"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
05-22-2016, 03:07 PM (This post was last modified: 05-22-2016, 03:12 PM by The Selection Committee.)
Lagertha and Topsail have been eliminated.
For 2 RL you will find yourself unexplainably slow- minded (side effect from the neurotoxin) thoughts are difficult to form and conversations with others are confusing as you become lost while trying to follow along. This will fade, but every now and then it will pop back up, to cause you strife.
Royal Notice
The next morning comes, whether it is too soon or not soon enough you have yet to pinpoint. The routine was second nature by now. You have been at the castle for about a month now and the morning routine goes by in a blurry insignificant period of time. Your team shuffles out, and you do not know what to expect, there is no guard in front of your door… but after the confessions you made during the interrogation, your room almost feels like a safe haven. Just not enough to keep you there after a week’s time. You didn’t know if the lack of guard was happenstance or purposeful, but you dare not risk it, so you flee. Down the hall, around to the grand oak stairway from which you first met Francis, down the stair and our the closest door to the grounds. The fresh air hits your face, along with the aromas and unmuffled sounds that accompany the gardens and it is enough to make tears dance around your eyes. You enjoy the moment, fully absorb it for you are sure someone is about to drag you back in, lock you away. Surely that will happen, to go from confined prisoner to free reign with no debrief just didn’t seem right, so you take it in fully engrossed in the moment.
It ends all too soon, the tap on your shoulder is firm, business-like, and indicated your time was up. You steel yourself for the escorted march back to your room as you turn to face whomever as requested your attention. But your turn is brought to a halt mid form as arm hooks yours and move you away from the castle with a graceful ease. Francis. He is beaming. It may just be the most lighthearted you have ever seen him. There was something different in the way he looks at you and you might as well be a bowl of mush under his amber stare. The last time you saw him flashes in your mind and your feelings about him from your toxin-induced vision bubbles to the surface. This includes any residual anger for being locked in a tower for a week, and even with the dark note lingering lightly between you Francis gives no sign of bad news or ill will… so that was good, right?
The walk meanders to a fountain, and Francis stops you there motioning you to sit, suddenly growing serious as the smile faces from his handsome features. Oh here it goes, the other shoe has to drop at some time I guess. You search his eyes, ready for the dismissal that was sure to come from his mouth. You think of the way he’ll let you down gently, how he cares but you can’t be the one because… he cares for another more, you don’t have the right skills or attributes, you don’t look the part, the list goes on and on your mind going a mile a minute. ”You’re the one.” Francis’ voice is soft, like it is a secret and it doesn’t register at first, but he goes on. He tells you all about why he chose you, why he wasn’t worried about your flaws, and about how he cared for you. You’re in a state of shock and momentary disbelief, but his words are serious and you end up in an embrace of joyful tears. He explains the next steps, a few weeks for planning, then the royal announcement and public festivals, that will culminate in the royal wedding. Your head spins and you are lost in the feeling of belonging, pride, and opportunity before you.
_______________________________________________________
The last few weeks have been a blur. You and Francis are rarely apart and have planned the announcement festival activities and finalized your wedding plans. The wedding was the easiest as it is all pomp and circumstance. The decisions you have were small personal touches, that most wouldn’t notice, but were there to give the royal couple a small feeling of control over a largely “matter of state” ceremony. Your family was at the castle, and would remain until a small villa could be given to them (no family of the Princess and future Queen could live in poverty). Your team was constantly bustling about preparing materials and seeing to your needs. You had grown to adore them, as they always had your back it seems and were there for you even on your worst days. This is especially true for your head servant, she has become a confidant, you have found that her thoughts and opinions hold a certain weight, you respect her opinions and want to make her proud.
So it is no surprise that on the day of your public wedding and coronation as Princess, she is the last in the room with you, her eyes dance with emotion. You, a vision in a larger than life white gown, smile down to her grateful for her company. She smiles back at you, and you think she is about to laugh into a heartfelt cadence, but that doesn’t happen. She gives you a small package instead. She tells you not to open it just yet, to wait until she leaves. She smiles sweetly at you, “I know you care for Francis, but I know you care for Illea too - maybe even more than you care for your sweet Prince. We all know Illea needs the change you could bring, I hope you can do what is need to bring those changes for us all. Maybe sooner than later even. If I’m lucky I will be by your side through those changes. You make this old lady happy to be a servant here.” She smiles and falls silent, there was something else she thinks of saying but she shakes her head and gives you a hug before taking her exit. It was unlike the head maid to make such a speech, but you brush it off to the emotions of the day and open the package. Eyes widen to find a dagger with a note. The Rebels need you. Illea needs you, sooner rather than later. I think you know what to do. The shock is enough to floor you, but you have no time as a knock on the door signals it is time to start your procession. You hide the dagger within the folds of your skirt, and move to the door; there is no time to worry about the dagger now.
