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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    Round 4- The Elixir
    #1
    Kirin, Besra, and Kagerus have been eliminated. All injuries from the raid will follow you back to horse form.  For 2 RL weeks, you all will suffer from PTSD from the raid. You randomly hear the raid in your mind and should react as if it were real.  

    Royal Notice

    The next few days you are confined to your room, where the maids and guards refuse to hear your argument that your wounds will heal just as well while on the grounds as they will in your bed. A guard is stationed outside of every contestant’s door to make sure everyone did infact stay in their assigned rooms. You were growing more and more restless, not only from the growing cabin fever, but from still having no news of Francis. You ask daily for an update but your questions are ignored or the response is noncommittal. Each day you are unable to get a concrete answer you lose hold on your optimism, more than once you have swallowed the lump in your throat or angrily wiped away the tears that dripped from your eyes. Maybe it wasn’t completely due to Francis, but the lack of information weighed heavily on your mind. 

    By the fifth day you are at your breaking point. You are extremely irritable when your team arrives to see to your needs. Subconsciously you know they don’t deserve your harsh tone and slur of angry words, but it is as if you had no control of it. You throw yourself down by the window which, by now, feels like it mocks you with its glimpse of freedom. There have been more guards patrolling the grounds since the attack and even with the increased manpower, you would rather be walked about with a guard than spend one more moment in your room. You look at your team as they tut and seem sympathetic as the beckon you to come bathe and dress. You don’t see the point why look presentable if it is only for your reflection? But in apology for your poor attitude you go and allow them to do their job without any further lip. Once they are gone, you were again distraught over lack of information and you fight the urge to cry and scream at the same time. The click of the latch was deafening and you were unsure if you could go another day. 

    A while later you hear a knock. You are in such a mood you don’t bother to respond. Unless it is someone coming to take you out of your room or Francis, you didn’t care what they wanted or had to say. The knock sounds again and a voice rings out tentative, and unsure. Muffled by the thick wood door, it takes a moment to realize who it was - Francis. You fly to the door, throwing it wide. Immediately you are in the heir’s arms, before pulling back and searching for the sign of the wound that kept him away for so long .. but see none.  Your ellations sours as you realize Francis has allowed you to stay locked away worried for days. The Heir notices your change and with a sigh, explains the situation. ”Father locked everyone away for the first day, minus his personal guard which searched the palace. He has been .. questioning .. everyone one at a time to find out everyone’s loyalty. He thinks it’s one of you; The Selected. He demanded you all be kept away while the castle was cleaned and the staff was tested. He has yet to find a spy and believes he is right in his logic.  The cleaning finished a day and a half ago, he finished questioning the last servant last night. I have been fighting him on this matter for most the night. He will not be persuaded. Three of the Selected I was unsure of have already gone, and hence been removed from the Selection. It is now your turn. ...I’m sorry about all this, but it is necessary. Francis’ words drop off in defeat and you are instantly nervous. 

    Immediately after he falls silent two guards enter and guide you down the hall by the elbows. The walk takes you to a wing you had yet to encounter and it is not the vibrant and textured decor you had come to know in the palace, but barren, cold and dark. It is similar to a dungeon in feel - it is cold, brisk, unwelcoming. A place lacking shackles but all the same feels just as intrusive. You are lead to a room with a wooden chair that is designed to have a slightly reclined back.  The guards set you down on the chair with a small thump. Your hands are secured with leather clasps and the guards leave you to alone. You wait a moment, trying to figure out how this all happened, how you went from welcomed guest to restrained suspect was hard to come to grips with. Francis sits in a corner on a stool, looking equal parts worried and angry.   

    Francis’ head jerks to the door as the King enters with a man. You have seen the King, and had a few formal interactions, but mostly he observes the Selected from afar or from reports from the tutors. The King explains that the man is one of his interrogators that specializes in a form for “truth-telling” (as the King calls it). With that the King joins Francis in the corner, and the interrogator informs you to drink, while shoving a horrid smelling liquid in front of you. Apparently it is a minor neurotoxin that helps make you susceptible to hypnosis. You panic at the information the interrogator chatters off as if he were discussing the weather - but the toxin is already working, swiftly coursing through your veins and you find yourself loosening, emotions dampen and you feel a little less wound.  A moment later you distantly hear the interrogator say he is ready to begin. You try to fight it at first but the toxins make it impossible to close your mind off, and next thing you know, you drift off into the conscious blackness of hypnosis. Somewhere in your mind you hear someone telling you that you will tell them everything you see in your mind. They prompt you with questions about loyalty, your best and worst leadership qualities. All the while these questions morph into a realistic vision, and you lose track on what is real and what is not ...

    Questions?
    PM: The Selection Committee
    or post in Connect



    Prompt: Describe what you see during the hypnosis (your vision if you will). What do you discover about your loyalty to the kingdom? By the end of your vision your greatest attribute as a ruler/leader should have been revealed to you. You must also admit to at least one fatal flaw about your personality. (Hey, no one is perfect!) You can end your post back in your room waiting for Francis, who should be coming to tell you if you will be staying or leaving.

    All posts are due by Thursday, May 19 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.

    # It might help to think about what makes a good ruler for your post. The Selection Committee, for example, thought of loyalty, empathy, and wisdom... but there are many others.

    # You may power play Francis, servants, soldiers, the King, and the hypnotist.

    #You can still be recovering from your injuries or not, depending on how severely you were injured.

    #As always, please contact The Selection Committee with any questions.
    #2

    peel away the layers till you're nothing and no one

    She spends the next few days in a state of painful uneasiness. There’s still no news on Francis’ wellbeing, and the situation in the contestants’ wing is, well, tense. She’d personally been rather shocked when the guards had first appeared, but despite being aggravated by the confinement, she hadn’t argued with them, unlike some of the other contestants. Really, there’d been no point - it’s not like she could’ve fought her way past them and out of the castle (they’d taken her knife away after all). And besides, there is still that slightest, remotest chance that Francis won’t mind the ugly cut (soon to be scar) marring her face … she doesn’t want to completely ruin her chances. If the contest is still happening that is.

    But as the days roll by her anxiety continues to grow. What if something had happened to Francis? One would assume that they would tell the contestants, unless they suspected that one of the contestants was involved …

    It would be the perfect cover, really. Pretend to be interested in marrying the prince, take the opportunity to get close to him, and then one day when he’s least expecting it …

    After all, Kirke’s own experience in the battle had proven how unprepared men are for women who can actually fight.

    But even though it’s plausible, Kirke can’t entirely believe that explanation. She’d met these women, eaten with them, taken classes with them, and while she’d made a determined effort not to befriend any of them (why befriend your competition?) she has a hard time believing that any of them would actually harm Francis. All of them had seemed to genuinely care for the prince, and all of them were from much the same situation as Kirke - lowly peasant girls. Why would they throw away their chance at being royalty?

    Even with that possibility potentially crossed off, Kirke still can’t help but be nervous. This state of not-knowing is truly awful. She has no idea whether Francis is dead or alive, or perhaps even lying weak and injured in his palace rooms. And worse, she has no idea of what her own fate will be. Will they lock her away in the dungeon? Execute her? Put her back into the competition (if Francis is alive)? Or will she simply be kicked out the door and sent on her way? She hates to think of the smug look on Airy’s face if that were to happen.

    When the fifth day rolls around her poor mind is still full of these questions and more. She barely hears the knock at the door and in her dour mood completely fails to greet her team of servants when they begin to tumble into the room. She glares past all of them through the bedroom door as it slips close, once again shutting out the world that she’s so eager to rejoin. What had she done to deserve this?

    As her servants begin to bustle about she throws herself down beside the bedroom window, staring blankly out at the grounds. Only a week before she would have still marvelled at the sight, but now it only makes her feel angrier. She would give anything to leave this blasted room.

    The servants ignore her rudeness, which she appreciates. None of them deserve it, they’re just doing their jobs. She feels guilty for being so awful to them, but she can’t muster up the energy to be the pleasant and polite village girl that they’d dressed in the weeks before the battle. She’s too tired, too angry, too anxious.  

    But when they beckon for her she forces herself up off the window seat cushions, and allows them to bathe her, dress her, and paint her face as if preparing her for a ball. They are just doing their jobs. She might not feel enthusiastic about their presence, but she won’t make it difficult for them. Even if she can’t see the point in what they’re doing. Who’s she really going to be impressing while locked in her room?

    When she’s finally all dolled up they slip away, casting apologetic sidelong looks at her as they walk back through the bedroom door. She can sense the pity in them, but why? What fate does the crown have in store for her?

