close to the sharp blade of his dagger. Thrusting upwards as he side-steps, the iron blade makes contact with the other man’s tricep, digging a red trench into the muscle and sending the heavy axe tumbling from his grip. This however, does not seem to be enough to stop him, rage filling his eyes as he spits curses at Kirin’s pale face. Bulling forward, the rebel knocks aside Kirin’s one weapon, dragging the soft-faced boy to the ground to pummel him deftly on the jaw, before turning his strikes to the ribs and stomach.
Each blow is only fuel to the fire of Kirin’s mad mind, dragging the devil from the pits of his soul to exchange blows as he topples end over end with the man. When once again he finds himself straddling the enemy, he reaches his hands to his throat, clenching down against the windpipe and digging his fingers in to keep grip. Of course there is struggle, the others fingers digging desperately into Kirin’s iron bracers with his nails, trying to gain leverage and flailing his legs as if it will somehow return the oxygen to his lungs. In the end he submits, glassy eyed and mouth wide as he tried to gasp for air. His lips had turned a bruised shade of blue and for a moment Kirin just stared at the lifeless face, admiring the frightened twist that was now forever cemented into its features.
With heaving chest the lavender-haired man rises, dusting his pants and looking around once again that the escalating disturbance that wracked the castle. Deciding that he should continue making his way downstairs and into the yard into the heart of the fight, Kirin continues his trek down the hallway, checking doors as he goes. Mostly there is nothing save for the empty quiet that somehow sustains through the shouts and crashes of the siege at hand, reaching the stairs those too are deserted and the noise only increases as he goes. Before Kirin can make it to the yard he must first pass through the formal dinning hall, a room that he finds occupied upon entry. Two men ransack the room, tossing tapestries and paintings to the floor where they are then pulled to shreds. When they are not destroying the place they are pilfering cutlery, the gold and silver and one even snatches a crystal goblet to stuff into a knapsack at his side. Upon seeing Kirin the tension builds, like a two rabid dogs corned in an alleyway.
The first man even snarls as he progresses forward to slash at Kirin with a steak knife that he has obviously picked up within the room. The other circles, walks a crescent shaped line that he will surely pounce from if his buddy is in need. Our contestant must simply do the best he can, bracing himself for the widening slashes of silver that shine against the fluorescent lights. Each motion is a frenzy and quickly Kirin snatches an embroidered tapestry throwing it over the advancing rebel, and shoving him away momentarily blindfolded as he is. Contestant number two springs from the sidelines, and Kirin knows that face, it is Arthur the tailor brandishing a long-sword that causes Kirin to hop like a jackrabbit out of the way. One such leap catches his foot on the rug, sending him sprawling towards the table, his dagger one way, his body another, and shattering a serving tray into awkward jagged pieces. Thankfully he is not the only one that is subject to the unintentional booby-trap, and Arthur falls forward as Kirin rolls snatching a broken piece of tray and shoving it into the man’s ear.
Screams fill the room, growling, injured bear screams as Arthur clutches the side of his head forgoing catching his landing with his arms and smacking his forehead on the polished oak table. By now fighter number one has untangled himself from the tattered tapestry, shouting a battle cry and several things like, turncloak, coward, traitor, as he grabs for Kirin and stabs him in the exposed, upper forearm with his knife. Of course Kirin is just a man and still subject to things like pain, snarling in anguish as his eyes find the blade still lodged within his flesh. A murderous glare takes hold of his eyes, a ripple of fire present in their depths as he clenches his jaw and yanks the blade from its sheath of flesh. The man’s hands around his throat have barely registered against the adrenaline that takes him, though he now takes note that he has been gasping against the attempted strangulation. He locks his eyes on the rebel’s own, their deep green hungry for blood but outright shocked when Kirin shoves the blade upwards under his chin and into throat and mouth.
He sputters blood now, the war hunger gone from his features, his hands relax and his fingers uncurl from Kirin’s pale throat. Heaving, our castle contestant grabs at his chest, wondering just how much longer it would have taken to lose consciousness and end up another limp body on the floor.
A groan pulls him from that thought of what if, and Arthur is returning to the waking world, rubbing his head and gasping as he finds the glass still protruding from his ear. Before he can do much to rise Kirin kicks him to the floor to his belly, then finds the heavy long-sword that has been haphazardly tossed against the blood and mess of glass. Now he faces the tailor, glaring down at him as a child equipped with a magnifying glass might an ant. “Please,” Arthur calls, voice like gravel against his tongue, “Kirin, I’ve known you since you were a boy. How could you turn on us like this, we’re the same.” The older man’s hands shake now, trembling like leaves from the way Kirin’s features have so drastically changed.
“Oh no Arthur, you have not known me much at all I am afraid. We are so very different you and I.” The clomp, clomp, clomp of his boots echo as he rounds the rebel, the man Arthur, coiling around him until he is facing his backside. “You coward,” he stumbles over the words, attempting to crawl, though the loss of blood has got to be quite overwhelming by now. “As you say Arthur,” Kirin drawls, stooping down as he thrusts the long blade into a new sheath at Arthur’s hind. There is one piercing wail before the towne tailor ceases jerking around and finally lies still amidst the trash of a bed he has made.
Kirin wipes his brow, retrieving the dagger that has served him, and tearing his shirt to wrap as a bandage around his bleeding arm. It is now that he is feeling quite faint himself, head aching and ears ringing but not enough to tune out the joyous shouts that ring from the yard. Battered, bloody and bruised he finds his own way to the celebration, clinging to the walls and then to the doors to steady himself. The rebels had lost, killed or run off by the soldiers and guards and volunteers. A few familiar faces of staff take notice at Krin’s bloody state, faces falling into those of concern and hands grasping at his shoulders and his back.
He remembers bits of floating, or being carried up the stairs by strong arms, armor and red tailed coats. Might have been that he asked where Frances was, if she was safe, but if his broken speech was ever answered he does not recall. His bed is the same plush softness when he is returned to it, sinking deep into the duvet and pillows and finally he is left alone to sleep...
The days since the elimination had drifted by like snowflakes in winter. She had been chosen of course, and while she felt a small pang of sorrow for those eliminated, she did not dwell on it. Less competition, after all. A part of her couldn’t help but wonder exactly what it was about those girls that got them send home. Clearly it would be best to avoid whatever that thing was, so as not to get sent home herself. But she would never know that information; the elimination had been an extremely simple process. Those selected were named, while those eliminated were named. Cut and dry with absolutely no beating around the bush. She admired Francis even more when he spoke to them all, assuring them that the elimination process had been no easy task. If anything, the other girls could maybe cling to that little tidbit. That was a silly thought though; Topsail knew without a doubt that if she had been eliminated, she would have thrown herself into her bed and refused to rise for at least the next week. Dramatic, perhaps, but Francis seemed to have that effect on her. Common sense was less common place where he was concerned.
Minutes turned into hours, hours blurred into days. The rising and falling of the sun had lost all of its grandeur, unless Francis was a part of the day. They saw each other several more times, and each time Topsail wondered if he was getting more and more handsome. Each time she grew more and more comfortable, and before she knew it she was sharing deeper parts of herself. Such as the few times she had gone hungry when she was a child. She told him of her mother falling ill not long before the Selection and how scared she had been, and how that was the only time she had seen her father cry. He was sympathetic to her sufferings, maybe even compassionate. It was so refreshing to know that he wasn’t at all like the royals were portrayed to be ; insufferable selfish pigs who cared only for themselves. She had heard all of the rumors, and how a group of individuals were planning a rebellion. Unfortunately, their secluded moments were not there’s alone. There was always another applicant waiting in the wings for her chance to woo the Prince, and more than once Topsail felt envious eyes boring into her back as she strolled with Francis. Tensions were running high in the palace and friendships were soon thrown out like yesterdays trash. But with Francis, she could shed the tension like a second, toxic skin. With him she was free to be herself and to speak her mind; for his part, he was free to share with her his doubts and fears about the kingdom goings on. She couldn’t speak for the other applicants, but she herself shared his worries. No matter where they came from, at the end of the day, the worries of the kingdom were worries to be shared by all.
Despite how hectic the palace had become, Topsail managed to seek out places of solitude. The stables were her first choice of refuge, followed closely by the library. Often times she combined the best of both worlds, sneaking some bit of literature from the palace and hiding herself in the loft. Below her the horses rustled in their stalls, while her mind was free to wander onto the pages of her chosen book. It was so easy to lose herself to the words and the serene atmosphere. If not for her other obligations, she would have spent every waking hour (the Francis free ones, of course) tucked in the hay. But the royal staff would not be thwarted, for they were under strict orders to keep tabs on the hopefuls. It would not due to have some wild, unlearned woman take the throne beside the Prince. A Princess was required to be a certain type of lady, the type of which did not have blacksmiths for fathers. Therefore, more than a few of her daily hours were spent learning some thing or another. From written word to spoken word, geography, and everything in between. Topsail had received modest schooling as a child, the same type of schooling any girl from her social class received. She was by no means stupid but she wasn’t scholarly either. She knew very little of the world outside of her little kingdom and that simply would not do for a potential Princess. A potential princess should be one who was well-read and well-spoken, who possessed a strong posture and a delicate handshake. She should appear demur and be attractive always. In short, a woman as unlike Topsail as was possible to be. But the instructors seemed to enjoy a challenge, and quite soon they had her moving gracefully and speaking eloquently. Whoever said an old dog couldn’t be taught new tricks simply hadn’t tried hard enough.
Her first lesson of the day was the history of Illea; it was a mostly beautiful thing, though bloody in places, as kingdom histories so often are. Francis was one in a long line from his family who had ruled here in one capacity or another. In Francis’ case, his mother had been the true heir to the throne, being the eldest of several daughters. She had married the king, who came from an affluent royal family of a neighboring kingdom. Despite his parents trying for several long years, Francis was an only child, and as such sole heir to the throne. If something were to happen to him, or if he were to remain single, the family line would die with him and as such, their long rule of Illea. After kingdom history came a bit of geography; this lesson reminded Topsail just how common she was. Half of the places she had never heard of, let alone visited. Horses and carriages were a luxury her family could rarely afford so their travels were limited. Then came grammar (who knew there were so many wrong ways to say hello?) and then spelling. She was decent at spelling, thanks in part to the many hours she had spent tucked away in some book. Last but certainly not least were her etiquette lessons. These lessons took up the largest part of her day, and covered everything from which fork to use first to when the proper time to curtsy was. At first, these lessons had made her feel like a simpleton. In all of her life, she had only been offered one fork for dinner. Now, she was offered at least three, and there was a certain order in which the forks were to be used. It all made her head spin a little bit even though she was growing used to it. What would happen if she were chosen and she and the Prince were attending some royal function and, God forbid, she use the wrong fork? A stupid thing to worry about, but here in the palace it was supposed to come as easily as putting ones socks on.