You move regally through the crowd, using every ounce of muscle memory to move perfectly just as the week long rehearsal demanded of you. You family is up ahead about to join in behind you when the horrendous crash and a guttural scream breaks the soft music and awe of the beginning of the ceremony. A victorious cry reverbs through the air followed by an unknown voice bellowing, “The rebels have killed the King and Qu--” But his words were lost in the panic. People erupted into chaos as rebel fighter swarmed from every direction, and you only thought is to protect yourself and the other innocents. Your hand goes to the dagger, and you pull it free, and the note comes to mind. Your sweet maid… had she wanted you to kill the King and Queen? No… Francis. Your mind wheels as you try to process. Francis would bring the change needed alongside you, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t lead like his father, and mother, right? So why did your sweet rebel maid think Francis has to die? You respect her wholly and suddenly the answer is not clear, but you have no time to sit idly and ponder - Francis has made his way you and is almost at arm's length.
Questions? PM: The Selection Committee or post in Connect
Prompt
You have 2 options you may only pick 1 and the options may not be combined. You do not need to pick the same side as you have in prior rounds
1. Side with the rebels: How do you react to the attack? You realize in the moment that Illea needs a completely fresh start. You see the rebel leader attack Francis, and Francis is about to slay the leader. You intervene, killing Francis. How do you Kill him? What happens after you kill him? What does this say about you? Do you escape, if so how? If you are captured, what happens next? What of your family? What happens to Illea and its people (this is a conclusion/wrap up guidance question)? You must be severely injured during this attack. You must encounter at least 1 guard no more than 2 (other than killing Francis)
2. Side with kingdom: How do you react to the attack? You realize in the moment that you simply can’t kill Francis. You fight to protect him and the innocents. During this time the rebel leader attacks Francis, and you must kill the rebel leader to save Francis. How do you kill him? What happens after? Do you and Francis escape, if so how? Or does the royal guard force the rebels out? What happens after? What of your family? What happens to Illea and its people (this is a conclusion/wrap up guidance question)? You must be severely injured during this attack, encounter at least 1 rebel nor more than 2 (other than rebel leader)
Final posts are due by Thursday May, 26 at 4 PM EST
Helpful Hints
#Yes, this is the final round. Congratulations! (And yes, we understand if there is a sigh of relief here too, the competition has been tough.)
#Why Francis picked you is up to you.
#You may powerplay: Francis, rebels, guards, wedding/coronation attendees. King/Queen, family, etc.
#How your story wraps up is up to you, it can be happy or sad, the Selection Committee will not discriminate on happily or not so happily ever after. It is all about the story you tell.
#You have a lot of creative freedom this round, but make sure that you completely answer the prompt. If any part is not clearly addressed it will be grounds for automatic disqualification.
# Remember that the Committee is looking for vivid details, creativity, and the story itself (we want as nice big bow as the finishing touch of our story time).
#As always contact the selection committee with any questions.
With no new information offered to her following the interrogation, the night seems endless. She spends much of it tossing and turning in agonizing dread coupled with burning anger. Why would they let her sit here and simply stew? Why the hell couldn’t they figure out what to do with her?
So the next morning, when Jillee arrives to ready her for the day, Heartfire is already awake, staring at the ceiling with eyes reddened and bruised from lack of sleep. Jillee fusses over her state, clearly forgiving her much too easily for her earlier harsh treatment. Heartfire doesn’t have the energy to disagree this morning. Instead she allows her to fuss, for once grateful that she doesn’t actually have to do anything for herself. Grateful that she can simply eat her meal and soak in a hot bath without having to concern herself with a plethora of chores.
Afterwards however, she is left to her own devices. When the door opens as Jillee takes her leave, she glances out into the hall to see that, for the first time in five days, there is no guard standing outside. For a minute, she simply sits on the pale pink divan, dumbfounded by this revelation. But when the implication sinks in, she is on her feet and out the door in a heartbeat.
She has not had freedom in five days. Five long, terrible, ceaseless days.
Each step comes faster and faster as she moves through the palace. Before long, her skirts are in her hands and she is running. As she flies through a pair of French doors into the garden, no one tries to stop her. No one even says a word to her.
Once outside, she halts abruptly. Eyes sliding closed, she inhales deeply, feeling days of pent up tension, of frustration and anger, sliding from her as she does so.
When the tap on her shoulder comes, she cannot say that she is surprised. She had expected to be stopped the entire way out here. No doubt a guard has come to drag her back indoors, to lock her away for her treasonous behavior. But instead of turning to find a palace guard with an unfriendly expression, she finds Francis beside her with a lighter demeanor than she has seen since the day they had met.
He doesn’t speak at first, instead simply looping her arm into his and leading her further into the garden. For several minutes, she doesn’t quite know what to say. In truth, she had never expected to see him again. She had expected to be locked away, to be put on trial for her crimes. Instead she is walking quietly in the garden with a smiling Francis.
She is confused and happy and angry all at once. She cannot quite sort out the myriad of emotions vying for supremacy inside of her, and frankly, she’s not certain she would want to if she could. All of them would no doubt lead to only one thing: heartache.
When he finally halts, drawing her to a standstill beside him, she opens her mouth to say something, anything, really. But nothing comes out. She is only able to stand there in horrible, anticipatory silence, waiting for the worst. Even if she hadn’t said enough to incriminate herself last night, she doesn’t think they could possibly allow her to stay.