    When the last servant finally leaves she moves back to the window, slumping back down on the soft silk cushions. Her purple eyes stare blankly out into the grounds, only occasionally picking up details of what she’s seeing - the palace gates, the gardens, the lake far off in the distance …

    Sometime later (she’s not sure how long, time has become one long, dull blur), a loud knock sounds at the door. She doesn’t bother to answer. She’s a prisoner after all, there’s no point in perpetuating the illusion that she has any choice over who enters her room. It rings out a second time and she sighs loudly, waiting for the person to loose patience and open it themselves when … “Lady Kirke?”

    Kirke sits bolt upright, frozen. “Lady Kirke?” It is him!

    She flies off the window seat and races to the door, throwing it back so quickly that it crashes into a delicately painted lake scene that hangs on the wall. The painting falls, but she doesn’t notice - she’s already in Francis arms, throwing decorum to the wind and holding him close. But almost as quickly she pulls away, searching for any sign of the injury that must have kept him away from her.
    
But there is none. Her joy quickly sours to anger and suspicion.

    Francis senses her change in disposition. He reaches out with tentative fingers to her cut cheek, but she pulls away. He sighs. “Father locked everyone away for the first day, minus his personal guard which searched the palace. He has been … questioning … everyone one at a time to find out everyone’s loyalty. He thinks it’s one of you; The Selected. He demanded you all be kept away while the castle was cleaned and the staff was tested. He has yet to find a spy and believes he is right in his logic.  The cleaning finished a day and a half ago, he finished questioning the last servant last night. I have been fighting him on this matter for most the night. He will not be persuaded. Three of the Selected I was unsure of have already gone, and hence been removed from the Selection. It is now your turn. … I’m sorry about all this, but it is necessary.”

    It appears her earlier theory had not been entirely foolish. Or at least, the King does not think so.

    As his voice drops off she’s instantly hit with a wave of nerves. Her legs feel shaky and she sags to her side, putting a hand up to the door frame to prevent herself from falling. What … questioning … methods might the King have in store for her? She’s good under pressure … but torture?

    Two guards immediately enter and grab her by the elbows, guiding her out of the room and down the hall. Even though it’s the first time she’s been out of the room in days all she feels is fear. They continue to walk until they reach a wing of the palace that she hasn’t been in before. This part of the palace is drab and barren, it feels ominous in comparison to the extravagant opulence of the rest of the palace. It makes her think of a dungeon, though it’s lacking in prison bars and shackles.

    She’s led to a small room with an odd looking chair in the centre and her fear deepens when she notices the leather clasps. The guards set her down on the chair and then none too gently strap her in. They leave, but Francis moves to a stool in the corner of the room and sits, his expression hard to interpret, though he seems upset.

    She’s watching Francis when the door opens, and the prince’s head jerks up. Kirke’s eyes quickly follow, and her nerves increase yet again when she realizes that it’s the King and another man. She’s had few interactions with the King so far, all formal, and she has a feeling that this particular interaction is going to be a lot less pleasant. That feeling is confirmed when the King introduces the other man as one of his interrogators - a man specializing in truth-telling.

    This is going to be ugly.

    The King steps back to join Francis and the man steps right up to her, shoving a foul-smelling liquid under her nose. He explains that it’s a neurotoxin that will make her susceptible to hypnosis and when he orders her to drink it, she tips her head back and opens her mouth. What’s the point in resisting? She’d just get more bruises and still be forced to drink the damn thing anyway.

    The interrogator tips the entire container down her throat, and she chokes and splutters as the horrible concoction hits her tongue. The interrogator begins chattering about something, but she’s not paying attention - she can already feel the toxin beginning to work. The edges of the room begin to darken, the King and Francis in their corner become a blur. She feels at peace suddenly, her nerves magically drifting away. It’s kind of nice actually. She’s been so anxious lately. It’s nice to not have to care.

    She distinctly hears the interrogator say that it’s time to begin, and he mentions something about loyalty, and leadership qualities. Strange, she thinks, as she slips off into blackness. She really hasn’t given much thought to these things before.

    The first thing that swims into clarity is her father. Kirin, leader of the Church of Khaos, son of Khaos himself. He’s a handsome man, tall and lean with a chiseled jaw, close cropped blonde hair and the same vibrant purple eyes that Kirke has. He smiles at her - an expression that instantly fills her with light and happiness. She hopes so much that she can make him proud. A figure appears behind him - the iron statue of Khaos (his body as they call it in the Church), though it takes her a moment to recognize it. But as quickly as Khaos appears he disappears again. It’s not their god that she loves, truly, only her father.

    Kirin is quickly joined by other members of her family - her uncles, damnable Airy, and her younger siblings Halocyn, Apothyx and Kaide. They all smile at her, even Airy, and beckon her forward to join them. Kirke can feel a smile break across her face in return, and she tries to reach her arms out to them, though the are strangely still. It doesn’t matter though - she steps forward and they all pull her into their arms, pulling her forward until …

    No. Not this.

    She doesn’t want to remember this, she’s blacked it out. She doesn’t want … oh Khaos she doesn’t want Francis to know this part of her.

    Her family forces her up in front of an empty door frame and push her inside. She tries to keep her eyes closed - she doesn’t want to see this, she doesn't want to remember. And yet somehow, despite her closed eyes the vision continues.

    She’s in a small, windowless wooden room. There’s a single candle on a table to her left, providing the only light in the room. To her right stands her father, holding a squalling purple-eyed newborn. And there in front of her …

    No, no, no, she doesn’t want to remember this.

    A dishevelled woman lies on a plain straw pallet. She’d been pretty once, but her looks have long left her due to malnutrition and abuse. She looks exhausted - she’s panting slightly, and sweat drips from her brow, mixing with tears that are falling from her eyes. Beside her kneels an oh-so-familiar 10 year old girl. The girl is shaking, her trembling arms holding a long hunting knife high above the woman’s neck.

    Kirin’s voice rings out, echoing through the depths of her memories. “We can't have daddy unhappy can we Kirke?” Then, the girl’s voice, tentative, weak - she’s crying too. “No.” Then - “do it now.” The girl’s hands tighten about the wooden handle … then she brings the knife down. The woman doesn’t even try to resist.

    Kirke’s world dissolves into a wash of blood and tears. She’s tried so hard to shut out that memory, tried for so long to tell herself that she doesn't care about what happened, that Carys … no, her mother … had deserved it …

    And all because of her desperation to win her father’s affection. It’s her greatest flaw really, her crazy need for her father’s approval. It had started with Airy, stunningly beautiful, talented, perfect Airy. Kirke had seen the way Kirin had looked at Airy, the way his eyes had shone with pride every time she mastered a new task. And Kirke had wanted that.

    Her poor mother had been ill-equipped to provide the affection she so desired. Carys been downtrodden in Kirin’s house, considered nothing more than a vessel to bear children. And young Kirke had seen the way her father had sneered at the broken down woman … and had joined in.

    Had Carys deserved to die the way she had? Even though, deep down, she knows she hadn’t, Kirke can’t help but hope that her mother had truly been an awful person. She can’t help it because, if Carys had been blameless and innocent, what would that say about her murderer? What would that say about Kirke?

    Eventually the red dissipates and her tears slow. The background of black and red becomes soft and golden. And a face appears before her.

    Francis. Oh Francis.

    He really has been a light in her sad excuse for a life. She’d joined the contest hoping to draw her father’s eye, make him proud, but over time her participation in the selection had morphed into something more.

    She … dare she say it … she loves Francis. Perhaps not the rich full love that comes with knowing and compromising with someone for a long, long time, but she loves him all the same - a fledging love that she still does not fully understand. A love that scares her. Because she knows he could never love her back. She’s flawed, broken. Her face is now marred, but it doesn’t even compare to the damage done to her soul. No one could love her.

    And - there it is. Her real flaw. The real flaw that runs right down to her deepest being.

    She’s desperate for love, whether it be from her father or from Francis. And she doesn’t believe she deserves it.

    And yet …

    And yet she still strives for it, somehow. Even if she believes that she’s without hope, a part of her still keeps fighting. It’s why she keeps trying to catch her father’s attention, why she’d joined the contest, why she’s worried herself silly these past few days over Francis’ wellbeing.

    It’s pathetic really, and yet a part of her suddenly begins to feel proud. Because, if nothing else, she at least hasn’t given up. Not truly. Even though she’s been handed a poor hand in life she still clings on and tries to fight her way to the top, no matter how unlikely success might seem. It’s … tenacity.