When she had curtseyed and smiled to her instructors content, she was allowed to leave. It had been a long day and she was rather looking forward to the solitude of her turret room and a nice long soak. It had become her habit to take a warm bath every evening, as if soaking in the scented water could wash away the tensions of the day. She knew without a doubt that if she were not chosen such a luxury would be hard to come by again, so she was going to soak up every last minute she could. She tried not to feel selfish when she did it, but she couldn’t help it. Her poor, sick mother had bathed with a lukewarm rag. Many people she knew went days or even weeks without a proper bath. Not because water was hard to come by, but because bathing in cold water during winter was a death sentence. “Stop it.” she muttered to herself, shaking her pretty head. Feeling down on herself would do no one any good, and it certainly wouldn’t help her. With a sigh she turned the golden lock on her door, smiling when it slid home with a resounding click. It hadn’t taken her long to learn to lock the doors behind her, as the castle staff were not the most considerate lot. More than once she had woken up to them bustling around her room, dusting and tidying up as if she were nothing more than a fly on the wall. She had also learned not to sleep in the nude anymore, no matter how glorious she thought those sheets would feel against her bare skin. There was only one person she had any interest in letting see her naked.
It did not take her long to undress. Reaching behind herself she undid the laces on her corset. As she did she felt her lungs expand properly and her breasts fall from their elevated height to hang heavy on her chest. If only she had known glamour was so heavy, she wouldn’t have been nearly as eager to experience it. Pulling the clasp from her mousey brown hair it fell to her shoulders, curling attractively around her face. As she made her way across the massive bathroom she caught sight of herself in the mirror; young, beautiful, with hopeful eyes. But there was something else there, something she had never noticed before. It was a kind of fierce determination in the glitter of her eyes. It was an attractive hardness in her mouth; it did not lessen the pout of her lips, but it made them much more womanly. It was if she was putting the girl she was behind her so she could emerge as the woman she would become. As she often did she touched her reflection, as if to remind herself of that fresh-faced girl. When she had satisfied her inner self with that small acknowledgment, she stepped into the clawed tub As always, the servants had made it just to her liking, from the water temperature down to the mingled scents of jasmine and vanilla. “Should have went with lavender this evening..” she thought to herself, but it was little more than a passing thought. Smells completely aside the hot water was like heaven, and she was content to close her eyes and lose herself in the gentle crackling of the bathroom fireplace.
A pounding at the door woke her with a start; the water was cold and she was shriveled up like an old woman. Somewhere, she thought she heard a scream. The pounding continued but Topsail didn’t answer, though she quickly (but quietly) removed herself from the tub. There was clearly no time to lounge about in her robe so she grabbed a towel and dried herself hastily, missing most of her back but dry for the most part. Again there was a scream and this time, Topsail knew without a doubt what it was. Her heart began to pound along with the fist at the door. Quickly, she threw on a dressing gown, tying her dripping hair up into some kind of knot. This was obviously not the time for her to be concerned with her looks. With a glance at the bathroom door (which she had also locked, thankfully) she tiptoed to the small bathroom window. From so high up it was hard to get much of a view of the ground, and despite its fire-red glow, the sinking sun was not of much aid either. But what she could see was more than a little unsettling. Storming up the drive, there appeared to be a ragtag group of villagers. From what she could tell they carried no weapons, but they did have torches. From the light of the torches she could see the malice on their faces and their angry cries reached her turret. Gasping, realization washed over her like a bucket of ice cold water. “Rebels!” she whispered, raising her shaking hands to her face. Somehow, they had breeched the castle boundaries, and if she was correct, they were beating down doors even as she stood there and shook. But how? There was no time for questions though. Somehow they had, and if she were not much mistaken, there was one pounding on her turret door as well.
Quiet as a mouse and hardly daring to breath, Topsail stepped into the main bedroom. Thus far the locks seemed to be holding, but she could see signs of splintering around the gilded hardware. “Come out come out, wherever you are!” cried a man, his guttural voice sending chills to the very base of her spine. Despite being an actual damsel in distress, now was not the time for her to lose her wits. As her eyes swept the bedroom they landed on something most promising; a fireplace poker, with its dangerously sharp prodding end and perfect hook, used mainly to turn logs in the fire. Now, however, it would become her sword. Another pound, more splitting wood. Like a flash she grabbed it before throwing herself onto her belly and scooting under the four-poster bed. Just in time too, for her feet had barely been concealed when finally, the door gave way. The man all but fell into the room, looking around it with wild eyes and a disgusting sneer on his dirty face. Topsail all but held her breath, watching as the man slunk around the room. “I know you’re in here…mmmm, I can smell you.” His voice made her stomach clench, and everything she had eaten for lunch was threatening to make a return appearance. But she steeled herself, forcing slow (but quiet) breaths through her mouth. Now was not the time to act the part of a silly girl; now was the time for that iron-clad stubbornness her father had always admonished her for to show its gritty face. As he crept towards the bed her heart began to beat faster as an intoxicating mixture of fear and adrenaline flooded her veins. Finally he was standing just inches in front of her, though with his back to the bed. As hard as she could without much swing room, she swung the curved end of the poker into his leg. His scream of pain mingled with hers of rage as the poker slid home just above his shoe, in the area of his Achilles tendon. She jerked backwards furiously, effectively yanking the man clean from his feet as tendons pulled free from bone and muscle. Not from her spectacular display of strength, but because she had effectively rendered that leg useless, possibly for the rest of his life. As he fell, his great ugly head smacked the stone hearth, cutting off his scream quite effectively. Topsail waited beneath the bed to make sure he didn’t move; he didn’t, save for an occasional twitch. Disgusted, she scooted herself backwards and out from under the bed, her eyes falling on what she had done. She viewed him with an odd sense of detachment; clearly, he had meant to do her harm, and she had simply defended herself. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing and frankly, she didn’t give a damn.
She slunk from the room like a panther, her eyes cold and her mind focused on the task at hand. All around her the air was heavy with screams and yells, but for now they seemed fairly far off. She kept the walls at her back to protect it somewhat, while she held the poker in front of her like a talisman. Slowly, painfully slowly, she rounded a corner. There stood a woman rebel, her wild hair covering her dirty face and a feverish gleam to her eyes. The two saw each other immediately, the rebel and the lady in waiting. Whereas Topsail held a fireplace poker, the other woman held a broken bottle by the neck, with the jagged edges aimed straight at Topsail. “You must be one of the future princesses…fancy finding you here. If I get one of you, He will be most pleased!” screeched the woman. “You had better have brought more than a bottle, bitch.” Topsail growled back, not giving a damn who He was. The wild-haired woman charged but Topsail met her halfway, already drawing back the poker. Her timing was off though, and the broken bottle slashed into her chest, just below her collarbone. Immediately the blood began to flow but Topsail was high on adrenaline. She swung herself and the poker around, grimacing as the metal of the poker met the woman’s skull. It was an odd feeling, and immediately the woman’s eyes fell shut. As she crashed to the floor Topsail examined her wounds. They seemed to be shallow, and because of the area she had been cut there was little muscle to effect. But they were bleeding quite freely, and Topsail knew she would need help soon. Leaving the woman lying on the floor (still breathing, but definitely knocked out) she continued down to the main part of the castle. Surely that is where she would find help, and most of all find out the fate of Francis. She had almost forgotten him in her panic, and that simply wouldn’t do. She needed to know.
She met no obstacles for some ways, and it seemed as if the screams were dying down. But she refused to let her guard down. Despite her weakening grip on her poker, and the blood flowing freely over her white dressing gown, she remained on guard. Poised like a wounded lion just looking for an excuse to slash. She was almost to the stairwell when a man stepped out from behind a large statue, and something about the wicked look on his face made Topsail sick at her stomach. “My my, you’re a pretty little thing.” he said, his voice something like wheels on gravel. Hungry eyes swept over her body, lingering on her chest where her breasts were clearly visible through the blood soaked fabric. “He would like you. I bet the Prince does. There are other pretty ladies here too. Taking one of you would really show those royal fucks who’s boss, would it not?” Topsail didn’t answer, didn’t even see a reason to. The only way they would take her anywhere would be as a cold corpse in a body bag. Again though with the “He”. The man held no weapons, but it was clear he was a man who didn’t need them. There were muscles even along his jaw line and his hands looked like they could break her in half. “Now, why don’t you just bring your pretty little self along quietly, and I won’t have to hurt you.” Topsail opened her mouth and threw back her head in wild laughter. “If you honestly think I would do that, you are more stupid than you look. And you look like the type who wouldn’t have found your way out of your mothers womb had it not been for the contractions shoving you out.” His smile faltered, to be replaced by an ugly grimace. Etiquettes lessons be damned, she wasn’t about to come to him like some poor whipped dog. “If you want me, come and get me. But be warned; I don’t play pretty.”
Adrenaline was a strange drug, turning ladies into lions. Quick as a flash the beast of a man leapt forward, displaying far more speed than Topsail would have thought possible for a man of his proportions. Before she could react his arms were around her, squeezing like a boa constrictor and forcing her to drop her weapon. She screamed like a wild cat, twisting and turning and kicking and clawing. It was to little avail; the man had her in a human vice grip, slowly crushing the breath from her lungs. But all men had a weak spot, something Topsail had learned as a small girl. Screeching wildly she thrust her right leg backwards, smiling as her heel met the tender flesh of his nether regions. He squealed, loosening his grip just enough for her to wiggle free. But he was tough as a pine knot, and the blow to his manhood had only slowed him, not totally stunted him. Rearing back his left hand, he back handed her across the face. Immediately she saw stars, her world reeling as she careened towards the ground. As fate would have it, she landed almost directly on her poker. Like a hyena the man advanced towards her, dropping to his knees and straddling her body, one leg on either side of her hips. “You’ll pay for that, bitch.” he said, and Topsail was disgusted as she felt his spit land on her face. In their scuffle a statue had fallen, busting upon impact and leaving bits and pieces scattering the ground. His eyes left her face as he turned around, clearly searching for a piece large enough to bash her skull in. His mistake. As his weight shifted, Topsail was able to pull the poker from beneath her. When he wheeled back around, he was met by the sharp end right to his sternum. Topsail shoved with all her might while he choked and sputtered. He tried to pull it out, but the design of the iron meant that it was acting similar to a fish hook; one had to drive it further in to pull it out. His time was running short though, and Topsail was barely able to get out of the way of his great, collapsing body. He fell across her legs, propped upwards in the most grotesque fashion by the poker sticking from his chest. She could do nothing but cry.