So when he says quietly, in a confidential tone, ”You’re the one.” she can only stare mutely at him for several minutes, mouth slightly agape.
”Heartfire,” he says quietly, reaching up to brush an errant lock of her wild red hair from her face, ”You captivated me from the first time a met you. You weren’t like the other girls. You were real, honest. You made me laugh.”
”But I helped them,” she blurts out, finally reacting to his confession. ”The rebels. I was there. I helped them.”
Maybe they should have used Francis as interrogator instead. Certainly he is proving to be just as, or more, effective.
He doesn’t react how she expects him to however. Instead he blows out a breath, tilting his head back to gaze briefly at the sky before he drops his gaze again, locking her blue eyes with his amber ones. ”I know,” he says finally. Heartfire opens her mouth, but quickly closes it again when she finds herself with nothing to say. ”I know, Heartfire. I think I’ve known for a while.” He smiles wryly at that. ”It was obvious, in the beginning, that you were not here for me. You didn’t hunger for power like some of the others. You didn’t scheme or plan or seduce.” Heartfire experiences a sudden surge of jealousy at that last statement. Seduce? Who would dare… But Francis continues, distracting her from her ire as easily as breathing. ”You were so… you.” He laughs at that, and Heartfire can’t help but smile in response. ”You have a good heart, and the interrogation only made that more clear.”
For several long minutes, Heartfire isn’t quite sure what to say. His confession has left her completely and utterly without words.
”Francis, I… Heartfire finally begins, still trying to formulate a response that encompasses the entirety of her feelings in that moment. ”I… never thought I would be saying this… You’re so different than I had expected.” She lets a huff of air, a kind of half-laugh at her thoughts. ”I guess my first opinions were not very complementary. But you’re not like people say you are. And I think that… well, I’m pretty sure that I… that I love you.”
She clears her throat, dropping her gaze to the ground as color stains her pale cheeks at her confession. That was perhaps the most difficult thing she has ever had to say in her life, even if it is – or perhaps especially because it is – true.
She flinches when Francis’ hand comes forward, but he is gentle as he tilts her chin up until her eyes are forced to meet his. There is a smile on his firm, mobile lips even as his eyes sparkle with happiness and humor. Her return smile feels rather wooden in contrast.
”Heartfire,” he says softly, a hint of humor and relief in his voice. ”You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that without the influence of drugs.” And suddenly he is leaning in, causing her heart to seize in her throat as his lips touch hers.
The kiss is nothing like she had expected and so much more than she could ever have hoped. She returns it with, if not skill, then at the very least enthusiasm. Drawing back slightly, Francis whispers softly against her mouth, ”I love you too.” She can feel the satisfied curve of his lips even if she can’t see it through her closed lids. And then he is kissing her again and happiness explodes through her on a wave of thrill and delight.
--
The next few weeks pass in a haze of joy and anxiety and preparations. After their confessions in the garden (after they had finally managed to extricate themselves from one another’s embrace and their ardor had cooled a bit) Francis had explained to her how the next several weeks would go.
Their wedding had been announced publicly, resulting in much celebration and good cheer. Festivities had ensued and a good time had been had by all. Plans and preparations have been made for the wedding and coronation, and the day has approached far too fast. For the most part, Francis and Heartfire’s decisions and inputs have been relatively trivial as the majority of the planning is being done by professionals.
Her parents had of course been brought to the palace. Both her mother and father are beyond delighted and can often be seen making the social rounds. With all the guests invited for the big event, this is an incredible boon with both Francis and Heartfire being pulled in a million other directions as well.
Heartfire, for her part, is having a difficult time keeping up with the constant demands upon her time. She can only be grateful that there are others planning most of her wedding, but she still has her hands full between dress fittings and cake tastings and socializing and diplomatic visits and rehearsals, as well as additional training for her eventual role as queen. Between all of this, she barely has two minutes to spend alone with Francis, much less time to spend doing anything meaningful with him.
So when the big day arrives, she is far more relieved than nervous. She has had barely any time to be nervous (or really, feel anything) about the wedding, let alone develop cold feet. If she had had the time, she probably would have fled long ago.
As it is, it isn’t until she is in her room just before the ceremony that would marry her to Francis and crown her princess that she realizes just how immensely frightening the prospect really is. Most of her team of servants have already gone. The only one left in the room with her is Jillee, who has rapidly become a rock that Heartfire has unashamedly leaned upon. She is the one face in a sea of faces that she knows, who had been there for her since the very beginning, who had, amazingly enough, not run screaming in the face of her terrible treatment a few weeks back. They have rapidly become close friends, and Jillee has proven herself steadfast and trustworthy even in the most trying of times.
And, in that moment, Heartfire quite desperately needs her.