    It’s the trait that had kept her mentally in one piece growing up in the Church of Khaos, the trait that had kept her level headed during the battle, that had allowed her to get to her knife, kill those rebel fighters, find the servants quarters. It’s allowed her to survive.

    And, as the interrogator’s voice whispers in her vision - “leadership …” - she comes to the realization that it’s her best leadership quality too. That tenacity and levelheadedness has allowed her to wrangle her younger siblings through all the years, and it had allowed her to bring that wounded soldier back to reality and make him help her.

    And if she were to be Francis’ wife, she would bring that same quality to her duties in the kingdom. She would fight tooth and nail for her husband and for her subjects. Because her loyalty isn’t truly to the kingdom itself - it’s to the people she cares for.

    But it doesn’t matter. It won’t happen. She’ll either be imprisoned in the palace dungeon or executed. Because no King would want his son marrying a woman capable of matricide.

    She’s done here. It’s over.

    Her vision of Francis dissolves in tears.
    ____________________________________________________________________

    Some time later her vision begins to clear. The cold, dark room swims into focus. The King is gone, the interrogator is gone … and Francis is gone. She chokes back a sob, and a guard that’d been leaning against the wall stands up straight. “My lady, are you in control of yourself?” She nods weakly, and the soldier approaches and undoes the leather straps. “I’m under orders to take you back to your quarters.” She doesn't protest and he helps her up, and they begin the long walk back to her rooms.

    She doesn’t remember anything from the walk back. Everything is just one long blur.

    When they reach her rooms and the soldier opens the door, she heads straight for the bed, not bothering to change into her nightclothes. She climbs in under the covers, clinging to one of the silken pillows for comfort.

    She wishes she knew what she’d said. The visions had seemed so, so real, and she has no idea what had been only in her head, and what had actually come out of her mouth. But knowing her luck it hadn’t been anything good. She’s kind of glad though that she hadn’t been able to see Francis’ real face. She wouldn’t have wanted to see the shock and horror there when her secrets had been revealed.

    Tears begin seeping from the corners of her eyes, and she burrows deeper under the covers. There’s nothing she can do but wait … and see what fate the royals have chosen for her.

    kirke

    #3

    I was in the darkness
    --so the darkness I became


    The place she had once felt so warm and welcomed was quickly becoming her prison cell.

    The smooth stone walls had lost all of their grandeur, after having stared at them endlessly for days on end. At the window, birds trilled outside, seeming to mock her with their endless freedom. She felt like a caged panther, slinking across the room in measured steps, turning quickly as she met the edges of the her confines. Even the food seemed to have lost some of its taste, or perhaps it was only her own misery that was tainting it. Since the raid, she had been placed in her room and kept there, not leaving even to eat. A royal guard stood watch at her door at all times, and any attempt to speak to him was met with a stony silence. When she had arrived, she had been welcomed, adored even. With her lay the possible promise of a marriage; a marriage that would ultimately (or at least, hopefully) include children, and children were the ultimate promise that the royal families reign here would continue. But now she was being treated like some sort of criminal despite what she had done to protect the castle. Bitterness rose in her throat like bile at just the thought. Before she realized it, the book she held in her hands was flying across the room, coming to a quick halt as it slammed into the polished wood of the armoire. It landed in a heap on the floor, several pages torn loose from the binding and looking more dog-earred than it had before. She sighed, slowing her angry pacing and going to retrieve it. If only she could write a letter to her parents; but of course, out going post from the contestants had been forbidden. She was on her own entirely now, with nothing but an iron clad will and remarkable stubbornness to get her through.

    Walking across the room she replaced the book on its shelf, setting it beside the few others she had brought with her. As she did so a knock came at the door and Topsail wheeled around, instantly alert and jerked from her personal misery. These knocks came several times throughout the day, and each one meant a chance to pry for some shred of information. Of course, the servants had become as tight-lipped as the guard out front, and even Mrs. Lanham had ceased her motherly chatter. Most of her questions were answered silently, with either a sympathetic smile or a grimace. Sometimes she could squeeze out a “Yes” or a “No” and the occasional “You just need to stay here and rest and heal“, but mostly, silence. Heavy, overwhelming silence. Topsail cleared her throat and smoothed her skirt, eager to make a good impression this time. Not that she had ever been overtly rude to anyone, but the implications were surely there in the icy, clipped quality of her voice. Not this time though. This time, she would put those charm classes to good use and turn it on. A smile here and a tinkling laugh there, even an attractive blush if she could catch the eye on a young manservant. Plan in place she called back “Come in, please!”, waiting patiently with her hands clasped loosely in front of herself. But it was only Mrs. Lanham and another elderly maid who entered and Topsail was hard pressed to suppress a groan. These old hags were much harder to charm something out of than some young, hot-to-trot manservant would have been. Looking back now she considered it a gap in her studies that she wasn’t taught something on how to deal with steely old women. Never the less, she smiled (as was expected), gave them a little bow (as was expected), and all but laid out the red carpet to welcome them into her room. Or prison cell, whichever one preferred. Of course they would call it a room, but she was very quickly learning an entire new view of the place.

    “You know, Mrs. Lanham, the weather looks beautiful outside. Only this morning I could hear meadowlarks singing, and my, how I’d like to join them. Might I go visit the grounds, and possibly the stables?” she said, letting a certain sparkle shine in her blue eyes. Mrs. Lanham only smiled that infuriating smile as she shook her head and clucked like a hen. “Now my dear, we’ve been over this. You’re in much too delicate of a constitution to go wandering around out there. If something were to happen to you, it would be my head on the platter, Miss.” she replied. Her words were like salt to a wound and Topsail felt her temper flaring. It was true, the bruise on her face had reached a magnitude of colors, and there were several stitches on her chest. But she wasn’t bed-ridden, for heavens sake! “But Mrs. Lanham…surely, the sunshine would be just the right tonic! Why, I can’t even feel the stitches anymore, and with a certain amount of makeup the bruises aren’t even all that visible!” Mrs. Lanham was quickly loosing her patience, as was evident by the fierce look she rounded on Topsail. “Enough of this discussion. You’re to stay put, and if you try any funny business, the man at the door will put you right back here where you belong.” Topsail wasn’t sure what to say, for she had never seen the kindly old woman look so flinty. The other elderly maid just shook her head, whether at Topsail or Mrs. Lanham, Topsail didn’t know. Clearly, she would be of no help, the dimwit. “Its just as you say, Mrs. Lanham, forgive me. But please, tell me how Francis is. I’ve heard nothing since the attack.” Topsail replied, bowing her head with what she hoped was just the right amount of apology. Mrs. Lanham softened somewhat, and Topsail grew hopeful. It was all for naught, though. “Again, you’re asking questions of stuff you’ve no business knowing. Mrs. Casto has been preparing your bath. Go, get in.” And that was that. Shot down like a duck from the sky. Topsail could actually feel the smile fall from her face, to be replaced with a icy glare that could have moved a mountain from her path. She couldn’t even think of a response. With waves of animosity rolling off of her and one last hateful glare, she went into the bathroom like any good lady in waiting would do.

    She flopped down in the water, feeling less like a potential princess and more like a lobster stewing in a pot. It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if steam were rolling from her ears. These maids were infuriating! What with their carefully crafted smiles and rehearsed answers. They were insufferable, the whole lot of them. She bathed quickly, and before the water had started to get cold she was out and dripping onto the floor. With a grimace she walked over to what was probably a very expensive rug, and took extra care to drip all over that too. By the time she dried off and started getting dressed, she was in a sour mood indeed. After all she had done to help the kingdom, she was being treated like a common criminal! They acted as if she, Topsail, had been amongst the hoard storming up the driveway with torches in their hands and malice in their hearts. As she stepped from the bathroom the team of dressers came forward, already holding out the gown she was to wear. “What a fancy gown! Almost too fancy for a prisoner, wouldn’t you say?” The word “prisoner” came out in a hiss, and the dressers eyed her as they would a poisonous snake. Unsurprisingly, they said nothing, but went about their work hemming and creasing as needed. For her part, Topsail glared at them all, for she was in no mood for these shenanigans. She wanted answers, and not a damn fancy dress to wear while she sat on the bed and stared at the wall. When the hair dresser had coiffed her hair just right and the last stitch had been put in the dress, she was left alone again. Like a zoo animal she began pacing again, though she found the rustle of silk to be most annoying so she plopped down on the window seat instead. A bird landed just outside the pane, staring at her with its beady bird eyes. What she wouldn’t give for a set of wings right about now… Glaring, angry, she barely registered the knock at the door. She didn’t even bother to disguise the rolling of her eyes. Probably one of those dim-witted old bats back to treat her like a child. She didn’t answer, knowing full well they would come in after a moment anyways. But the door remained closed as Topsail glared at it. Finally another knock, and a soft clearing of the throat. Topsail knew that voice, but surely not? “Topsail?” came his voice, Francis’ voice, and all at once the animosity shed from her body like a coat in winter.