That is how they found her. Bloody, bruised, cut, crying. Even though she knew it had been a “kill, or be killed” situation, the ramifications weren’t any less heavy. The maids had pulled her up carefully by the arms, their eyes concerned. “Oh, Miss Topsail…how brave you were! The castle guards have secured the palace once more. Come now darling, we’ve got to get you to the doctor. Those cuts need attending, and you’ve got a mighty bruise on your face.” they said, but their voices sounded far away. The effects of blood loss, a blow to the head, and draining adrenaline high were starting to effect her. “Please, Francis. Tell me how he is…” she mewled, her knees so weak that a manservant had picked her up. “That’ll be none of your concern, miss. Its you that needs attending to.” That wasn’t a sufficient answer, and Topsail very much wanted to protest. But her head was swimming somewhere above her body, and the last thing she could remember was the concerned face of the manservant as he rushed her off to the doctor. “Francis…please.” were her last words before her eyes fluttered shut.
peel away the layers till you're nothing and no one
They are ushered into the drawing room and Kirke quickly grabs a seat, arraying herself as gracefully as possible despite the anxious pounding of her heart. This is it, the first elimination. And she has no idea where she stands. Some of the other candidates look so confident, so assured of their success, but Kirke just feels worried. She’d been one of the first, and while she’d thought the date went well, many of the others could have gone well too. The memory of their time together could easily have faded in the face of all the other dates.
What will she even do, if she’s eliminated? To return home, after having gotten so far. To see that smug look on Airy’s face, the disappointment on her father’s …
And then suddenly, he’s there.
Kirke and the other selected stand as Francis enters the room, curtsying politely as he makes his way to a chair at the head of the room. He urges them all to sit and Kirke does so, heart in her throat. She can tell that the prince is uncomfortable at the prospect of the elimination and he implies as much when he explains that he had to consider the kingdom’s needs along with his own. She feels a small pang of sympathy for him, but it’s quickly swallowed up by her own nerves.
She holds her breath as he begins to list the names, and her chest clenches with every name announced. And then suddenly she realizes she was not among them. She sighs in relief, as do the other women whose names had not been called. She’s done it, she’s still in the running.
She keeps her face impassive, but she feels for the three eliminated women as they stand, stiffly, and take their exits. She can see one of the women struggling to keep her composure as she disappears through the door. She could have been one of them, but, for whatever reason, she is not. Francis had seen something in her, something he had not seen in them and she’s still in the running. Thank Khaos.
Francis stands then and moves to each of the remaining women, congratulating them in turn. She feels a touch of warmth as he turns to her and smiles. “I look forward to seeing more of you Kirke.” She can’t help but blush. “And I you Francis.” And then he's gone, and she’s suddenly being ushered back to her chambers.
The next few weeks are just as rushed. Her time is split between the occasional date with Francis, and her many lessons with the court tutor. The schedule she’s asked to keep is breakneck, but as the week progresses she begins understand their reasons. They want to make sure she’s calm under pressure, that the duties and expectations of a royal life will not break her. Well, she will make sure to not disappoint - she will rise to the challenge.
And truly, she does not mind the hustle and bustle of court life. There’s always something for her to do, something for her to see, something for her to learn. As a little village girl, she’d never had access to any of this. And she’s beginning to enjoy it - she can feel the very world opening up before her. But, she still lives for the time that she’s able to spend with Francis. They grow fonder of one another as the weeks progress, growing closer and closer as time goes on. The connection she feels with to him is so strong, so much stronger than anything she’s ever experienced. And now, she doesn’t want to win just because of her father any more (though, as always, she still wants to make him proud), she wants to win so she can be with Francis. She could see herself being so, so happy with him.
But is the connection she feels enough? She’s accidentally come across some of his other dates with the other selected, and she’s seen moments of affection there too, and not just on the part of the selected. Will their time together be enough? Or will she be overshadowed?
These concerns and more are still playing on her mind as she and the other selected sit through a lecture on Thurick, one of Illea’s strongest allies. She’s trying really hard to listen - it’s very important to be informed on Illea’s closest and most important relationships - and it’s not actually a boring lecture, but she just feels on edge, distracted.
And then suddenly the ground is shaking.
There’s a terrible crash and several voices scream out in terror. Sirens begin wailing, and soldiers being rushing about everywhere. The other selected begin to stand, looking confused. Then a maid suddenly runs screaming through the hall, blood streaming down her face. “The palace is under attack!” And the bedlam begins in earnest.
Kirke, for her part, doesn’t waste any time. As the other selected start to rush about in fear (some of them running into desks and each other in blind terror), she makes for the door. Beyond what the guards carry, the vast majority of the palace is rather light on weapons - they are supposed to be safe here after all. But, one floor up, hidden in the depths of her personal bag, is the krag bowie knife her father had given her for her birthday. Not necessarily the best defence if the attackers have guns, but it’s better than having nothing at all.
She’s halfway to the stairs when a man pops out of the hallway ahead. At the sight of him - ripped and dirty clothes, covered in blood spatter, a piece of cloth tied around his mouth - she realizes what’s going on. The rebels are attacking. Kirke freezes, but it’s too late - the man’s already spotted her and the expression on his face sours. “Ach you’re one of those damn floozies tryin’ to marry the prince aren’t yah?” He scowls and begins walking towards her. “You’re a damn whore yah know that. Fuckin’ wining and dining the prince up here in the palace while people are starving in the streets.” He reaches her and grabs hold of her arm, beginning to twist it. “Now you have two choices here …” Kirke doesn’t wait to find out what these two choices are. With a strength belying her slight frame, she knees him in the groin. The rebel fighter drops without a sound, curling himself into the fetal position.
Kirke breaks into a run, moving as fast as she can for the stairs ahead. She needs to get to her knife in her room above before the man manages to get to his feet. Rebels or not, invading soldiers are notorious for their poor treatment of the women they come across during the battle.
She’s at the top of the stairs when the man’s voice yells out behind her. “I’ll get you for that you bitch!” Damn, the guy must have balls of steel. Kirke tries to increase her speed, but the skirts of her beautiful dress are hampering her, and she can hear the stomping of boots in the hall below. He’s going to catch up, the only question is when.
She rushes down the next hall and around her corner. She can see the room to her door! But the crashing of boots is drawing closer …
Adrenalin lends her a little extra speed, and she tumbles through the doorway. Falling to her knees, she reaches for her bag and begins rummaging around. The knife is in here somewhere …
Suddenly, there’s a tickling sensation on the back of her neck and she freezes. “Nothin’ in there gunna help yah pretty. A heavy hand clasps her left shoulder, fingers digging in. Her fingers twitch involuntarily, brushing against a wooden handle. “Don’t turn around bitch, not gunna give you another chance at me.” She can feel his breath hot against her neck. He reaches around in front of her, holding a long, pock-marked blade to her cheek. “Think you’re so high and mighty, being chosen for the contest, don’t yah? I’m gunna make you pay for kickin’ me.” He puts the point of his blade to her cheekbone and draws downward, scoring her cheek. “Won’t be so pretty now, will …” He cuts off abruptly as Kirke grabs the wooden handle at her finger tips, turns around and stabs him in the gut.
It’s really her only advantage, she thinks, as she twists the 12 inch blade in his gut and dispassionately pulls it upward through his abdominal muscles. Being female that is. Men expect her to be be weak and afraid, and while she certainly is weak, she’s not too afraid to defend herself.
She stands up, grunting as she pushes the man back with one hand and ripping the knife out with the other. Her face turns grim as intestines spill out, bloodying her dress. And it’d been so pretty too.
She’s surprised to find that she feels no regret. She’d killed once before … her mouth tightens. She doesn’t want to think about that. But this situation had been different anyway. The guy had been hurting her. And who knows how far he would have gone? Speaking of which …
She lifts her unbloodied hand to her right cheek, feeling at the cut. It’s nothing serious, but it’s deep enough that it’s probably going to scar. She feels a pang of anguish. That’s her chance at winning the contest done. There’s no way Francis will consider her now.
But now isn’t the time to dwell. She’s not safe where she is - considering how publicized the contest had been, she wouldn’t be surprised if some of the rebels seek out the rooms of the contestants, looking for payback from the women they likely see as traitors. Idiotic if you ask her - she has no doubt the men fighting would’ve leapt at the chance to join the royal family if the heir had been female. Anyone would take the opportunity to raise themselves up out of poverty.
Anyway, she needs to find somewhere safe to hide out the fighting. She moves back to the door and pokes her head out cautiously, purple eyes scanning the hallway. There’s no one in sight, and the battle sounds far off. Moving slowly so as to not create noise, she creeps down the hallway, still thinking. The servants’ quarters would probably be her best bet for a hiding place. The rebels are more likely to want to go after the rich and powerful first. Not only that, but the servants’ quarters are in the basement (she knows from a previous conversation with one of her maids) and the doors are often hidden so as to not ‘bother’ the palace elite. She could find a secluded corner and stay hidden for hours.
Decision made, she heads back for the stairs she’d run up before, clutching the bloody bowie knife tightly in her hand. She hadn’t exactly expected to have to use it coming here, but as she’d told Francis on their first date, she thinks it’s important to be prepared. Thank Khaos for her paranoia.
She makes her way down the stairs, through another hallway (avoiding the lecture hall, a room that big and open doesn’t seem safe), and down another set of stairs. She’s not exactly certain where the entrance to the servants’ quarters are, though she’s sure she’ll find them eventually if she keeps going down. She rounds the corner in another hallway, and comes up against a pair of rebel fighters accosting an unarmed royal soldier with a large gash in his leg. Kirke immediately slips the hand holding her bowie knife behind her back. Best to look as weak as possible.
She intentionally lets out a little gasp to distract the rebels. Both turn to look at her, mouths hidden behind pieces of cloth wrapped over their faces. “Aw shit it’s one of those contestants.” One of the men groans. “Come here girlie. No point in running.” Kirke nods weakly, widening her eyes to make herself seem afraid. She needs to get close to both of them at once - she’s too hampered by her blood-soaked skirts to cover distance quickly. “Just please don’t hurt me.” She steps closer to them on trembling legs. “Ach we won’t do that dearie.” Just a little bit closer … there! When she’s a two feet away she whips out her knife, drawing the sharp edge across one rebel’s throat, then burying the blade between the ribs of the other. Both men crumple to the ground in a spray of blood. She’s definitely grateful for the training her father had given her now.