She finds herself sitting, staring at her reflection in the dressing room mirror when Jillee comes in behind her. Heartfire looks positively stunning in a flawless white wedding dress, a beautiful contraption of intricate lace and seed pearls that is deceptively simple, with her vibrant red hair tamed and curled to perfection in an elegant coiffure at the nape of her neck. Her face has been expertly done, her eyes lightly painted and lips darkened to a rose color. But her cheeks are pale and her eyes wide as Jillee comes to her side, palm covering Heartfires gloved fingers in a simple sign of camaraderie.
Jillee’s smile is reassuring, giving Heartfire the strength and resolve she needs to rise from her chair and face her future. Before she can do so however, Jillee is pressing a small bundle into Heartfire’s fingers. ”This is for you, dear,” she says in a soft voice. ”Please, wait until I leave to open it, but you need to have it.”
Jillee’s next words cause a shiver to race down Heartfire’s spine as her wide blue eyes drop to stare at the innocuous bundle resting in her loose grasp. After the servant leaves, Heartfire waits a long minute before slowly unwrapping the parcel. The cloth falls away to reveal a small dagger and a note that flutters down to the table top before her. With slightly shaking fingers, she picks up the note and reads it.
Releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, she crumples the paper in her fist. Raising the dagger in her other hand, she stares at it, wondering what in the hell she is supposed to do now. A knock on the door causes her to jump. Leaping from her seat, she whips around as she hastily stuffs the knife into the folds of her dress to hide it. Taking a deep breath, she tosses the crumpled note into the slowly dying embers in the hearth as she walks passed before going to the door and opening it as regally as possible. Or at least as semi-composedly as possible.
In that moment, she fears Francis had made a terrible choice when he had chosen her.
--
She can hear the music before she even arrives at the grand hall where the ceremony is to take place. The decorations are incredibly beautiful and, of course, opulent – everything she is not. There is an abundance of roses and gilt and satin layered over every available surface, all in varying shades of white and cream, with gold and red sprinkled in to break the monotony of pale colors. It is so incredibly beautiful, and yet Heartfire can’t quite take it all in.
Before she knows it, she is standing at the end of the isle, elegant bouquet in hand as a swath of ivory stretches out before her, leading straight to Francis. Her Francis, who is standing there with a smile upon his handsome lips and a joyous twinkle in his eye. Her heart does a somersault in her chest as she takes that first step to her future.
But before she can take a second, a cry echoes out over the crowd, a frantic voice shouting about the death of the King and Queen. Before he can even finish the statement, pandemonium erupts. The crowd is surging from their seats even as Heartfire stands rooted to the ground.
Impossible! she thinks. But she knows it is true. She knows they have succeeded at last. And, in a moment of horrifying clarity, she realizes what the dagger had been given to her for. The bouquet falls from nerveless fingers as her heart contracts inside her chest, immediately rebelling at what she knows must be done.
But she can’t. She can’t do it.
Even as she finds Francis’ frantic gaze through the crowd, she knows that she is a fool. A fool in love with a man.
Her eyes glittering with unshed tears, she watches him as he nears, fighting his way through the crowd to get to her. And like the fool that she is, she still hasn’t moved from her spot. She can’t. Her heart hurts too much.
And then there, out of the corner of her eye, she sees a man heading straight for Francis. She recognizes him, though she has seen him only once or twice. Peregrine, the leader of the rebels, is making for the Prince. For her Prince.
As though a spell has broken, she finds herself suddenly able to move. ”FRANCIS!” she screams as she jerks forward, tugging the knife from her skirts as she does so. She inadvertently distracts him, giving Peregrine the perfect opportunity to lunge for him. ”No!” Her shout comes out broken, horrified, and she barrels forward.
Unfortunately she barrels right into the most unexpected person (perhaps she should have expected him, though). Jinx, his scruffy face absent of any of the good humor that normally resides there, catches her in his arms. ”Whoa there Heartfire!” he exclaims. ”You need t…” She doesn’t stop to find out what she needs to do. Instead she shoves him out of the way, determination suffusing her features, replacing all traces of fear.
Lurching forward, she reaches the grappling pair. Suddenly Francis stumbles backwards, giving Peregrine all the opportunity he needs to go for his knife. ”No!” Heartfire screams again, lunging at the rebels’ leader with her own knife bared. To her own surprised horror, her knife finds its target in the man’s neck just before her hand goes numb, falling slack by her side.
She can hear shouting, can hear Francis’ frantic voice. She can hear him saying her name as pain explodes in her shoulder, causing her to suck in an agonized breath. The moment feels almost surreal as she looks down at the knife sticking out of her flesh just below her collarbone. She sits abruptly, dropping to the ground as shock forces her legs to give way. Francis catches her, gripping her uninjured arm as he kneels down beside her. His hand is on her face, her neck, skimming gingerly over her shoulder as he speaks quickly in words she doesn’t quite catch.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Jinx is there, looming over them. She looks up at him, blinking as she tries to formulate words, an apology, something. But Francis is there, angry, scared, protective, and with a terrible shout, he lunges at Jinx. And he has a knife – a knife he had found somewhere, somehow. Reeling forward, she reaches out with her good hand, a desperate ”Francis!” hoarsely upon her lips as she tries to halt his trajectory.
But she is too slow. It is too late. She watches in horror as Jinx crumples, Francis’ knife in his chest.