    She rose from the bed as he opened the door, clearly taking her stony silence as permission to enter. For a moment they just stared at one another, until finally she was finding it difficult to keep her panther-like gaze in place. He was just as handsome as she had remembered. Forgetting daintiness and replacing it with urgency, she flew across the room and into his arms. He smelled clean and of some type of expensive after shave. His chest was warm so she lingered there, content with the feel of his heart beating against her cheek. But wait…pulling back and away from him, she frantically searched his eyes. “I hope I’ve not hurt you, its only that I’ve missed you. No one would tell me anything! You could have been slaughtered like a pig at market, but no one would tell me a damn thing!” she cried, allowing tears for the first time since she had killed the rebel in the hallway. Up until now she had refused to show a single sign of weakness, but under his gaze she found it acceptable. Before he could answer, realization dawned on her and she stepped farther back to take all of him under her gaze. “But you’re not hurt, are you? So why was I kept in the dark? Why was I let to set here and wonder and worry?” She was hurt now, and that pain dried the tears up like a puddle in July. Francis sighed, his own gaze falling to the floor. Not that she could blame him; her time in captivity was ample opportunity for her to work on her best sneer. “You must understand…this wasn’t my choice. But father is rather bullheaded, and he has been doing a thorough investigation of everyone in the castle. From the royal guards to the servants…hell, I think he’s even questioned the man who brings the vegetables. Everyone has passed…so he believes its one of you. The Selected.” he paused, though he still refused to look her in the eye. She was pacing again anyways, and like a panther in a cage, she felt rage blossoming in her chest. “I’ve already sent home three who I was unsure about. The others have all been questioned. Its your turn now. Topsail, you’ve no idea how sorry I am about this, but father won’t be swayed. He insists, and when he insists, we all do as he says.” His face was heavy with emotion, one Topsail couldn’t quite identify. Her own face mirrored his, as the rage was replaced by an uprising of nervous butterflies in her stomach. “What do you mean? What’s going to happen?” she asked, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “Just do as your told. It’ll all be fine…” he said, and she could hear the lie in his voice. As his voice trailed off two guards trailed in, and it was all she could do to force down the contents of her stomach back into their proper place.

    A guard on each side, she was marched from her room. A part of her wanted to look back over her shoulder and plead, wordlessly, for Francis to do something. But that stubborn part of her refused to show him that weakness. He had let them do this to her for this long, so it was clear he was in no position to save her, even if he wanted. The guards at her sides were a quite couple, though more than once Topsail had to stop herself from telling them to get their damn hands off of her. Its not like she was going to make a break for it in her ridiculous silk confection of a dress. But she kept her lips closed tight, giving her mouth an unattractive, pinched look. Through the castle they march, the lady in silk and her “knights in shining armor”. She is led off down a wing she’s never been before, and because of the furious nerves tainting her senses, she doesn’t notice the floor sloping slightly beneath them. Finally, they led her into a small room. It was cool, carved of roughly hewn stone. There were no oriental rugs here; only a rough wooden table, behind which 1 men sat. In the center of the room was a chair, high-backed and equipped with several leather straps. The sight of the chair made her heart race, though she refused to let it show. She wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if her heartbeat could be seen through her dress though, for it was pounding along at a rapid pace. With a start, she realized Francis was at the table. The door she had just entered through swung open again, revealing the King. He was dressed casually, but the crown atop his head was a dead giveaway. She didn’t know the other man and right now, didn’t care to. She gave Francis a nervous, tight-lipped smile. He didn’t return it, which only made her nerves that much worse. “Let us begin…”

    Quickly the guards sat her down, securing her to the chair with the straps. They were uncomfortably tight or perhaps it was just her imagination. Having been confined for so long, she was on edge already. Immediately, a light sheen of sweat broke out over her forehead and beneath the leather, which did nothing to settle her down. The king and the unknown man stood in front of her and beneath their heavy gazes she squirmed a bit. “This is the kingdom interrogator. Drink what he offers you, and don’t delay or drag this out. He will be giving you a minor neurotoxin, which will make you easy for hypnosis and as such, truth telling.” she could barely register the kings words as the foul-smelling drink was shoved in her face. She wanted to protest, wanted to wiggle and writhe and refuse to drink it. But what was the point? Not to mention, she had nothing to hide. She had come here with the right intentions, hadn’t she? With a glance at Francis she opened her mouth obediently, gagging as the elixir reached the back of her throat. “Throw up, and you’ll drink it again.” said the unnamed interrogator, unfazed by the tears rolling from the corners of her eyes. Closing her mouth she swallowed hard, taking the entire thing like a drunk would down a whiskey. Immediately, she felt the effects of it. Her vision became hazed, and all of their voices sounded as if they were underwater. Her head lolled about on her shoulders, and Francis’ image became nothing more than a blur. Far off (or so it seemed) she heard the interrogator say to the king “She’s ready. Let us begin.”

    All at once, she felt at peace with the world and all of its inhabitants. She was cruising along on the drugs high, unable to even comprehend the notion of the ground, let alone see it. She was vaguely (very vaguely) aware of the interrogator asking her questions, but somehow she answered them. “Where do your loyalties lie, girl?” Was that anger? She didn’t know, didn’t care. “They lie with the kingdom, of course. Here. But I wonder sometimes why our people starve…” she said demurely, her voice trailing off.

    Suddenly, she was standing in the palace with Francis. She was the queen to his king. And they lived comfortably, but simply. Excesses were done away with, and as such, the entire kingdom had begun to swell. Gone were the down trodden faces of the poor, who so often went hungry. Only the young and the very elderly were without jobs, as it should be. But the vision changed and blurred, and before long she was visiting what would make her a good ruler. The vision was largely the same; her in a simple gown, him a simple shirt and trousers. Of course, there were plans for economic change, but was there something more? She had a will forged from the strongest iron and a stubborn streak a country mile wide. There was never a fight that she would back down from, even if she had bitten off more than she could chew. But that was all carefully cloaked beneath a porcelain exterior, an exterior that could soothe and relax whereas a man might simply intimidate. Her strength, like a forest fire, was quiet but undeniable. She wasn’t sure if she said any of this out loud, for her head was still swimming several miles above her body. It was all good things though, right? Lolling her head about she tried to focus on Francis, but it was like she was viewing him through a foggy window so she gave up. “What is your fatal flaw? You’re not perfect…where is the chink in your proverbial armor?” came a voice in some distant corner of her brain. Interesting question…she was stubborn, but that wasn’t always a bad thing. Her mind flickered back to her mother, lying on dirty sheets and begging for a doctor they couldn’t afford. She should have stayed home with her, but instead she was here…

    (“Mother, I must go! You understand, don‘t you? Think of all the changes I could make!”“Of course my dear…it would be a shame if you didn‘t. Please, darling, don‘t worry for me.“ Her smile couldn‘t hide her lie, but Topsail pretended not to see it).

    She was like a tick on a dogs back, growing fat on the luxuries she was provided here. (She was in a hot, steaming bath, watching her mother wipe herself down with a lukewarm rag. She was eating ham and sausage and steak, while her mother sipped gruel.). Her mother had only crossed her mind a few times, and in her letters she had never once asked her father how her mother was doing. It was easier not to know; to know meant to worry, and to worry meant clouding of her judgment here. Here here here, in the castle. Not in a single room cabin along a dusty road on the outskirts of town.

    (She watched through the window as her mother toiled away on her bed made of straw. Meanwhile, she was draped in the finest silk confections the kingdom had to offer. For the greater good, you know.)

    “I’m selfish…”

    Her lips moved, but the words were far away. Tears followed the words, rolling down her pretty ivory cheeks. “I should have stayed home and cared for her. But the chance to become an heir, why, it was more than I could pass up. There will be other days with her, right? She has made it this long I suppose. Here I can make a real change, for everyone.” A sob sprang from her throat and she was powerless to stop it. “I can’t see past the greater good to ease the suffering of one…” And it was true. That was her flaw. She was so hell bent on helping the masses (not for personal gain, you see) that she had neglected the suffering of one individual. She didn’t know exactly what type of person that made her, but it probably wasn’t a good one. It could be viewed so many ways but by now, she was beyond the point of caring. The high of the elixir had faded into gut wrenching realization, and all she wanted was to lie in her bed and cry.