She turns to the wounded soldier, who’s looking at her like he’s been hit over the head. She represses a laugh. The man’s probably never seen a woman fight in his life. “Where are the servants’ quarters?” The man continues staring at her, blue eyes foggy, clearly dumbfounded. She does not have the time for this. She waves a hand in front of his face. “Come on, where are the servants’ quarters?” The solider blinks stupidly at her, then the dazed look in his eyes clears somewhat. “Uh, there’s an entrance the next floor down.” Kirke pulls at his arm. “Let’s get going then.” The soldier complies without resistance, clearly still stunned by what he’d just witnessed. Kirke is tempted to try and slap some sense into him, but with the door to the servants’ quarters so close she doesn’t want to waste time.
They move through the hallway, the soldier limping slowly after her, then down the stairs, and through another hallway. She’s glad that he’s at least not too wounded to walk. Finally, after a few minutes of searching, the man raises a trembling hand to point out a wooden panel in the wall. “There’s the door.” Kirke steps toward it, reaching a hand out to rest the wood …
“Hey you!” Another rebel appears at the end of the hallway, brandishing a short sword. Once again Kirke slips the knife behind her back. The wounded solider suddenly steps in between here and the man, holding a hand out to her as if to shield her. “Stay back my lady!” Kirke fights the urge to roll her eyes. Did he just forget that she’d saved him only moments before?
The rebel fighter walks towards them, holding the sword out in a threatening posture that is nonetheless a poor defence. He stops a few feet away, clearly considering his best coarse of action. It’s obvious to her that few of these rebels have ever been in a proper fight before. Kirke sighs, takes a step to the right so that she has a clear shot at the man, then throws her knife. Unfortunately bowie knives are hard to throw accurately, and she’s had little practice, but she gets lucky - the butt of the hilt hits the man in the shoulder, causing him to drop the sword. Her ‘protector’ launches himself forward and on top of the rebel, instantly laying into the man with ferocious blows. Kirke slips around the both of them to grab her knife from where it had landed on the floor, and walks around to the rebel’s head. When the soldier sees her with the knife he leans back out of her way, and Kirke stabs the man in the eye. No point in leaving him alive to let his fellow rebels know their hiding place.
She steps back, ripping her knife out of the man’s eye socket. The soldier takes one look at the bloody cavity and stumbles back, vomiting. Kirke wrinkles her nose at the stench. Clearly the rebel fighters aren’t the only ones new to fighting. Kirke wipes her hands and knife on one of the last clean spots on her dress (though it doesn’t do much), then looks pointedly at the soldier. “Open the door.”
Without a word he stands up and moves to the wood panel, leaning his weight against the door and pushing to the right. The panel slides away revealing a hidden stone corridor. The soldier steps back, gesturing for her to go through first. Kirke resists the urge to argue and steps through, then turns back to wait for the soldier. He smiles apologetically. “I’m useless I know, but I can’t abandon my post. I won’t take the coward’s way out. Thanks for saving me, my lady.” Then without giving her the chance to protest, he slides the panel shut.
She pauses for a moment, looking at the panel in the darkness. It makes sense, she supposes. The poor man would likely be executed for cowardice if he were to be found hiding out the battle in the servants quarters. Better to die a poor soldier than to die in dishonour. There’s nothing she can do for him.
She turns away from the panel and begins to follow the corridor, trying to move as quietly as she can. After a few minutes, and after going down another set of stairs, she comes out into what looks like a dormitory - a plain stone room with a row of plain wooden beds against the wall. A slight movement catches her eye, and she just manages to spot the top of a head disappearing behind the farthest bed.
She walks over, knife held in front of her, and discovers a pair of maids hiding behind the bed. The closest one screams, while the second gasps at the sight of her. “Miss, are you alright?” Kirke looks down at her self. Her once pale purple dress is stained dark red with blood, the skirt portion behind particularly drenched. She’d known it was a mess, but ugh. She shrugs and looks back at the maids. “I’m fine, it’s not my blood.” The maid looks perhaps even more disturbed and says nothing, seemingly lost for words. Kirke doesn’t bother to add anything else, instead slipping onto the bed beside them with a heavy sigh. She lets her knife drop onto the linen bedsheet, surprised to realize the muscles in her hand and arm are a bit sore.
She looks up for a moment, glancing about the room. This place will do just fine until the fighting ends. It’s better for her to stay out of it, better for her to leave it up to the trained soldiers. While the one soldier she’d run into had been a poor fighter, she has no doubt that the royal family’s elite force will make quick work of the rebel fighters, most of whom are likely malnourished, and have probably never been in a proper battle in their lives. She’d just get in the way.
She and the two maids wait in silence for what seem like hours. Every once in a while, they catch the faint sound of the fighting. Quiet as it is, she finally has time to think properly and her thoughts can’t help but drift to Francis. She hopes he’s alright wherever he is. Please Khaos let him be alright.
After an age, the sound of boots coming down the hallway catches her attention. She stiffens and reaches for her knife, hand clenching tight over the sticky wooden handle. But it’s only another maid, who gasps at the sight of her sitting on the bed. “Oh my goodness are - ” Kirke cuts her off with a wave of her hand. “I’m fine. What’s happening out there?” The maid doesn’t look like she believes her, but she doesn’t argue. “The … the fighting’s over. The rebels tried to kill the king and queen, but the royal bodyguard fought them off. They’re sending all the contestants back to their rooms.” Kirke’s eyes narrow. “And what of the prince?” The maid cringes at the tone in her voice. “I don’t know miss. Please, the king wants all of the contestants back in their rooms” Kirke sighs, though inside she’s suddenly full of worry. “Fine.”
She stands up, grimacing slightly at the muscle soreness in her arm, back and legs, then makes her way back through the corridor, up the stairs, and out the panel door. She’s immediately swept up in a flurry of activity, rushed along by a variety of servants until somehow she’s back in her room. One of the maids pours a bath, and pushes Kirke over to it. She strips and climbs into it without protest, and sighs as she leans back in the steaming water. But, try as she might, she can’t relax. None of the servants assigned to her know anything about how Francis is doing, and she can’t help but think the worst …
A maid comes in to help scrub her clean, and tuts over the cut on her face and the fingerprint bruises on her shoulder. The maid does the best she can, then pulls her out, thrusting a linen nightgown at her. Once she’s dressed, a doctor comes in to stitch the wound and confirms what she already knows - she’ll be scarred for the rest of her life.
In a daze she moves back to the bedroom and climbs into the bed. But, even though the soft mattress feels wonderful against her sore muscles, she knows she’s not going to be able to sleep much tonight. She’s still too wired after everything that’s happened. And too worried about Francis. As she snuggles deeper under the covers, she whispers aloud. “Please, please Khaos, let Francis be alright.”
Lagertha waits until the rest of girls rise to do the same. She brings up the end of the party, nodding a silent thanks to the servants who hold the doors open for the girls. She is the only one to do so, and while they may not acknowledge it, she likes to imagine that she makes a difference. The girls don’t really know what to do with themselves; some sink delicately into chairs, while other prefer to balance their nerves by standing. Lagertha is of the latter group’s mindset, placing her hands behind her back and steeling her spine, head up, eyes straight ahead, feet shoulder width apart. Of course, they can’t see that under her dress, but the discipline settles her wildly beating heart and allows her to fall into a familiar mindset.
And yet, despite the physical calmness of her body, her mind continues to race. Lagertha’s lips press into a thin line of displeasure. No, that isn’t how this is supposed to work. Why is her heart in her stomach, and her stomach in her throat. It’s so… unprofessional. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, she knows that it does - not just to The Resistance, but to her. She tells herself it’s just a matter of her pride, but she knows it’s more than that. They wait for what seems to be an eternity, the tension in the room growing thicker with every passing tick of the large, grandfather clock that sits in the corner of the drawing room. Francis finally enters, and those who aren’t already standing rise, but with a well-polished smile (though she thinks she detects a bit of crookedness in it, she could also be imagining things), he tries to soothe them. It doesn’t work; they are all painfully aware that several will be going home, and are all fervently hoping it isn’t them. He is diplomatic and dutiful when explaining the reasoning behind his decision, but that doesn’t make it any better. And then finally - three names, and none of them are hers!
With the pronunciation of the last syllable of the last name, Lagertha feels her body relax - as if the drill sergeant has finally left the room. She is used to being in high stress situations (and really, this isn’t much of a ‘high stress’ situation so much as a novel - and unusual - one), so why did this feel different? It should have been a breeze! No one’s life is at stake, she would emerge from this experience alive no matter the outcome, and the ‘enemy’ isn’t an enemy at all! Ah, perhaps that was it? She watches the girls who were not chosen as they depart from the drawing room; two do their best to hold back tears, and the other doesn’t even bother to try. Celine is still here, though. Their eyes meet briefly, and then Celine quickly drags them away, pretending to be absorbed in the couch’s upholstery.
It’s so petty. Lagertha rolls her eyes and when the escort arrives to take them back to their chambers, she is at the head of the group. Solitude will clearly be her friend more than any of the other Selected. So be it. With the passing of her parents, her world shrank to a fraction of what it was before; their world does not look kindly on orphans, and even though the master at arms had loved her, the rest of his family did not. Her microcosm of a world consisted of her mentor and his family, and then the merc group, and now it is expanding outward at a seemingly exponential rate. What were once idiosyncrasies are now oddities and although Francis seems to be enthralled by the fact that she is so ‘different,’ Lagertha knows that unless she conforms somewhat, they will never put a member of the Resistance on the throne.
She is their only hope. She must play the part, and do what they demand until the coast is clear. Now if only they would give her some sort of sign. Even a brief message just to let her know they were still around.
----------------------
Days pass, and then weeks, and each day that passes without an Elimination is a good one; her days are filled with what seems like a hundred different skills she must master. The private lessons are fine, but when the girls come together for dancing lessons, all too often she wonders why Francis chose to keep her, if she has so much more to learn than the other girls. And then she grits her teeth and sucks it up, because she has never quit before, and these dance steps are trivial compared to sword fighting. Infinitely more annoying, but trivial nonetheless. No one will die if she forgets a step-ball-change, but oh, how she would like to see them parry and thrust, and grapple for their lives. When they snigger at her from behind perfectly manicured hands, she imagines them flat on their asses, in the mud, with her sword point at the tip of their noses. It’s a challenge, just a challenge to resist the allure of the common folk’s freedom on the other side of the gilded gates.
After the first elimination, the remaining Selected are given more of a free reign about the castle, and the it is no more than a week before the servants no longer scramble out of her way, or stare boldly as she passes. Lagertha’s sharp ears catches tidbits of conversation, and can glean that there’s a bet going on as to when she’ll leave, but it doesn’t particularly bother her. It’s more amusing, and gives her more determination than discouragement. Even when she embarrasses herself at a public dinner by calling someone by the wrong title and using the wrong fork, she laughs it off with a ‘barbarian’ joke and the potentially offended seem appeased.