With a sob, Heartfire falls backwards, covering her mouth with her good hand. In seconds, Francis is there, pulling her towards him, urging her to stand, to move, to do something. In an unseeing daze, she follows him, stumbling along as quickly as she can in spite of the pain and lightheadedness plaguing her.
He leads her to a safe room, locking them in to ride out the remainder of the attack. There he tends her wound with medical supplies left for just such a purpose. When he pulls the knife from her shoulder, she passes out in a rush of pain and blood. When she awakens, it is to find her shoulder clean and raggedly stitched, though still aching fiercely. Her once beautiful dress is entirely ruined, ripped and stained with blood. Francis looks just as disreputable, his once regal formal attire also stained and sitting askew.
Blue eyes searching out his amber ones, she reaches for him, needing something, anything, in that moment. He complies, needing the touch just as badly as she. ”Francis,” she whispers softly, voice cracking as she does so. ”I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head, momentarily at a loss for words. ”It’s not your fault,” he says finally, though his grief is clear in that simple statement. But somehow, despite his absolution, she still feels as though she is to blame, even if she knows it is not true.
She tugs him closer, and he wraps his arms gingerly around her, careful of her injured shoulder, as she does the same to him, curling her one good arm around him to hold him close. They stay like that, in silent, dreadful anticipation as they offer one another what comfort they can, until a guard comes by to give the all clear.
--
The aftermath of the interrupted wedding is a disaster. There were numerous deaths besides the King and Queen, mostly important figureheads and dignitaries. Her parents are safe, no doubt largely owing to the fact that the rebels had assumed she (and therefore her parents) were on their side. With the rebel leader dead, the fight had abruptly fallen apart and the guards had managed to prevail with relative ease from there. Heartfire, for her part, feels curiously void of emotion over the death of Peregrine. While she might have thought she would be more disturbed over having killed a man, she had not known Peregrine that well, and with the choice having been between him and Francis, she finds herself unable to regret her decision.
She is far more grief-stricken by Jinx’s death than by anyone else’s. He had been a true friend, a generally happy, good-natured soul, and he had not deserved to die as he had. She is torn, hurt. She loves Francis, and she knows she will forgive him (he had been trying to save her, after all), but she needs her time to grieve, just as he does. And so, they grieve, but in the end, they grieve together, for his loss and for hers.
--
After everything has finally settled down, all of the guests and remaining dignitaries are sent home. The wedding occurs several weeks later (after Heartfire has more fully recovered from her injury and finally regained most of the use of her arm), followed by an official coronation, both of which are much smaller affairs than had originally been intended.
And she, by some horribly ironic quirk of fate, has been crowned queen. She, perhaps the least suited candidate for such a position, has been given the power to decide the fate of the realm. And decide it she will. With headstrong determination and dogged persistence, she fights for the things she had joined the Resistance to accomplish. Francis, much to his mingled dismay and delight, quickly finds out just what his chosen wife can accomplish when she puts her mind to it. So they find a rhythm that works for them, he the head – with his aptitude for grace and diplomacy – and she the heart – strong and stubborn and determined. It is not easy, just as worthwhile things are never easy, but, together, they make it work.
Heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
05-25-2016, 12:30 AM (This post was last modified: 05-25-2016, 12:32 AM by Kirke.
Edit Reason: html formatting issues
)
peel away the layers till you're nothing and no one
She waits for the guards to come and announce her execution or imprisonment, and waits … and waits …
She doesn’t remember closing her eyes.
When she awakes the next morning she’s surprised to realize that she actually managed to get some sleep. She rolls over under her silken sheets, purple eyes staring blankly up at the canopy above her head. Why haven’t they come for her yet?
She sighs and sits up. It doesn’t make sense. They will punish her, it wouldn’t make sense for them not to. They must be deliberating. Yes, that’s it. They must still be working on which punishment befits her crime.
She freezes when a hand knocks against the wood of her door, and is surprised when her usual team of servants suddenly bustles in. She stares at them, wide-eyed, until the leader of her team (a kindly older woman by the name of Mrs. Linton) gives her a pointed look, points at the door of her adjoining bath chamber and says, “come on Miss, time to get up.” Kirke doesn’t see the point, but she doesn’t argue. They’re only doing their jobs.
But really, what’s the point in dressing her up for imprisonment or execution?
With a small sigh she hoists herself out of the bed and walks the few steps to the bath chamber door. The usual routine begins and passes in one big blur - bathing, dressing and painting her face. She’s become so used to the whole process that she doesn’t notice when her makeup artist puts the last finishing touches on her face. But, she does notice when her team begin to bustle out the door. And as Kirke’s eyes follow them out into the hallway, she notices that something’s different. The guard that had been at her door all week is gone.
It must be a mistake, an oversight. There’s no way they’d leave the door of a murderer unguarded. But, she’s not going to let this opportunity pass her by. This could be her last chance to go outside.
She rushes to the door and peers around it. Still no one in sight. Here’s her chance!