    She was only vaguely aware of the straps being removed from her arms. There was pressure above her elbows, and she stood obediently as the guards tugged. The drugs were fading away but the lingering guilt was enough to make her sick. She couldn’t even look in the direction where Francis had been, not wanting to see disappointment on his handsome face. She had enough of that to deal with, and it combined with guilt were a heavy combination. Slowly the guards led her back to her turret room, and more than once she thought she saw them exchanging glances over her head. It was probably her imagination, which was running rampant thanks to the elixir. Even though the drug had faded from her system, she could still picture her dying mothers face, clear as a bell. finally they reached her room, stopping as the guard on her left leaned forward to open it. She stumbled inside unassisted, making a beeline for her bed. But as she sank into the goose down she immediately felt guilty, so instead she got back up. Sitting down on the hearth, with her back against the rough stone, she was hugely uncomfortable. But it was what she deserved. Tears flowed down her cheeks and she did nothing to stop them, but simply stared unfocused into the distance. Now only time would tell, if she had done any good at all.





    topsail

    #4

    Show them the joy and the pain and the ending

    The day after the attack, she is grateful to be left largely to her own devices. Her head aches fiercely most of the day, and all she really wants to do is sleep. When not sleeping however, it seems all she can do is worry about Francis. She asks after him several times, but receives no real news as to his health or whereabouts.

    By the second day, she is feeling much recovered and ready to resume her activities. This is when she discovers that she is in fact confined to her room. At first she is somewhat dumbstruck, unable to believe that this is the case. But the moment she tries to open her door (which she does twice just to test their diligence and the third time simply out of spite), she is halted by the guard standing duty outside her door.

    At first she is only irritated. What the hell is the meaning of this? But then the implications set in and she is consumed by worry. The what ifs and why fors plague her mind, causing her to pace the confines of her room (prison, even if it does happen to be elegantly appointed) for much of the afternoon.

    By the third day, her worry is giving way to anger, and by the fourth, she has passed the threshold from anger into full blown fury. Each day her questions go unheeded and unanswered, leaving her entirely in the dark.

    Regardless of what they might believe of her, what possible reason could they have for keeping isolated and clueless? What possible reason could Francis have to justify such treatment?

    Certainly none that would satisfy her currently enraged state.

    The fifth day dawns much like the previous four, except for the bubble of anger that tightens her throat and the intolerable restlessness that has taken hold of her spirit.

    Jillee, the young maid who wakes her each morning, is clever enough to steer well clear of her in her current mood. Of course, the ill-tempered muttering and slamming of every door she comes in contact with could have something to do with that too. Heartfire only speaks to her to make a now-familiar demand for information. Of course she gets nothing of use, causing her temper to ratchet up yet another notch. She wants nothing more than to scream at her, to inform her of how utterly useless she is, but a small bit of still-human decency prevents her from doing so. Deep down, she knows it's not really her fault.

    That's not quite enough to halt her furious glowering and muttered curses however.

    Jillee beats a hasty retreat the moment her services are no longer needed, and Heartfire cannot say that she blames her. She knows that she is terrible company in her current state.

    Besides, she would much rather be left alone to stew in her own displeasure. At this rate, she would sooner end up in some dank dungeon for murdering some hapless guard than for any one of her myriad other crimes.

    Heartfire is lying flung face-down across her wide bed when the knock sounds faintly across the next room. If her face were not pressed into the down comforter on the bed, her glower likely would have burned holes straight through the walls separating her from the unwelcome intruder. Another useless servant is her first spiteful thought upon hearing that faint sound.

    But the knock sounds again, followed by a low voice she recognizes all too easily. Jerking her head up, she hesitates for a brief moment, wondering if perhaps her ears are playing tricks on her. But deciding anything is better than more boredom and unrelenting anger, she leaps to her feet, tripping in the folds of her dove gray skirts in her haste. Once at the door, she flings it open, causing the thing to slam against the wall.

    Francis, who is indeed standing in her door, flinches at the abrupt noise. Fury wars with relief as she drinks in his perfect golden (and perfectly uninjured) features. As far as she is concerned, there is no reason good enough to excuse her imprisonment, though if he had at least been injured, she might have tried to forgive him.

    As it stands, the urge to punch him is rapidly outstripping the urge to hug him.

    Jaw clenched, she stares at him with fiery blue eyes in obstinate silence, resisting the urge to do either. It would be nearly impossible to miss her stony anger, and Francis is far from dense. With a regretful sigh, he offers her an explanation which does little to sooth her.

    In fact, it downright terrifies her. Fortunately white knuckled fists and furrowed eyebrows can just as easily be mistaken for anger as fear. ”What?” she demands breathlessly. ”He… what?

    The question itself is rhetorical. She understands perfectly well what he is saying. But disbelief wars with dread in a way that is impossible for her to articulate. Francis does not get a chance to respond, as two guards are already sweeping in to draw her away. Instead he smiles sadly, apologetically, before saying simply, ”I'm so sorry, my dear.”

    And, astonishingly enough, she actually believes he means it. She only wishes it changed anything. Despite her anger with him, she finds the thought of losing him far more painful than she would have once believed possible.

    --

    In less time than she would have preferred, they have arrived at a small, sparsely furnished chamber. In one corner rests a rather forbidding chair that dwarfs the smaller wooden stool next to it. In the middle rests a single slightly reclined seat, clearly meant for her.

    Swallowing, Heartfire surreptitiously wipes her damp palms on her dress, feverishly reminding herself that she hasn't actually done anything truly terrible. The guards however, seem less inclined to agree. One guard clasps her shoulder and pushes her forcefully down onto the chair, causing her to sit with an unexpected thump.

    Leaning forward stiffly, she clenches her hands in her skirts as her cheeks burn with indignation. She does not spare even a glance for the guard as he secures her hands with a leather clasp, nor does she look at Francis, who has taken a seat on the small stool in the corner. Even out of the corner of her eye, she can see that he is clearly uncomfortable with the situation. This offers her some small measure of comfort, at least. If she is required to bear such indignities, he could damn well feel uncomfortable about it.

    After several minutes of disquieting silence, the King finally enters the room, followed by a middle-aged man with narrow features and close-cropped steel gray hair. Heartfire studies the pair surreptitiously, head tilted forward to shutter her too expressive blue eyes from their sight. Anger and bitter resentment roil within her gut even as fear tangles inside her mind.

    The silence stretches interminably, causing her already frayed nerves to frazzle further. She grips her secured hands together, waiting for whatever it is they intend to do to her. When the King abruptly begins speaking, Heartfire jumps, releasing a startled breath she hadn't known she was holding.

    He explains in a flat tone that this man is an interrogator, a specialist in the art of obtaining the truth.With no further ado, the silver-haired man approaches, informing her rather brusquely that the liquid with the godawful stench he has shoved under her nose is in fact a mild neurotoxin designed to make her susceptible to hypnosis. With stiff, jerky movements, she reaches her tethered hands up to accept the small glass. She stares at it for a long moment, bile churning in the back of her throat. But when the man clears his throat, Heartfire tosses him a heartily disgusted look before downing the contents in a single gulp. Face screwed up into a pucker, she shoves the small glass back at the man before heaving a resigned sigh.

    Apparently she would simply have to get used to these dungeon atmospheres. She didn’t think she would be leaving them any time soon.

    --

    For a few minutes, she would swear the poison is having no effect. The room remains small and uninviting, the King and Frances sit with stony and worried expressions on their respective faces, and the interrogator (damn, she must have missed his name. Maybe he never even said it) talks in a low, soothing voice while she remains stubbornly mute.


    At first she doesn’t notice when the soft colors start to swirl about her, but when the room begins wavering, visions of her parents, of home, of her favorite tree surrounded by a sea of grass flashing before her, her only thought is Oh shit…

    Distantly, she knows what is happening. She can understand the ramifications of what is about to occur, but in this soft, hazy world, it doesn’t seem to matter any more. So when the interrogator starts asking questions in that low, soothing voice, she cannot seem to help the answers that spill from her. She cannot even seem to get angry over the injustice of this whole spectacle.

    ”Very well,” the interrogator begins (she thinks she is going to call him George. George seems like a nice name for him), ”Let’s start with your name. What is your first and last name?”

    ”Heartfire Wickham,” she responds without even a second’s hesitation. Wait, why did she just do that?