She finds the political and historical lessons fascinating; but what Lagertha truly relishes the most is the moment she is released by her tutor. She is barely able to wait until he leaves the room before she can throw on her riding pants, run down to the stables, and saddle up Blackie. Once Francis learned that she visits the stable at almost the exact same time every day, he’d taken to occasionally joining her on a ride, much like their first date. There are other, ‘official’ dates too, but these stolen bits of time and other moments in passing are precious. They offer each other encouragement: Francis on Lagertha’s studies, and she on his struggle to relate to the rest of his country. She will be first to admit that she is not the best at flirting, preferring to be blunt rather than dance about topics. Teasing, however, is a game she knows well and their brief touches seem to linger on each other's open skin. His lips travel to the inside of her wrist as he bids her farewell, and more than once she’s seen his honeyed gaze turn hungry and wolfish. She is not so innocent either, enjoying his reaction when she stands unusually close to him.
Sometimes she’ll see him off with one of the other girls, and while he looks happy, there is an undeniable twinge in her chest that betrays how she really is beginning to feel about the sandy-haired Prince. Even if she won’t admit it aloud, the truth is that she’s becoming very fond of him, especially with his desire to be a different sort of ruler than his parents are. Once, while alone in her room, she even caught herself imagining the hair color of their future children, and then promptly excused herself to splash a basin of water on her face and give herself a stern lecture. Best not to get ahead of herself, as Lagertha isn’t the best at any of the things they have to learn. This is a competition, and she has no idea how the others are doing, or how Francis feels. It is maddening to not know where she stands.
Today is unusual, because they are gathered together for a group history lesson on one of Illea’s staunchest allies. They’ve opened up one of the various reception rooms on the first floor of the Palace, in a far corner of the East Wing, the one used mostly for public events. Today is also one of the days when the King and Queen hold an old-fashioned open court to hear petitions for both major and minor issues of justice. The girls, however, cannot attend that. A former ambassador-turned-historian, who is still very active as an emissary between the courts, decided (after several failed attempts at scheduling) that best use of his time would be to talk to them today, and all at once.
Lagertha sits in the back, listening attentively and practicing her excellent posture, legs crossed at the ankles and tucked under the corner of one of the chairs. They all seem to be the perfect models of attention, with some taking studiously taking notes. Lagertha isn’t, but she has a pretty damn good memory. She’d jot the important things down when she gets back to her room.
The historian is waxing on the importance of their agricultural treaty when a sudden BOOM! shakes the building. Many of the girls shriek, while a few simply look around the room with wide, confused and terrified eyes. Celine has thrown herself on the floor, clutching the legs of her chair as if it could grow larger and protect her. Lagertha, however, after she recovers from being startled, is up and runs to the windows. “Stay down!” she commands the girls and their teacher, and those that aren’t already on the floor, quickly prostrate themselves, trembling. Sirens begin to wail, and bells toll out the alarm; there is the pounding of footsteps outside their closed door, and the soldier inside her knows something is about to happen. Lagertha peers out the window, looking left and then right, and spots a tendril of black smoke curling around from the other side of the Palace. It might be coming from one of the public entrances. Had someone tried to get through under the pretense of being a petitioner?!
She curses under her breath. Nothing to defend herself or these halfwits with. Not that she could find anything in her room either - after she’d pulled the knife on Ami, all of her knives had disappeared. Her eyes fly around the room, looking for something that she can improvise with - they land on a pair of candlesticks. She shrugs. That’ll do. Lagertha dashes to the table they’re resting on and pulls out one of the candles, giving the stick a couple of test swings. It’s ungainly and off balance, but she can definitely work with it. Without looking back to the cowering girls, she issues some quick orders. “The Palace is under attack. After I leave, tie the door handles together with several ribbons, and then prop a chair underneath them. Don’t open them unless whoever is on the other side can give proof they’re with the Palace.” And with that, Lagertha presses her ear to the door, and hearing nothing, slips quietly out into the hallway.
The immediate area is deserted, while the bright red carpet is stained with muddy bootprints; she can hear a noise in the distance and the acrid smell of smoke beckons her down the hall. She grabs her skirts in her hand and slinks along the long hallway, darting from decorative table to decorative table until she’s almost to the corner. All of a sudden, the sound of steel on steel becomes louder, as do the sound of masculine grunts. Lagertha would normally charge immediately around the corner to her left, but if it is The Resistance who’s attacking, she has to make sure the Palace side doesn’t see her. Her whole cover would be blown. So the blonde warrior presses herself up against the wall, silently cursing her goddamn skirts. They are so cumbersome, so unconducive to being sneaky. Briefly, she wonders what she would do if it were Francis who was fighting someone - better yet, where is he? Is he safe?
She pushes him from her mind, knowing that there is no room for distractions here. A few breath spans later, a liveried guard comes stumbling backwards into view, entirely focused on his opponent while blocking frenzied, unpracticed thrusts. Lagertha takes a step towards him and swings her candlestick towards the guard’s head. It connects with a sickening thunk, his head twists and spit and blood go flying, while the man topples backward - very, very unconscious. Potentially dead. But hopefully unconscious.
She doesn’t have long to celebrate it though, because a hand wraps around her head, covers her mouth, and a sword slides against her throat. “Drop it,” the voice demands, breathing his hot, rank breath towards her, and Lagertha obligingly releases her hunk of metal. She stands stock still, pretending to be terrified. It’s easy to play the scared little rich girl. Much of The Resistance is anonymous, they couldn’t possibly know that this woman is one on their side. There is the hair factor, though. While Lagertha might think it’s a discerning enough factor, it may escape others who are… less detail oriented. The Rebel seems to be one of those types. “Looks like you hit the wrong guy, little lady.” Well, no, she didn’t. But she can see where he might make a mistake. She is dressed like one of the nobility. Her clothes look like they could feed his family for almost a year. He reeks of body odor, and she can see the ragged, dirty ends of his sleeves as the coarse fabric abrades her skin.
“Now dontchu scream, or I’ll cut your throat, ya hear?” he whispers menacingly into her ear. She rolls her eyes, but nods, playing along. The hand covering her mouth creeps down her neck, towards the front of her dress, clearly searching for a quick handful of soft, round flesh. Dear god. This was bound to happen with some of the recruits, she thinks - there are always casualties and atrocities in coups. She’s watched her own company members rape and pillage, knowing she could do nothing to stop it, save for claim the particularly young girls as her own spoils. At least this Rebel encountered her instead of the rest of girls. They would be helpless, paralyzed with fear.. “Touch me, and I swear, I will take that sword and cut off your balls, stuff them in your mouth, and then shove that worthless cock up your ass.” The Rebel laughs, clearly thinking she’s all bark and no bite, and starts to fumble around with her buttons. He is sloppy; the blade of the sword cuts into her neck a little, and that’s the last straw. Her right hand shoots up and grabs his right wrist, pushing it outwards while twisting it. Her left elbow drives into his stomach, and he squeals in pain, dropping his sword.
Lagertha pivots on her right foot and forces the arm that once held the sword closer to his shoulder, still gripping his wrist tightly. “I warned you, fucker.” After a moment, she releases him and he falls to his knees, trying to cradle two body parts at once. She picks up his sword, tossing it expertly by the hilt into the air and catching it. It’s poorly made and unbalanced, but it’s hers now. She hisses down at his crouched form, and there is as much scorn in her voice as their is anger at the whole situation. “I’m your woman on the inside, idiot. Get out of the Palace and find your leaders. Tell them I want intel next time. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise.” He just stares at her. “Did I stutter?” Lagertha hisses, eager to move towards the real fighting. He shakes his head. So does she, in exasperation. “Wait.” Without warning, she punches him with her left hand, leaving him clutching his face in pain, blood spurting from his nose. Her knuckles will hurt tomorrow, but it was worth it. “Now you look like you escaped something.That way!” With a jerk of her head in the right direction, she shoves him towards a side hallway that leads to a servant’s entrance. Lagertha leaves him to find his own way back to safety. Hopefully he’ll be smart enough to get out alive. If not, well, then at least no one will know that she took a guard down.
She takes a deep breath and picks up her skirts with her left hand, keeping her sword at the ready in her right. She jogs down another long hallway, and then takes a right. No one is around - no servants, no guest, nothing. She imagines they’re all hiding inside locked rooms, and for once she is grateful for their cowardice. As Lagertha approaches the Holding Room, the sounds grow louder; the clash of metal on metal, the groans of people in pain, and the garbled sounds of orders yelled over the din are all music to her ears. By this point, she’s travelled much of the East Wing and found little sign of the fight aside from those two men, which means it must be small and focused around a single area. There aren’t any Guards to stop her, so they must already be engaged… which makes things a bit trickier..
She comes to one of the doors that leads into the back of the holding chamber. It’s commonly used by servants to bring in refreshments, etc, but is rarely used by the public, because there are other, far more elegant and formal ways into the East Wing and audience chamber. The doors are unlocked because of the room’s use today and Lagertha pauses to consider just how she’s going to pull this double-agent thing off. Luck seems to be on hers side, however, because she doesn’t have to wait very long until someone comes crashing backwards through the doors, as if he were forcefully thrown against them.
It’s Philipe! Gods above, she could laugh with joy to see a familiar face, but she doesn’t have the time, as he’s pursued by not one, but two soldiers. At least that confirms her suspicions about the focus of the attack (mostly because that’s exactly what Lagertha would do if she were planning something. Open forums are the perfect opportunity for guerilla attacks). Philipe is a competent soldier, but he’s scrambling on the ground with his weapon out of arm’s reach, and Lagertha has the element of surprise. Hiding behind one of the open doors, she waits until a soldier comes into sight and then crouches down and then barrels into him, sword extended and aiming for his abdomen (somewhere lower than the ribs). This would give Philipe time to get to his feet. The soldier is taller than she is, and larger, but is only wearing his decorative uniform. There is no extra protection, and Lagertha came at him from his left side and slightly behind. With all of the soldier’s focus on Philipe, he never had a chance to see her coming.
Her blade slides into his flesh with a little resistance and then she twists her wrist, widening the internal wound. He gasps and sputters, reaching around to find the source of this sudden, life-taking pain, and she meets his gaze calmly. She is no stranger to Death, and has sent many a man to walk its hallowed halls; it may have been a coward’s strike, but better that than let Philipe die. The soldier drops his sword, his eyes narrowing in confusion when he sees it is a well dressed ‘Lady’ behind the attack. She yanks the sword back out and intends to strike him again to ensure that he bleeds out, but before she can, the second soldier is at her side.