She dashes down the hallway, down the stairway where she’d first met Francis (a thought she tries and fails to banish from her mind) and out the first door to the grounds that she can find. She takes a giant breathe of fresh cool air, and a small smile creeps across her face. If nothing else, at least she has this moment. This last opportunity to enjoy the world.
She walks down the castle steps, purple eyes fastened on the tree-lined path in front of her. In the distance she can just see the glimmer of the sun shining on the lake where she and Francis had their first date …
She shakes her head slightly. No point in dwelling on the things she will never have.
Her eyes travel to the the flowers that ring the trees, and she steps over to one and bends down to have a closer look. She recognizes the species - poppies - and closes her eyes to take a deep whiff of the lovely scent.
She nearly jumps out of her skin when a hand firmly taps her shoulder. She stands up straight immediately, nearly knocking over the newcomer in her haste. “Oh I’m so sorry!”
Then she turns around and her mouth falls open slightly in shock.
It’s Francis.
And he’s … smiling?
She stands there, frozen, so unsure of what to think of the expression on his face. It’s so similar to the smile she’d seen in that horrible vision the interrogator had given her, so open, so happy. It doesn’t make sense for this expression to be directed at her in real life.
He motions for her to walk with him and complies without a word. It seems strange that she hasn’t already been carried off by the guards - perhaps he’s trying to be kind, giving her this one last opportunity to be out in the sun. She supposes she should be angry for all that he’s put her through, for all that he will put her through, but she can't bring herself to feel any animosity towards him. He’s done what was best for the kingdom, and she can’t fault him for that.
They walk in silence for a time, until they come upon a little fountain surrounded by roses. There’s a little wooden bench half-hidden in the flowers, and Francis motions for her to sit. Ah, here it goes. Time to say good bye.
She’s not at all prepared for what actually comes out of his mouth.
“You’re the one.”
“Wha …?” She must have heard that wrong, his voice is so soft and quiet. He laughs nervously, then repeats himself. “You’re the one Kirke.”
But …
… what?
He must see the disbelief on her face, because he doesn’t stop there. “I know this whole process must have been so hard on you, especially to have had a secret like that forced out into the open. And, I just want to say, you shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened. You were a child Kirke. A helpless child being forced into a situation you had no control over, by someone you should have been able to trust.” She can’t help the tears that begin pricking at the corners of her eyes. “And I have to say, having had the chance to get to know you during this selection, the woman that you are today is nothing short of a miracle. Despite all that you’ve been through, you still manage to see the beauty in the world, and somehow, you still manage to love. And that’s the kind of woman that I want by my side for the rest of my life.”
Her breath catches and for a moment she’s completely still, her mind trying to work through the complete flip the world has just thrown her. And then she can’t hold back any longer. Tears begin streaming down her face, tracing tracks through her painted on face. In all her wildest dreams, she had never really expected this.
She starts to slump and Francis leans forward to catch her. She falls into his arms and simply stays there, feeling safe and warm in his strong embrace. After a while the crying slows and Francis clears his throat. “I take it that’s a yes?” She chokes out a laugh and nods weakly. Francis grins and bends his neck to kiss her, and for once she doesn’t give a shit about decorum and kisses him right back.
After a few minutes they part, and Francis gives her a few minutes to compose herself. When she’s ready, he launches into an explanation of what’s facing them in the upcoming weeks. They will have a few weeks to plan, and the the circus will begin. A royal announcement, then a multitude of public festivals, then the big day itself, the wedding. Her head begins to spin at the thought of all that needs to be done, and she steadies herself by grabbing Francis’ hand. At least, whatever happens, she’ll have Francis right there with her.
___________________________________________
The weeks pass by in a flurry of activity - so many parties to be planned, so many dresses and suites to be fitted. She doesn’t have much say in the big decisions for the wedding, which is to be expected, but she and Francis relish in the few decisions they are allowed to make.
Despite her revelations concerning her father, her whole family is brought to the palace, though they are placed in a more remote wing where the royal guard can keep an eye on them. The secret that Kirke had shared during her interrogation had only been previously known by herself and her father, so the royal family has no way of keeping Kirin away without revealing a truth they have no way of proving (and without tarnishing the name of their newest princess). And, as Francis points out to her, it’s far better to keep such a dangerous man close by and happy (what with his daughter being a princess and all) where they can keep an eye on his actions. And, once their villa is ready, Kirke will only have to deal with them as much as she is willing to. Which is a blessing to say the least. She’s really had mixed feelings about her father since the interrogation. She can’t help but love her father, but she also can’t pretend that he’s a good man. The less she has to do with him the better.
But at least there are some other positive things that come out of the process, besides the actual wedding itself. As the preparations progress Kirke begins to grow close to dear Mrs. Linton, the head of her little team of servants. Mrs. Linton is a wonderful listener, and the circus surrounding a the royal wedding grows to a fever pitch, Kirke begins to share her concerns and her dreams for the future with her. In turn, Mrs. Linton talks about her own family, and bonds with Kirke over their early lives spent outside of the palace. In fact, Kirke comes to see her as almost a mother-figure, a sort of do-over for the mother she never got to know … not that she’d ever admit it to herself let alone Mrs. Linton.