    ”Good Miss Wickham. And how old are you?” he continues, establishing that the elixir is working.

    ”Nineteen,” is her immediate response. Wait. Stop. Don’t do that. Her thoughts are lost amidst the hazy, surreal dream-world she has found herself floating in. The man before her is Francis, handsome face smiling and happy. No. No. That’s not true.

    But it seems she could deny Francis nothing.

    ”Why are you here, Miss Wickham.” Apparently George (Francis) is done wasting time.

    ”To compete in the Selection.”

    ”No, what brought you here?”

    No, that can’t be Francis. Francis would never ask such things. Wait. Right, it’s George. Almost forgot about George. ”I don’t know. Ask Francis.” In her lost, dreamy state, she seems to have developed the unerring ability to take everything far too literally.

    The frustration, while clear in George’s voice, flies right over her head. ”Very well, let’s trying something else. Where do your loyalties lie?”

    ”To Illea,” she says, utterly honest in her response. For it indeed is true - every motive for joining the Resistance had been inspired by her desire to save Illea and it’s people. Of course, it is also true it hadn’t been an entirely selfless act. She had also just wanted an adventure.

    But George hadn’t asked about that.

    ”Hmm…” George starts, but he is interrupted when Heartfire sighs softly, a slow, loose smile curving her lips. ”And to Francis,” she continues, heedless of George’s attempt to continue.

    Wait, what? Where the hell had that come from?

    If she’d had the will to actually move her own head, she might have looked at Francis. If she had, she would have caught the look of surprise on his well-defined features, followed by small, fleeting smile of satisfaction. As it is, she seems only able to lounge against that slightly reclined chair in agonizing indifference.

    ”Interesting,” George says, pausing to consider the possible ramifications of her confession. ”Tell me Miss Wickham, why do you wish to marry our dear Prince?”

    She didn’t. She hadn’t. She does want to though. She wants to so badly. But why? ”I… don’t know,” she says hesitantly, stuttering her way through the response. But it isn’t enough. Why doesn’t it feel like enough. I… like him. A lot.

    Wait, that doesn’t sound right either. Could she love him? No. Certainly not. She doesn’t do love. Fortunately for her, the interrogator doesn’t pursue that line of questioning.

    ”Why do you think that you should be the one to marry Prince Francis? What makes you think that you would make a good Princess?”

    Heartfire is helpless against the onslaught of questions. She can do little more than answer them as honestly as possible. ”We suit. We complement each other in ways I didn’t believe possible. I think… I think that I might even love him.” Wait, why had she said that? Why would she say that?

    But she continues, because she can do nothing else. ”I wouldn’t. I would be a terrible Princess.”

    ”Why?” George aks, true curiosity layering his soft tones.

    ”I’m headstrong. And impulsive. I’d suck at diplomacy.” She has never before looked at herself in quite the way George is forcing her to. She really would make a terrible Princess. All of the things that had made her such a great rebel are exactly what would make her an awful ruler.

    And in that moment, with that single, horrifying realization, her heart shatters. She could never have Francis if she couldn’t also be a good leader.

    George is frowning, his arms folded across his narrow chest as he taps long fingers against his arm, considering her revelations. ”If you believe you would be such a terrible leader, why would you enter this competition?”

    ”I love Illea.” is her simple, heartfelt response. And it’s true, despite all of those flaws, or perhaps because of them, she has the incredible will and determination to do what is necessary, to follow her heart and turn the right thing to do into an accomplishment rather than a dream. This is her strength, her greatest asset in her quest for justice.

    She might not be good leader material, but maybe - just maybe - she is exactly what Illea needs.

    Unaware of her inner turmoil, her incredible revelations, the interrogator shrewdly continues, ”Enough to enter this contest under false pretenses?”

    ”Yes,” she says, unable to provide any answer but the truth.

    ”Enough to kill the King and Queen?”

    Pause. ”No.”

    And that is the truth as she knows it now. She might once have considered it a justifiable thing to do, but no longer is that the case. She cares for Francis far too much to ever do that to him.

    George (no, not George, what is his name?) asks her several more questions, but the neurotoxin seems to be wearing off. As the room comes slowly, achingly, back into focus, Heartfire blinks surprisingly dry eyes. The swirls of color and vivid images are fading, bringing the cold harshness of reality back into sharp focus. As she realizes what she has done, dread curls in her belly as fear clutches at her chest.

    She glances apprehensively at Francis, but finds his handsome face set in impassive lines.

    She is given several minutes to recover before she is pulled from the chair and led back to her room by the two guards that had escorted her down. There her restraints are removed and she is left to wait in dreadful, silent anticipation.

    Heartfire

    i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts

    #5
    I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
    Lagertha heals quickly; her wounds were truly superficial, only looking nasty to those who have never experienced broken bones, stab wounds, or shrapnel. After a day, her headache ceases and only the skin around the lump on her head is tender. Philipe was smart enough when slicing her palm, that he didn’t go too deep. She The bandage remains to keep the wound clean, but in order to keep it from healing too tightly, Lagertha routinely flexes and clenches her left hand. It should heal without any problems. The cut on her face knits into a pale vertical line, reaching from her jaw to her temple, but it can easily be hidden by hair if she wants to. Not that the warrior in her does; so many of them bear their scars with pride - and to recieve it at the Palace! Oh, if she ever sees Philipe and her company again, they will buy her so many beers after hearing this story, she won’t be able to walk home.

    Had she been anywhere else, the blonde soldier would have been up and at ‘em after just a night in bed - stitched up, bandaged, and ready to hit the ground running the next day. Her job would have demanded it. But even with her due diligence, Lagertha knows she is going soft. She stays ‘in bed’ for another day, partially because it is easier to acquiesce to Maeve’s ministrations, and partly because she simply can - whihc she’s never been able to before. That makes two days in bed, counting the time she was unconscious.

    By the dawning of the third day, Lagertha is restless, itching to leave her room. She is up at first light (the curtains have been left open ever since the knife incident), fully dressed in her riding clothes, and sitting on her already made bed when her team comes quietly through the door with her breakfast. Lagertha greets them with a cheerful smile, even going to so far as to Lagertha thinks, noting that Maeve and Ami aren’t dying to give her the Palace’s daily gossip. Lagertha leans against the table and crosses her arms in front of her, surveying the working servants. In a rather loud voice, she asks, “You all are acting weird. What’s wrong?” All four of them freeze. Three heads turn to Maeve, who has always been the team leader. She puts on an all too innocent tone, and replies carefully. “What do you mean, Miss?” Lagertha sighs. Dear god, they’re going to make her spell it out.

    “You’re practically silent, and no one’s given me the day’s schedule of lessons and activities. What is going on?” Ami and the other two men conspicuously return to their duties, completely absorbed in them, while Maeve puts down her bundle of dirty clothes and comes towards Lagertha. “I’m sorry, Miss, I really am. You know I like ya, but our jobs are on the line. We can’t say anything. All activities and lessons have been cancelled until further notice. You just have to… stay here.” Lagertha’s blue eyes narrow, her brows furrow together when she hears that. “Stay here? As in - in this room?” Maeve looks down, knowing it’s the worst possible thing she could say to someone like Lagertha, who is so active. “Yes, Miss,” she mumbles. “And there’s a guard outside yer door, so please don’t try to leave. I don’t want to see ya hurt agin.”

    It isn’t her fault, it isn’t her fault, it isn’t her fault, Lagertha repeats to herself instead of immediately answering. And it’s true, the servants were only the messengers, though that little fact made it all the more infuriating. She clenches her jaw and bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying what she actually wants to say, and instead, tries to steer the conversation in another direction. “Can you tell me anything about Francis?” Maeve shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Miss.” Lagertha presses her, unwilling to let that mysterious answer lie, her tone becoming harder and more insistent. “What does that mean, Maeve? Was he injured and isn’t doing well? Is he just fine? Or you just won’t tell me anything?” The plump, cheerful little servant shrinks before her and takes a step back, trying to put some distance between herself and the clearly irritated soldier. “Please, PLEASE, Miss - I told you all I can. I can’t say no more. Please… eat yer breakfast.”

    Shame immediately floods Lagertha’s face, as she realizes how she has tried to intimidate the one person who’s always been understanding of her differences, and kind to her here. Her head bows, and she blurts out a quick apology to the older woman. “I’m sorry Maeve. I just don’t do well, being pent up in one spot. Forgive me.” She turns back around to face the food and shoves a sausage roll in her mouth to show she’s listening. It feels dry and thick as she chews, but it could be the most succulent piece of roast beef and it would be displeasing in this moment. She lets the team finish their duties in silence, requesting only some reading material from the library if she’s going to be confined here for the day, and then Lagertha is left in silence.