He seems to have leapt over Philipe and comes at her with a downward slice, which she blocks up with an upward sweep, and then, finally Philipe is able to be of some help. He sweeps the second soldier’s feet out from under him, which sends the man tumbling to the floor. Unfortunately, in his attempt to catch himself, the soldier swings his sword around wildly and it cuts Lagertha’s face from her jawline to the corner of her eye. It isn’t a deep but, but it stings like hell and will more than likely leave a mark when it heals.
While the first soldier has doubled over on his injured side and has fallen to his knees, he has also found his sword and isn’t above a last ditch effort to inflict some sort of injury before he dies. It is the only time in which Lagertha will be thankful for her skirts, as a thrust that might have sliced deep into her thigh is caught up in the several layers of fabric. She was distracted by the blade tip near her face, and committed a rookie mistake, by taking her eyes off the injured man. Well, that is easily remedied. Dead men swing no swords and tell no tales. With a massive downstroke, she slams the blade into the top of his head, blood splattering all over her. She hears a familiar squelching sound, and turns to see Philipe employing a similar move on the second soldier, his sword lodged firmly in the back of the man’s head.
Quickly, to avoid being seen (because although dead men cannot speak, she can’t do anything about someone that might see her standing over two bodies), she pushes one of the doors shut a leans against it. Philipe pulls his sword from the soldier and wipes the blood off on the man’s shirt, saying, “God, it’s good to see ya, Lag.” He spares her another glance and waggles his eyebrows at her. “Should wear skirts more often, I almost mistook ya fer a Lady.” Lagertha hmphs at him, but before she can say anything else, there are yells of ’Retreat! Retreat!’ and the sound of feet running for the exit. Damn, they’re out of time.
“They’re leaving, Philipe. Quick now, before someone finds us.” She hands him her sword and takes to ripping her skirts, trying to make it look like they were the cause of her failure. “Knock me out and leave me here. Cut my left hand so it looks like a defensive wound.” Lagertha steps away from the door and turns her back to him, continuing with her instructions. “Go down to the end of the hall and take a right, then an immediate left. There’s a hallway leading to a servant’s entrance and it can get you out of here if you hurry.” Philipe starts to protest, but she turns around and glares at him fiercely. “Just fucking do it. I’ll be fine. Keep me in the loop next time, I could have helped you win this one.” She turns back to face the door, and a couple of seconds later her world goes black.
------------------------------
Lagertha wakes with a throbbing in her head and a dull ache in her left palm. Upon further, tentative and tender inspection, she finds that there’s a lump the size of a goose egg on the back of her head, and her left hand is wrapped in a white linen bandage. Maeve bustles in through the the door without knocking, but when she notices that Lagertha is awake, she hastily curtsies and apologizes. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss! I would have knocked, but you’ve been out like a light for the past twelve hours or so. Just assumed ya’d still be sleepin.’” Lagertha waves away her apology with a shake of her head. “really Maeve, it’s fine.” Lagertha touches the knot on the back of her head. “Guess I took quite the hit, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Miss. But you were awfully brave, going out there and trying to help. There was so much blood on you... And that cut to your face… ” Her gaze switches between one of admiration and pity, until it seems that the maid doesn’t quite know what to think of her. She's used to that look. Lagertha shrugs at this, playing it off as humility. “Just what I was trained to do. Tell me, what happened? I came upon one unconscious guard, and then two more men fighting with two soldiers. We started to fight, but one of them tripped me in that dress… I’m afraid after that it’s all black.” Maeve takes a step closer, clearly eager to provide her charge with juicy gossip. “Well, Miss, you won’t believe it! The Resistance attacked the Palace, though they didn’t do a very good job of it. The King and Queen are ok.. The holding room’s a heck of a mess, though. Blood everywhere.” Maeve visibly shudders. “I ain’t good wit blood, it made me queasy. But several Rebels and Guards were killed. They’ll be given a hero’s burial tomorrow.” Lagertha presses her for more, “And Prince Francis?” Maeve blanches a bit, her voice going softer. “Oh… I don’t know, miss. No one’s said anything about him.” But Maeve’s face betrays her lie and Lagertha’s heart flip-flops in her chest.
“I see. That is… that is not good.” It’s all rather confusing. The Resistance is a cause she’s worked tirelessly for for almost a year, and Francis is someone she’s known no more than a few weeks. And yet she finds herself almost ready to pray for his safety, when she should be wishing that the attempt had been successful. It’s enough to make her head ache again. Time to be alone with her thoughts. Time to send Maeve away on a mission. “I’m kind of hungry. Think there’s anything in the kitchens right now?” Maeve hits her forehead with her palm, as if she couldn’t believe she forgot. “Of course! I’ll be right back. You just rest right there.” The blond woman scurries out of the room with a bounce in her step, leaving Lagertha alone, wondering if Philipe and the unknown Rebel made it back ok, and whether or not Francis could be dying because of her.
Everyone is quiet, and yet the room is filled with noise. Feet shift nervously and skirts rustle as the Selected move in impatient agitation. It is a large drawing room, but it feels far too small with the tension filling the air. Mercifully, Francis' address is quick and to the point. The relief that floods her is as unsettling as it is reassuring. She hadn't really expected to make it this far. That her feelings have so quickly become involved scares her. No, not scares, terrifies. She has never before experienced such depth or breadth of emotion, and that she is feeling them now does not bode well for her future success.
As the three take their leave, the proverbial sigh of relief from the remaining girls is almost audible. It does not take long for the chattering to begin. For her part, Heartfire does her best to avoid it. Even if she were interested in befriending any of these young women, it would be a terrible idea to do so. For more reasons than one.
--
The next several weeks pass in a haze of lessons and etiquette and protocol. While she typically enjoys learning, she is not certain it is possible to make what they are trying to teach interesting. The history might have been interesting, fascinating even, if the instructors did not have the godawful habit of glossing over some of the more entertaining (read: controversial) bits. The only bright points in those weeks were the times she was able to spend with the Prince, whether it be only a few moments or a few hours. That she found her time with him so stimulating however, adds another hidden worry to her time here.
Time passes and no more eliminations are made. The tensions between the Selected escalates, and everyone is wondering when the other shoe will drop. As it happens, the dropping of said shoe surprises even Heartfire.
--
They are attending another one of their endless lessons when a massive thud shakes one of the walls. Dust and plaster shake loose, showering the girls nearest the wall with debris as vases rattle and artwork quakes ominously. Several of the girls (Emma and Valerie, she thinks) tumble out of their seats with shrill screams while several more shout in surprise. Some leap from their chairs, some shrink down into them. Heartfire straightens, holding back her own surprised exclamation even as her heart thrums a rapid tattoo against her ribs.
Her first thought, when that tremendous crash echoes, is simply No…
While she had known they would be coming at some point, she had not thought it would be done so… noisily. Or so obviously.
Within minutes, the room has erupted into chaos. Voices are escalating to be heard over the others even as their instructor, Mrs. Lillin, urges calm. But before any semblance of order can even begin to take place, two guards burst into the room.
”Ladies!” one masculine voice booms out, drawing their attention to the speaking guard. ”You must come with us immediately!” Panic erupts before the man’s words have finished leaving his mouth.
”What is going on?” one shrill voice demands. ”We’re going to die!!” another wails. Heartfire can’t quite tell who is speaking in the mayhem, but those squeaky voices cause a sigh of exasperation to escape her lips.
To be fair, not everyone has completely lost their minds. Several of the girls are standing quietly, even if they appear somewhat afraid. One (Claire, maybe?) is standing rather more regally, slightly apart from the others and apparently doing her best to ignore them. Mrs. Lillin is desperately trying to herd girls towards the door. The guards are futilely trying to calm them while simultaneously trying the urge them from the room. With a huff, Heartfire picks up a massive book from a nearby table and holds it high. Then, without any further ado, she drops it onto the floor.
The book makes an enormous CRACK! as it lands the floor, stopping everyone dead in their tracks and drawing their eyes to her. Glaring at them, she simply explodes, ”Seriously!?! Any one of you could be Illea’s next queen. And THIS is how you react in the face of a disaster?” Her tone is laced with irritation as she glares at the crowd of women staring at her with equally dumbstruck expressions (except for the one who apparently has the audacity to scowl at her. If no one else was going to get this bloody mess organized, then she damn well would). She doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. Her question had been rather rhetorical anyway. ”Just follow the damn guards!” she says emphatically, waving one hand abruptly at the pair of men who are also staring at her in surprise.
Fortunately it does not take more than that to spur the guards, men used to following orders at the (literal) wave of a hand, into action. They waste no more time in herding the girls out the door, including her. The silence, unfortunately, does not last nearly as long as she had hoped it would.
As she steps through the door, she looks up to find Claire waiting for her, a mutinous expression on her features. The other girl falls into step beside her, though her body language is anything but friendly. ”Do you think that… display… is going to win you any points?” she demands in a hiss. Heartfire can’t help it, she bursts out in laughter.
Clapping a hand to her mouth, she shakes her head, suppressing her poorly timed mirth. She can hear Claire gritting her teeth as she does so. ”Just because your goal is to secure the crown at any cost does not mean that mine is,” Heartfire replies in a scornful tone. ”Maybe – just maybe – I’m just trying to save lives.”
As Heartfire glances at her less-than-erstwhile companion, she can see her lips compress into a thin line. ”If you’re just trying to save lives,” Claire snaps back, her tone haughty and cold, ”then I am just here looking for love. With that last retort, she stalks forward, effectively cutting off any rejoinder Heartfire might have made.
Damned if she didn’t have a point. Still, that does nothing to stop her from seething.
--
In short order, they have arrived at a safe room. The guards are ushering the girls inside when a group of rebels abruptly appear from around the corner. After a single, breathlessly eternal moment, they are being rushed by men brandishing knives and swards. Chaos erupts as the Selected rush towards the room while the guards draw their weapons to fend off the attacks. For a moment, Heartfire can’t quite tell what is happening as she is being shoved towards the open door in a rush of bodies. Suddenly someone grabs her and she is jerked backwards, her jaw clicking painfully shut with the rush of movement.
There is a whirl of motion and color as she is spun to face her attacker. A pale, square-jawed face fills her vision for a split second before she is shoved backwards into the wall. Unable to halt her momentum, she stumbles, flying backwards and cracking her skull sharply against a small table set against the tiled wall.
--
She knows nothing more until she blinks her eyes painfully open, groaning as consciousness returns to her in a wash of throbbing pain and nausea. A face once again fills her vision, the same pale, square-jawed face she had seen earlier. ”Hey pip!” he says enthusiastically. ”Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t think you’d go flying quite like that!”