It’s no surprise then, when, on the big day itself, Mrs. Linton is the last in the room with Kirke before it’s time for her to walk down the aisle. Kirke gives her a big hug (decorum be damned) and pulls back, clutching at the older woman’s hands. “Thank you for everything Mrs. Linton.” The woman smiles and pats her arm gently, before pulling out a small, wrapped package. “Oh you didn't …” But Mrs. Linton silences her with a gesture. “I know you care for Francis, but I know you care for Illea too - maybe even more than you care for your sweet Prince. We all know Illea needs the change you could bring, I hope you can do what is need to bring those changes for us all. Maybe sooner than later even. If I’m lucky I will be by your side through those changes. You make this old lady happy to be a servant here.” Then she shakes her head, gives Kirke another hug and disappears out the door, leaving Kirke standing in middle of the room feeling more than a little confused.
She looks down at the package, and with a last little glance at the door, rips open the paper. There’s a box underneath, which she opens, and when she sees what’s inside she drops the box in shock. A knife? She bends down to pick it up, and notices a little slip of paper hidden under the blade. The Rebels need you. Illea needs you, sooner rather than later. I think you know what to do.“What?!” But there’s no time to stop and process her confusion. A knock rings out at the door - it’s time for the procession to begin. She quickly slips the knife under the sash at her waste - the knife is a stiletto, long, thin and thankfully easily hidden - and moves towards the door. It’s time.
She steps out the door, and immediately feels the touch of thousands of eyes. She steps in time to the music, just as she’d practiced so many times during the multitude of rehearsals. But, despite the pressure, she feels nothing but excitement. She’s only moments away from marrying the man of her dreams.
She catches sight of her family ahead, preparing themselves to step behind her in the procession. Despite her mixed feelings towards them, she can’t help but feel slightly smug at the look of jealously on Airy’s face. She just feels so stunning right now. More lovely and beautiful than she’s ever felt in her entire life. The dress - a lovingly made detailed concoction of silk and lace - fits her like a glove, and her face has never been more beautifully painted. She can’t wait to see Francis’ face when she finally reaches him at the alter.
But the moment never comes.
A loud crash and horrible scream break through the soft music, and everyone in the hall freezes. A yell of victory reverberates through the air, followed by a terrified voice crying out, “the rebels have killed the King and Qu-” But the rest of the words are lost as all of the people gathered in the hall begin to panic.
Kirke keeps her cool, just as she had in the first attack, and her hand instantly goes to the stiletto hidden in her sash. She pulls it free, remembering Mrs. Linton’s note. I think you know what to do. Had Mrs. Linton wanted her to kill the King and Queen? No … no … she’d wanted Kirke to kill Francis.
Her belly becomes a hot roiling pit of anger.
How dare she. Francis is the single best thing to have happened to her in her entire life. Kirke would sooner cut off her own arm than kill him. Mrs Linton would know that … so why had she thought he was so deserving of death?
There’s no time to ponder however - Francis has pushed his way through the panicked nobles and has almost reached her. Kirke slips the stiletto up her lace sleeve (not well hidden, but at least it’s easily accessible) and starts pushing her way towards him as well. In a few minutes they reach each other, and Francis grasps her hands tightly. “Do you think they really …?” She tightens her grip. “I don’t know. I hope not, but …” She knows well how determined the rebels are. She doesn’t want to believe the King and Queen are dead, but …
There’s no way for them to know. All she can do is keep Francis from dwelling on the possibility. “I know it’s not a good time, but … you just look so handsome.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. He knows what she’s trying to do. “And you look absolutely stunning my dear.”
A loud voice suddenly rises above the hubbub, cutting through the noise with harsh clarity. “There he is! Get him! Get the prince!” Kirke’s hands clench tighter on Francis, and he begins to pull her away. “Come on Kirke, we need to get out of here.” They rush towards one of the side doors, moving away from the main door of the grand hall. Francis pauses briefly to grab a sword from one of the guards trying to direct the nobles, and then they continue on their way. Kirke catches a brief glimpse of her family. Kirin has somehow obtained a pair of swords, which both he and Apothyx are brandishing, and Airy, Halocyn and Kaide all have bowie knives out and at the ready. Despite the general frightfulness of their situation, Kirke can’t help but snort at the image. So typical of her damn family. The blades were probably all stuffed down her sisters’ skirts.
But Francis is still pulling on her arm, and soon they are through the door into a little empty hallway. “What’s your plan Francis?” But he shakes his head at her. “I have no idea. I …” He pauses, thinking. “I need to rally the royal guard. I need to fight back.” He looks up at Kirke, honey eyes meeting her own purple ones. “I know things aren’t perfect in Illea right now Kirke, and I know they just want things to change, but … this isn’t the answer. Too many people are going to get hurt.” He grips tightly at her hand again. “We need to fight them off, and then we can start thinking about change. Maybe …” He pauses again. “I’ve been talking with some of the lords, and I’ve heard about this system called democracy, and maybe … maybe it could work. Maybe it could make things better for everyone. But first we need to stop the fighting.”