    Silence and solitude Lagertha can handle. It’s the lack of physical exercise and information that drive her up the wall. Servants come and go fulfilling her periodic requests for books or other things to keep her occupied. They denied her a length of rope, even when she explained that she only wanted to use it to exercise. The guard outside her door changes halfway through the day, but they never say anything, except to nod brusquely when she asks for a servant. There is only so much she can do to keep herself busy, and without any real physical activity, her nights are long and mostly sleepless. And so, Lagertha is kept in the dark; alone with her thoughts about the attack, the Resistance, and whether or not they’ve caught on to her. Did Philipe and the other guy get away?  

    She imagines a hundred different scenarios over the next two days; half of them involve her hanging from a noose, and the other half involve her being crowned next to Frances, and then every sort of inbetween situation. Her pride and strength battle with her heart, as she tries to reconcile her part in The Resistance with her undeniable feelings for Francis. She comes stone-faced and sullen, staring out the window with a pained expression, longing to be outside with the men on guard, if only to walk in ceaseless circles around The Palace. At some point on the fourth day. a servant interrupts her in the middle of some exercise; stripped almost bare, doing pushups on the floor as she counts aloud. Sweat glistens along the length of her pale, naked body, and she pays the intruder no mind. She looks like a wild woman, hair taken out of its confined, neat coils atop her head and lets it loose, long golden locks falling messily down her back, plastered to her damp skin. The also mercifully hide her top half from view - not that Lagertha would mind. But the Illeans do.

    Whether or not they’ve reported that the barbarian is either back to her old ways, or has completely lost her mind, Lagertha doesn’t know. She doesn’t care. If she’s going to go down for treason, she might as well do what she wants, when she wants to, and look the way she prefers to. As a soldier, she’s wonders what death is like - imagined it so much it feels more like a memory. She can almost see it coming, it’s always been coming, from the first day she picked up a staff and asked to join the Master’s boys. So now does it come down to how many she can take with her into the hallowed halls? Or does she dip and dodge questions, because at this point, it’s almost as if Illea sent for her, begging her to make a difference.

    Doesn’t Peace always come at a price? On the fifth day, it’s as if her skin is crawling with energy. If it could crackle and be thrown, she would stand on her bed, or stack a ladder to the top of her armoire, and hurl lightning down on Maeve and the others when they come with breakfast and bathing accoutrements. With a borrowed (stolen) butter knife, Lagertha had been carving a multitude of things into the wooden post of her bed, and a variety of other furniture. When they arrive, she’s sitting in front of the window, cleaning under her fingernails with a knife, looking very much like a wild woman. Yesterday, Lagertha wouldn’t allow them to touch her; so her hair is now greasy, and her skin has a slick, oily shine to it. But her eyes are sharp and accusatory, and her mouth never changes from its pinched, thin line. However, under Maeve’s supercritical gaze, she picks herself up and wordlessly discards her clothing, walking naked before them into the tub of steaming hot water.

    It is a silent surrender, and the unspoken tension remains between them, though Lagertha makes herself pliable - a living doll. Her sullenness is childish, she knows, but she can’t bring herself to make conversation with them. Whatever would they talk about? Nothing she wants to hear. She can see the weather from her window, and everything else is a moot point. It takes them awhile, but they manage to re-braid her hair into something presentable, paint her face, and they also seem to have brought a new, fancy dress, since the old one got sliced and diced. When the team leaves, she resists the urge to scream and cry all at the same time, opting instead to throw her shoes at the wall with all her might. They hit the walls with a thunk, and she leave them where they fall.

    A while later, there’s a knock on the door. Lagertha ignores it. If they wanted to come in, they would, but she’s had enough of these goddamn games. They’re keeping her prisoner, and without a warrant, essentially. That was the conclusion she’d come to over the course of the morning. She isn’t hungry, books are boring, and what she really needs is a good wrestling session to get all her frustration out. But ladies don’t do that here. So fuck them all. The knock comes again, and a muffled voice calls her name through the door. “Lagertha?” It takes her a couple of seconds to register the voice. Oh. It all makes sense now, or at least why she’s all dolled up again. But the small bit of deception doesn’t matter one single bit, because it means Francis is ok. She flies to the door and throws it open, forgetting for a moment that he might still be injured. Her arms wrap around his neck, and for a moment, the past five days seem to disappear.

    Unfortunately, Lagertha is very much aware of physical aspects of life, and she quickly pulls away to look for signs of injury. Their doctor must surely be the best, but nevertheless… she turns his arms over and under, searches his body for signs of bandaging under his clothes… and there is nothing. At first, Lagertha is confused, and then the is angry - oh gods above, she is a pit of fire and brimstone. And yet, there is only so much she can do, because he is the fucking Heir, and there’s a guard to his immediate left. So instead, her eyes flash to a steely blue-grey, and her hands fall back to her sides. She steps back and makes a half-curtsey, all courtly decorum now. Francis knows this isn’t her. His face falls and he takes a step toward her, hands outstretched as if to bring her back. “Father locked everyone away…” he begins, launching into the story of what’s been going on the past few days.

    Lagertha listens, though her mind is a whirling mess. Her heart is pounding in her chest, and if she weren’t as smart as she is, she might swear that he could hear her guilt. Questioning. Selected. Of course they were going to do that. And then there is the irony that he’s dismissed three others before thinking of her - Lagertha, who is a soldier and out of any of them, would have been able to do the most damage. He must either really like her, or the others must be incredibly unpleasant and untrustworthy, like little painted snakes. “... I’m sorry about all this, but this is necessary,” Francis concludes, and at least has the decency to look a little ashamed.

    Lagertha nods and goes into ‘soldier mode,’ on edge, but not tense. Ready for whatever comes her way, even as two guards flank her and escort her out of her room. They grab her by her elbows, and she says firmly, “Remove your hands, I am not a threat right now.” After a moment, they do, and she falls into their stride, marching off to whatever is in store for her, while frantically trying to think of ways to spin her story, while keeping her head held high.

    The two men guide her through The Palace, taking her down hallways and stairs she’s never been privy to. She tries to keep track of the turns, but in the end, it’s futile. The building is simply too big for her to remember them in the right order. The decor fades from luxury to functionality to barely-there, until they arrive to a room marked only by a simple wooden door. One opens it, revealing a very white room, and the other puts his hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently through. He continues to direct her towards a single, slightly reclined chair and the two of them press her firmly into it. Lagertha, however, can’t keep her mouth shut, and mutters to herself (loud enough for the guards to hear, of course), “Gods above, I get it. Calm down.” Her sass, however, is met with leather wrist restraints, and then Francis enters as they leave, perching silently on a stool in the corner.

    Lagertha realizes that he is as powerless as she is right now, and her anger towards him fades away. When they make eye contact, she shrugs and gives him a wry little look, as if to say ‘whatcha gonna do?’ He grins, and then their attention is drawn to the door as the King and an unknown man enter. Lagertha tenses, watching the two of them closely. The King is rather unknown to her, but the fact that he is here is both comforting and nerve-wracking. It isn’t until he reveals the man’s function, and that they’re going to force a ‘truth-telling’ serum into her that she begins to internally panic. So much so that she stops listening to whatever else the man prattles on about, focusing simply on keeping an innocent-looking smile on her face.

    It’s time; Lagertha drinks and offers up a silent prayer that she can somehow resist the toxin’s effects, that she can somehow, subconsciously twist the truth into something viable, or that she can explain herself adequately. She hopes they understand - it was for Illea, all for Illea. “Ah, yes, her pupils are dilating,” the interrogator says, “We are ready to begin.”

    The King has seen this before, so there’s no need for him to explain the procedure. The interrogator stars with baseline yes and no, and then more difficult questions that require an explanation. Lagertha’s mind is in a fog, much like the mist off the coast of Sweden, the fog she often sailed in. His voice warps, becomes familiar, somehow - it sounds so much like the old Master. And oh, she would never lie to him. The fogginess grows darker, and there is only a small pinprick of light - she must follow it! Follow the lighthouse light, for it will lead the ship to safety. The water is calm right now, the waves lapping at the keel tap out questions that she could answer in her sleep.

    ”Is your name Lagertha Lothbrok?”
    “Yes.”
    ”Were you born in Sweden?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you twenty-seven?”
    “No.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-four.”