Groaning, Heartfire blinks several more times as she tries to bring his face into focus. She knows that face. If only she could think… sitting up abruptly, she suddenly exclaims ”Jinx!” as she recognizes the rascally, unkempt man she had met ages ago when she had first joined up with the Resistance. She immediately regrets the action as her head pounds in protest and her stomach rolls. Doubling over, she groans again as she clutches at her aching head.
”Hey there Heartfire,” he says with concern, catching her by the arm as he lends her support. ”Take it easy. You hit yer head pretty good on that table.”
After several minutes of steadying breaths, she sits up a little more slowly. This time the world stays a little more stable. Fortunately for her (and Jinx too probably), else she might have vomited. ”What… happened?” she finally asks as her mind tries to catch up with events.
”Well,” Jinx begins. ”We came up on you guys, had a little tussle, ya fell and hit yer head, and everything kinda hit the fan from there. Guards were pissed, girlies freakin’ out, so we just kinda grabbed ya and got the hell outta there.” He pauses, grinning like the wild madcap he is. ”They chased us a bit, but I figgered they didn’t wanta leave them other whatsits too long.”
With a quick bark of laughter followed by a low groan, Heartfire gingerly shakes her head. ”You’re mad, Jinx,” she responds, amusement lacing her voice. ”You don’t think they’ll get suspicious, do you?” She sighs, lifting her head to find his merry brown eyes with a frown tugging at the corners of her pale lips. ”I don’t want to leave quite yet.”
”Oooooo!” he teases, wagging a finger in her face before continuing in a singsong voice. ”Someone likes the Priiii-iince!”
Scowling, Heartfire smacks at his hand, missing it entirely. The accusation, however, is unfortunately all too true. So she does the only thing she can think of, she changes the subject. ”What are you guys doing here anyway?”
”Well, as to that,” he says, becoming instantly more serious, ”mostly just stirring up trouble. But if we get the chance, you can bet yer bottom we’ll off the King and Queen.” Heartfire frowns at that. Once the admission wouldn’t have bothered her at all. She likely would have agreed with it. But now, it does not sit nearly so well with her, if for no other reason than it would hurt Francis.
Still, she had committed herself. There is no way she couldn’t follow through. ”The guys’ll be back lickity split. Just went scouting a bit. I didn’t want to leave ya here with that hole in yer head.” The last is said with a lopsided grin that inspires a return smile from Heartfire. Lifting her hand, she feels her head, wincing as she does so. Looking at her hand, she sees blood staining her fingers. Well, crap. That doesn’t look too good.
In minutes the others are back (two men she doesn’t recognize) and Heartfire is struggling to stand. Jinx assists her with a concerned ”You okay?” She replies with only an affirmative nod as she liberally leans on him in order to gain her feet. Once upright, she finds herself quickly steadying. Still, she wouldn’t be surprised if she has a concussion. On the bright side though, it couldn’t be a very bad one. At least she hopes not.
Jinx offers her a knife, which she gratefully takes, before she is asked (more like forcefully told) to lead the way. She knows exactly what they want. She’s just not quite sure if she wants to give it to them. Besides, it’s highly likely the King and Queen are safely tucked away by now.
Regardless, she leads them on a somewhat circuitous route through long hallways and winding galleries, pausing every few hundred yards to still her spinning head and quell her nausea. Finally they arrive at the council chambers where the King and Queen spend most of their time. Biting her lip, she takes a deep breath before indicating the door and stepping back. No doubt she’ll be long gone after this. And even if she weren’t, there is no way she would be allowed to stay. More likely she would be locked up in their deepest, darkest dungeon.
So, gone it is.
But, to her immense relief, the chamber is empty. She wonders, for just a moment, where Francis is and whether or not he is safe. She sure hopes so. The others, however, are clearly disappointed.
They don’t have time to express such sentiments though, as at that moment, a pair of guards appear from a nearby doorway. Suddenly blades are bared and everyone is waving them around like barbarians as warnings are shouted. The guards advance upon them, and Heartfire steps back instinctively, defensively clutching the borrowed knife before her.
Unexpectedly, Jinx grabs her from behind, twisting her arm back and causing her to drop her knife. She squeaks in alarm as she is drawn up against his chest. She freezes when she feels the cold press of a blade against her throat. ”Drop yer weapons,” he growls to the guards, pressing the knife tightly against her neck. ”Or I swear on my mother’s life I’ll do it.”
Heartfire can feel a trickle of blood run down her collar bones, causing her eyes to widen. Damnit Jinx, she thinks caustically. She knows he is not serious (at least, he better not be), but the threat feels real enough.
The guards pause then, glancing at each other before glancing back at them. She can see the indecision on their faces. They know she is one of the Selected, and the desire to protect her wars with their desire to apprehend these intruders. It is plain for the world to see on their faces.
Ultimately, both lower their weapons, placing them on the floor before them with clear reluctance. With a whispered ”Good luck m’dear” in her ear, Jinx shoves her forward, causing her stumble into one of the guard’s arms. The three rebels use the distraction to flee, disappearing around the corner with an astonishing swiftness.
In a trice, the guards have recollected their weapons and are escorting her to her rooms. After enquiring which is hers, they deposit her safely inside with instructions to lock the doors until someone comes to assure her that the palace has been cleared. For once, Heartfire does exactly as she is told before dropping onto the nearest chair in stunned silence.
Nearly half an hour later, another guard (or perhaps the same one) comes and knocks on her door, informing her that all is clear. He is swiftly followed by a maid, who Heartfire, in something of a daze, lets in. Only later, upon reflection, would she realize that she had most likely been in shock. Later still she would be surprised that she could go into shock over an event she had once wanted to happen.
The maid (she should know her name, but for the life of her she cannot remember it right now) tsks over her state and promptly sets about cleaning her up. Heartfire can hear her muttering under her breath, but she is barely paying attention. She needs stitches on her forehead, it would seem, though she only really comprehends what the woman has been saying when she takes a needle and thread to the gash. The sharp sting of the first stitch breaks her out of her stupor, causing her to flinch and gasp simultaneously, eliciting a reprimand from the poor, put-upon maid.
For the remaining three stitches, she sits as still as possible, gritting her teeth in order to bear the renewed pain. When, finally, the maid is done, exhaustion rapidly sets in as adrenaline wears thin. So, when the maid takes her leave, Heartfire can only nod weakly as she stares at her pale, battered reflection in the mirror across the room. Only then does it occur to her that she still has no idea where Francis is and whether he is alright, or even if he survived the attack.
As if she didn’t have enough to worry about already.
Heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
05-13-2016, 03:09 AM (This post was last modified: 05-13-2016, 03:10 AM by Kagerus.)
Out with the golden we sew, and the lower past that crawls.
Now, to the doorway you run, to the girl that's not lost.
She’s on her feet at the first creak of the doorway, hands motionless by her side despite the wayward beating of her heart. It is unlike the woman to be so very nervous, and she feels the foolery of her way as Francis coaxes the skittish women back into their all-but-forgotten couch cushions. The thrum of the blood plays tricks in her ears, the tune of their first dance heard in the racing of the vital liquid.
A flighty little bird of a woman next to her swallows loudly, betraying her nerves; a more set-in-stone broad sits across the way, and Kagerus recognizes her as the woman who she saw just outside the orchard yesterday. In the silence between the women reseating themselves and Francis speaking once more, Rou notes the smugness with which the raven-haired woman carries herself, and decides it unbecoming.
Any notion of competition falls away from the lady as Francis begins his spiel; every eye in the drawing room is set on him. Rou brushes her thumb imperceptibly against the seam of her honey-yellow dress, nerves mounting ever higher the more the heir speaks, his lovely hands - hands which she has held - gesturing flightishly. A pang is felt between her ribs, and she wonders if it is for his benefit, or for hers.
I do not envy your place in this mess, Francis… There are many lovely women seated herein.
Steeling herself as the first name is called out, Kagerus bores her eyes into Francis’, though his are far too ennerved to stay stuck in only one set of his admirers’ eyes. The second name rings through the air, but it is no consolation. She resists the urge to curl her hands into fists… And the third name is called.
She is safe.
Smiling a quiet, reserved smile (unlike the broad across the way who grins wickedly and curls a lock of hair oh-so appealingly between two pristine fingers), Kagerus releases the tension in her knuckles. Her nutmeg eyes glance momentarily to the baby-blue clad woman next to her, the one who had been so nervous; and rightfully so. Tears stream across her downy cheeks, and Kagerus almost leans over to comfort the eliminated. But she does not. She is not here to make friends. Straightening, she concentrates on the congratulations Francis offers to the group of women as a whole. The black-beasty ought to be none of her concern; she is here for Francis.
Hustled neatly back into her chambers as the elimination came to a close, Kagerus passes by two whispering servants, and catches some choice words. An arched eyebrow pointed her escort’s way yields nothing as to what the two schemers were up to; and as she falls asleep that night, secure in the linens and in the knowledge that she shall be seeing the heir once more, she forgets entirely of the incident.
---
The weeks have been passing like the seasons must for God, with an incredible speed; to wit: dates are had, sneaking kisses are exchanged, and the art of diplomacy is learned. Her time with Francis becomes cherished and satisfying; more oft than not the couple finds themselves ensnared in the endless web of philosophy, each with more to say than last was said. Their debates lend each other solace, if not some fun in light of the weary ongoings.
Contrarily, however, Kagerus finds her ongoings to be far from weary. Sir Rhaego, her dear, many-faceted valet, has assumed the role of tutor for the auburn-locked lady. While Rou knows for certain that the other participants (the black-beasty comes to mind) might find their educations as stimulating as the tincture of opium, she soaks it all in like a flower would the sun. Geography, etiquette, dancing, politics, psychology, history, allegiances, you name it, Kagerus memorizes it and excels. Since having her chance at true education snatched away by cruel Father Fate, the woman wastes no time in embracing this opportunity to learn, and to dominate.
On one fine afternoon, all the selecteds have been gathered for a history class, taught by one Sir Bergamot, a bumbling fellow with a passion for his passionless teachings. Many of the women prefer to gaze out of the high windows with dreamy looks in their eyes, while others are so bold as to sleep during the man’s lecture. Kagerus, on the other hand, listens with rapt attention, and even goes so far so to jot down Bergamot’s lesson in her fine, scrawling hand. Today he is teaching them of Thurick, a strong ally of Illea, to the West. As the professor strikes a particularly boring note, Kagerus allows herself to wander just momentarily - I shall have to write to Kavi again tonight, and ask him if he’s met a Thurickan, and --
-- BOOOOOM!