    Baseline established. Her ship - no, boat - seems to have transformed from the modern vessels that she’s used to, to some primitive, much smaller vehicle. No more than forty feet long, she can walk it in twelve paces, and where cannons should be, there are benches and holes for massive oars. She looks to the front of the boat and bow curves up and over - the figurehead unclear until she leaps to find out what it is. Stepping up onto a little foothold where the sides come together, she leans forward and runs her hands over a fearsome dragon. From somewhere deep within, a humming begins, and she laughs; a joyful, full-bodied laugh, for this is home? Yes, home. This is where she’s meant to be! On the open water, with the salt spray in her windswept hair, and a weapon in her hand. She almost forgot the joy she’d felt while sailing from Sweden to Illea: how quickly she got her sea legs, and how the rocking motion gently lulled her to sleep every night. It is where she feels most comfortable, where everyone is a foreigner. Where the crew speaks five different languages and she is not the barbarian, but a valuable member.

    In the blink of an eye, the boat is full of people - her people, her merc company - and they are talking about Illea. Dressed in boiled leathers and dark colors, it’s nothing like the modern garments of today. It’s odd, but she thinks nothing of it. The Captain commands fulls speed ahead! and those at the oars heave backwards and then forwards, pulling and pushing  the heavy wooden oars in rhythm. Ramming speed! he calls out, and the rowers quicken their pace, kept in time by either the pounding of her heart or an actual drum beat. Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum Lagertha crouches behind a shield (where did she get that?), bracing herself for impact with whatever boat they’re bound to run into. She cannot see five feet ahead of her. Whatever they’re headed for is completely unknown. And yet, she is ready and eager to meet it.

    Follows orders… militant… dangerous…

    Lagertha peers through the darkness, squinting to try and make out the shadowed shapes that move just beyond her perception. One of them appears before her, all wavy like a mirage - a flat, square barge that is filled with poorly armed peasants, instead of warriors. The vessels crash together, seeming to dare her with the unspoken question,who are you, what do you do? A woman, a warrior, a killer! screams her blood in return, and as the peasants are thrown off balance, she leaps forward to skewer one of them upon her ravenous sword. They resist to the best of their ability, but their movements are mechanical, clunky, and no match for a trained soldier. Her blade is quickly covered in blood, and it flows down its length, coating her hands in a slick, crimson glove. I kill for a living. Five fall beneath her vicious attack, until her sword becomes entangled in something almost invisible to the naked eye. She jerks her shield up, and while yanking her sword back, realizes that it is caught on marionette strings.

    Her eyes widen in horror; these peasants were not acting of their own free will. Her face twists in unanticipated agony, and Lagertha drops her weapon as if it were a red-hot piece of metal. Why? Why does this affect her? No one comes to attack her, and as she turns in a tight circle to survey the fighting, the peasants take on the faces of the people she knows and cares for; Maeve, Ami, Pierre, her landlady, Jean the tailor, the crippled begging boy that lives outside the tavern. No! No, no no. I am not a killer of these folk. “Stop! These people are not our enemies” she yell to her company - and somehow, her voice now has power. The power to command and inspire. The water battle falls silent, save for the brown-red water that lap against the wreckage and debris. It mocks her, it asks her again: Where does your loyalty lie, Lagertha?

    The Resistance, the poor, the people who need her help are not the enemy. She looks up through the dark grey smoke that has replaced the fog, and as if through a spyglass, Count Odo and Celine swim into view. They are perched in a pristine, cream-colored tower, watching the massacre from afar. His hands are outstretched, and in them are tiny little puppets, yanked hither and thither by his fat hands. She spies the King and Queen and various pompous court officials behind them, looking on, but there is no sign of Francis. Oh. Oh. That is good. He will not die today, not if she can help it.

    Lagertha bends down to pick up the dropped blade and emphatically thrusts her blood-drenched sword in Odo’s direction, wishing that its tip could extend to pierce his heart.THEY are the enemies. In the ivory tower. They are the ones we should be fighting! The King! The Count!” As one, the mass of people on the water turn to look at the aristocracy, and then at each other. The water beneath their boats turns suddenly turns solid, the rolling of the boats and the lapping of the waves ceasing to exist in order to pave an easy way to the Ivory Tower.

    Their gazes all turn to her, and Lagertha heaves her shield onto her forearm, taking the first step off the boats and onto the solid land. She doesn’t have to look back to know that they follow her. She has a foot in each world, and a third, and a fourth. Lagertha knows the way.

    Empathy… Protector… Perspective… Fearlessness

    The road before them vanishes, and Lagertha is suddenly at the front door of the castle, three familiar, and yet unfamiliar men stand before the door. Two of them already bear the marks of death, purple wounds and coagulated blood marking where her and Philipe’s blades slid through their heads. No, this is not right. “I killed you already,” she says, though it is more of a question than a statement. “You should not be here.” The dead men look silently at each other, nod, and then disappear, leaving the door to a single guard - the one she hit with the candlestick.

    “Do you want to kill them?” He asks, and Lagertha is struck by the question. The words crawl into her through her fingernails and find their way to her heart, wrapping themselves around it and squeezing tightly. Want to? No. She never wants to kill anybody. It’s her job, it’s the only thing she knows how to do. Except now - she knows how to eat with three different forks and dance a waltz and curtsey properly. Superficial things, but she can clearly learn other skills. There could be a place for her elsewhere. “No. Of course not. But something has to change, and if they won’t do it, then I will. By force, if necessary.” The guard reaches out and places his hand on Lagertha’s arm, pressing it gently downward. She finds she can’t move it anywhere except in the direction he wants, so she lets her arm fall to her side. The sword falls out of her hand and clatters to the ground.

    The scene changes again, and though she cannot remember climbing the Ivory Tower’s stairs, her legs burn with the effort. The King and Queen stand before her, but again there is no sign of Francis. It’s odd, she knows the events leading up to being in this room have been about The Resistance, but in the end, it feels more like she’s been trying to protect him - or find him - or both? “Where’s Francis?” she blurts out, and they both turn a scathing gaze towards her. “Why?” they say as one, their voices discordant and demanding. “You are a Rebel, what do you want with him? Why have you come here? What were your plans? ”

    Again, her heart clenches and her stomach flip flops. It’s so funny, she thinks, that she can disembowel a man and never blink an eye, but the thought of truthfully expressing her feelings makes her want to vomit. Word vomit. All over herself and the room. Not to extol his virtues, or her own. But to explain the conflicting emotions that bubble up inside her. “I want to kiss him,” she says first. It is the truth, but not exactly the first thing she wanted to say. “I mean, I want to make sure he’s safe. I want to talk more with him and hear what he has to say about Illea. I want to give him ideas, and I want him to want me too. Physically. And emotionally. I want to somehow persuade him to keep me around, because we could be a great team.” No, that’s not right. That’s not quite right at all. “I mean, I have feelings for him, and I’m not sure what love is because I’ve never been in love before. Lust, I know. Love? Not really. But I think this might be it?” Yes. That’s it. That’s the truth.

    As for the second and third question… there’s no escaping it. The need to answer burns at the inside of her mouth, forcing it open. “I came here because I wanted to. I had no plans, except to win. No one sent me. No one told me to come and infiltrate The Palace. I had no idea what was going to happen. I thought that if I won, I might be able to help change some of the problems I saw every day. You are so removed from the people out there, how can you know how to govern them properly? I could help him be a good King by being a strong Queen. A Queen the people could love. And if I lost, then yes, I could at least give The Resistance some valuable information.”

    She falls silent, because there is nothing more to say. The King and Queen remain silent, their faces seemingly of marble, for they do not move an inch. Oh, but her head starts to swim and in an effort to relieve it, she sits cross legged on the floor of the Ivory Tower, and presses her forehead to the ground. The world goes black again.

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

    Lagertha wakens to silence in her room, Maeve sitting by her bed side again. Her head aches and her throat burns as it often does after a spicy meal. Acid reflux. There’s a foul taste in her mouth, and it makes her think she might have actually vomited.  

    The blonde woman notices her movement, hands her a glass of water, and leaves the room without a word. Lagertha sighs. She’s been revealed, she’s confessed - and yet, she is not in chains, so perhaps there is hope after all.  After a silent prayer to the gods above, she waits. It’s either a rope, a horse, or a ring - there are no other options. If it’s the first, well, she’s made peace with death years ago. If it’s the second, she probably won’t take Blackie back to the blacksmith… it would be time to find a new Kingdom to live in. And if it’s the third… well, that could just be the scariest of them all.

    It’s a good thing Lagertha is always up for a challenge.

    Lagertha
    Warrior Queen of the Amazons



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