It would seem that her attention is needed elsewhere - here, that is.
Spilling her journal unto the floor, Kagerus leaps to her feet and rounds on Bergamot.
“What was that?” She demands, nutmeg eyes alight with fire - and fear. “Come, good man, do speak!”
But speak the professor does not, for it would seem that he has fainted dead away; the fat little man’s multi-coloured suit glistens wonderfully in the afternoon sun, but that is the only thing that looks wonderful about this situation.
Whirling to face the assortment of whimpering women, Kagerus quickly begins calculating her options. Illean Regulars thunder through the halls, and somewhere far away she thinks she hears swords crossing. A particularly strong beat of her racing heart is the incarnation of her fear for Francis’ well being; but she hasn’t the time, nor the means, to race headlong into battle.
Cunning eyes scouring the hullabaloo of courtesans, Kagerus meets the eyes of the black-beasty. And beasty those eyes are, glaring right into the pits of Rou’s being; a nerve frays, a shiver shimmies down her spine. That malicious look bode uneasily with her; especially when accompanied by a nightmarish grin.
I cannot stay here.
Having intentionally failed to make any friends, and having challenged black-beasty from the get-go, Kagerus knows that she holds no sway over the selecteds, and that none will follow her into whichever danger she throws herself. Surely, none of them seem ready to follow anyone anywhere; the drawing room is a chaotic disarray of colourful fabrics and screeching ladies, all red in the face and weak in the knees.
Luckily, Kagerus grew up in the streets, in the rough of it all; in the back-country, where riots lead by the resistance were not uncommon. She is not one of these weak-kneed ladies; she is the farm girl who grew up walking through the throngs of rioting men to fetch pails of water for the hens. She is the girl who washed the wounds of the Resistance when everything fell quiet, and hers was the quiet voice begging them to set aside their differences with the crown.
It would seem that none heeded her beggings.
Scouring the room for a mechanism of self-defense, her attention alights upon the cord of the luxurious curtains. A hard look of furious concentration delves into her regal visage as the mental calculations continue into the chaos of the attack.
Without any prior indication as to her intentions, Kagerus’ lithe hand snaps to the disgustingly large sapphire hanging around her throat. Breaking the chain upon which it rests with a powerful tug, Kagerus turns to the marble tea-table next to her and whips the jewel on to it.
It shatters magnificently, leaving a pointed shard of material upon its end; cheap sods, she intones mentally, giving us fake riches.
Currently too occupied with her own well being to scrutinize the insult, Kagerus turns and bounds to the curtain cord. Setting to work with her faux-sapphire blade, she cuts off a length of three-foot rope, and ties it around her waist. Figuring that the Regulars can do their job of keeping them safe for just a moment longer, Rou leaps to the next curtain cord and repeats the process.
As a final knot secures the rope about her waist, two rogues appear in the wide doorway of the drawing room. They brandish crude clubs, mouths agape with wonder at their great luck (having stumbled upon a room filled to the brim with women and all). One man’s hands are already working at the string of his britches, his club tucked between his knees; in his hasty lust, he has forgotten simple math.
The rogues are outnumbered, three-to-one.
Praying to God that the timid women would find courage somewhere in their pitiful bosoms, Kagerus raises her voice to a mighty roar, and calls for the women to charge.
For Francis!
Mouth now agape in confusion and dismay, the man with his cudgel between his knees scrambles to re-man his weapon. The moment her brandishes it, however, his britches tumble to the oak-wood flooring, leaving him as lovely as he was whence his mother birthed him.
Which isn’t all that lovely, Kagerus remarks; she can’t think of how to get them out of this mess, but of course she manages to think that.
As twelve-odd women rampage through the doorway, the unclothed man is toppled over into his friend, who manages to rap one of the ladies square on her tail before he, too, goes down. Kagerus, having been at the back of the room fetching rope, is the last to escape the drawing room; almost last, that is. The black-beasty stops next to the fallen men, and for a moment, Kagerus thinks that she will be ‘taking care of them.’ As it is, she kneels next to them and begins to take literal care of them.
When the woman notices Rou staring, she makes as if to reach for a weapon hidden in her bosom; but her eyes flash in warning, and Kagerus understands. Whirling, she scoops her dress into her hand and begins racing through the halls.
Mercy, after all, is mercy.
Her slippered feet pound through endless corridors, and for a time, all is eerily silent. During this time, she hasn’t a clue where she is going, except that she oughtn’t stop. The great tapestries and portraits pass by her in a blur, the carpet beneath her feet turning to marble and back again, and as she rounds yet another corner, she realizes just where she will be of most use.
Doubling back on herself, Kagerus begins sprinting - as best she can in this damned dress - to the northern end of the palace, down flights of stairs and further away from the noise of the fight behind her. Her breath comes loudly and without secretiveness, and her pace begins to slow; the fading of the noises lulls her into unawareness.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A gloved hand slips softly across her mouth, and the shriek which follows is well stifled. Her thrashing limbs avail nothing, and the chuckle radiating from behind her tells her that she is all but done for.
Done for, that is, until her persecutor turns her, slams her against a wall, places one hand over her chiselled throat, and begins reeling up the heavy material of her skirt.
“L-ehhh!” His name comes out as a strangled gurgle, to which he pays no mind. Panic pierces the togetherness of her sanity, and she thrashes all the more; but the pillager has a mind only for the goods lying beneath her petticoats, and thus he continued pushing through the various layers of her dress with a great determination; when one has only one hand to sift with, however, things become difficult. Growing impatient with the stubborn fabric, the rebel lifted his hand from her throat to part the final layer of her clothing from her gentle skin.
“Lion!” That get’s a start out of the man, and for the first time, he looks into her face; recognition slowly bombards his. He releases his victim, taking several steps back until half the room lays between them. She wonders delusionally whether anyone calls him by his street name any more - Lion, instead of Leo.
“What the hell are you doing here, Rou?” His whiskey-worn voice sounds muffled in the closeness of the corridor. His gold eyes glow with heat, with anger, with vengeance; she is lucky to have escaped his grasp.
Bringing a hand to softly caress the bruises which are sure to flourish upon her throat and to incapacitate her verbal prowess, Kagerus swallows with a grimace and leans into the wall behind her before replying.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Silence. Precious time ticks by.
“I was selected, Lion. This is my home for now.” Speaking irritates the damaged tissues of her neck, and she lifts a hand again to fondle the area gently. Her eyes well with tears as she replays the attack in her head, as she realizes how very close she was to losing… everything. A droplet of salt water rolls down the high planes of her face.
“Fuck, Rou, I didn’t know it was you, okay? Don’t cry, god damnit, I hate it when you cry.” Identical memories flash in the eyes of the duo, memories of her bandaging his wounds after a particularly gruesome raid, memories of her soothing his screams and slipping the tincture of opium between his lips, memories of the hardships she helped him get through. For all the strength she pretended to have, during times like those, Kagerus had always cried; and she does now, too.
Her chest heaves once, twice, and then no more; but her eyes continue to implore the man, Lion, no older than she.
“Don’t look at me like that, I have a, a duty a -” He turns and smashes his club into the wall behind them with an unprecedented ferocity, the anger bubbling out of him like lava from a volcano. “I have a duty.” His voice has hardened when he turns to face her once again, and the gold of his eyes has turned to dust. “Now get the fuck out before I perform it.”
Needing no further encouragement, Kagerus turns and flees from the man whose life has rested in her hands many times before; she finds that she does not like having the tables turned.
Without any further interruption, the girl makes her way to the scribes’ post-office. It is quiet in the north-end of the palace, it being the furthest from the main entrance. The thrum of her blood in her ears still plays the tune of her and Francis’ first dance, and it only serves to unnerve her more fully. As she surges into the room filled with bespectacled servants and pacing Regulars, many eyes and swords are drawn in her direction; but at the sight of the tears lining her cheeks and the mess of her skirts, she is taken in with many a comforting word. Before long, clarity has returned to her fragmented mind, and she seats herself at an empty desk. She has a duty, too, and a skill; she will utilize both here. She will not sit idly.
“Soldier,” She calls to a man who seems impatient to have his message written. The single word is enough to draw him to her station, thank God, and with an encouraging nod and a readied quill above a fresh sheet of parchment paper, he begins his detailing of the day's many horrific events.
Attack began at 4:03. One-hundred Rebels stormed the castle. Illean Regulars sent as the first line of defense, followed by our gunmen. Many injuries, rapes, and twelve deaths; eight soldiers, four servants, to wit: Gerald Winston, Peter Redding, Nihlus Coriden, Darcy Ray, Terrance Debruin, Daniel Prescott, Alexander Scott, Toni Scor, Betty Lou, Henrietta Nesbitt, Noori Spring, and Kora Winter. Queen and King have been secured. Castle retaken by Illea an hour after the first strike from the Rebels. Seventeen casualties dealt to the Rebels; twenty-four successfully imprisoned. All others escaped. Wanted posters to be published shortly; the situation is under control.
And on, and on, and on she worked, until her writing became scribbles and the sun became the moon; man after man after man, all in need of a letter written; her hand aches but she dare not stop for fear of her terrors returning. As a particularly monotone doctor hammers out the exact scientific names of the wounds received during the conflict, Kagerus can no longer evade the exhaustion which wholly consumes her; her forehead slumps to the damp ink upon the paper she had been writing on, thereby ruining the entire document.
A servant hastily comes to resurrect the situation, apologizing on behalf of the tired lady. She assures the doctor that she will finish his documentation, but not before summoning a couple of maids to lift Kagerus from her seat.
Her eyelashes flutter, and noises meant to be words slip from the crease between her lips. The two maids murmur softly, agreeing with the unknowledgable jargon spewing from the emotionally fraught woman. They tread at a slow pace, supporting Rou until they finally meander into the lovely depths of her chamber. They set her on the bed, but do not allow her to sleep. Her tears begin streaming then, and she leans towards her pillow, desperate for the embrace of sleep and the dispelling of her horrific memories. With one servant holding Rou fast, the other spoons a gently warm porridge into her silent crying mouth. With some coaxing, the pair manage to slip a small portion of the bowl into the girl’s stomach, and they deem her safe to bed down for the night.
Maneuvering the limp bundle of flesh beneath the sheets, the two maids tuck her in gently, and whisper soothingly to her. Kagerus wants to beg for them to stay, as she knows she will have night-terrors tonight, but her voice has long since left her swollen throat. As the last candle is blown out, Kagerus is left to her silent keening, to the violent contracting of her sobbing stomach, and to the memory of Lion’s hands molesting her body.
When at last Fate beseeches her to be calm, Kagerus’ last conscious thought is of Francis.
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