He sighs, and looks back towards the door to the hall. Kirke knows as well as he does that half of the royal guard is out there, likely trying to wrangle the nobles and fight the rebels that have no doubt started streaming in. “Whatever you decide Francis, I’ll be right behind you.” She knows what he’s going to do. It makes Kirke’s gut clench with worry, but she knows it’s the right thing. “I know Kirke. And … thank you.” He sweeps her up in a quick, tight hug, then steps back, and both of them move back to the door. “Let’s do this.”
Francis rushes out of the door, Kirke in hot pursuit. “GUARDS, TO ME! TO ME!” He runs up to the dais and holds his sword aloft, a beacon (and a target) amongst the scene of chaos. The guards rally about him, and are quickly joined by many of the noblemen, many of whom are now carrying swords of their own. They appear to be ceremonial blades, but they will have to do. The ladies, for their part, all tumble about and put themselves behind the armed company, trying to cram themselves behind dais to make themselves invisible. And then hell breaks out in earnest.
The rebel fighters that had been pushing their way through the panicked crowd now have a target, and they all turn their blades towards Francis and his gathered fighters. And the battle begins.
Francis shoves her back towards the cowering ladies and joins the fray, and while she is momentarily shielded from being reached by the fighters, she has a full view of the fight. Blood begins to splatter the floor and the walls, staining the white walls and rich carpet. Screams ring out behind her as a head soars through the air and lands in amongst the ladies. A sword clatters to the ground in front of her as one of the guards staggers backwards with a knife in his chest, and Kirke leans down to pick it up. It’s too heavy for her to use well, but she’ll at least be able to defend herself with it. And it will allow her to keep her stiletto hidden for the moment. It’s impossible to know when she might want a hidden blade.
Then she catches sight of something that fills her with fear. A man with a strange symbol painted on his jacket is leading a wedge of rebel fighters through the guards’ defence, hammering their way through the ranks of the guard … and almost to Francis. She yells out to him, “Francis, look out,” but there’s no way for him to hear her, there’s too much going on.
She won’t let him fight alone.
She rams her way through the guards, pushing past surprised soldiers as the rebel leader draws even closer to Francis. She’s half way there when Francis turns and sees the man for the first time. Francis raises his sword and snarls at the man, and then their swords begin to clash.
Kirke keeps forcing her way through the soldiers, trying desperately to reach Francis and watching the fight at the same time. Francis is good, but he’s used to fighting one on one in courtly practice fights, not in the midst of a crushing battle. He makes a few good hits, almost injuring the man, but then he’s down. “NOOOOO!” Kirke crashes through the last few soldiers, arriving just in time to see the rebel leader raise his sword over Francis on the floor. “DAMN YOU!” She rushes forward, holding her sword vertically in front of her. Her arms are shaky and aim abysmal (not to mention her legs hampered by her lacy dress), so she manages to miss the rebel leader with the sword point and instead ends up crashing into him head long. Both of them fall to the floor and Kirke drops the sword but doesn’t miss a beat - she rips open her lacy sleeve and grabs the stiletto inside. Then in one fluid motion she reaches over and stabs the man in the throat before he has a chance to rise. Blood gushes out over her white dress, but she doesn’t care, Francis is ok, Francis is alive. She stands back up, pulling the knife out of the man’s throat, and turns back to look at Francis. For a moment, he looks much the same as the soldier she’d rescued during the last battle - utterly dumbfounded. But her recovers much more quickly and flashes her a slightly amused grin. “I should have known. I owe you my life.” Kirke grins back, and wipes her bloody hands and knife on her blood stained wedding dress.
A shout suddenly rings out across the hall. “HE’S DEAD. THE WARDEN IS DEAD!” Kirke turns to see about half the rebel force suddenly start staggering back. Clearly she’d just killed someone important to their cause. Cut off the head of the snake …
But there’s no time to think. They might have the upper hand now, but the rebels are still fighting. The battle isn’t completely over.
The next few minutes are a blur of blood and gore as the royal guard thoroughly routes the remaining rebel fighters. But, eventually, it is done.
As the last of the fighters disappears through the door, Kirke rushes to Francis, wrapping her arms around him in relief. The battle is over. They’ve made it. She pulls him into a kiss then steps back, not failing to miss the horror in his eyes. He’s not used to death, and in the space of one battle, he’s seen more than most will ever see in a life time.
A movement suddenly catches her eye over his shoulder, and time slows. A rebel fighter, clutching his bleeding gut with one hand, and holding out a thick hunting knife in the other. Francis!
Without thinking Kirke pushes Francis aside and raises her left hand to shield herself. And then her hand is burning. “Kirke!” She falls to the ground, knife blade imbedded in her hand up to its hilt. The rebel fighter quickly follows suite, the swords of two of the guards piercing his torso.
Francis rushes to her, lifting her up with her arms. “Hold on Kirke!” Then to a guard over his shoulder. “Someone get a doctor!” And then everything goes black.
___________________________________________
It takes weeks for her hand to regain any of its old range of motion, and even more weeks after that for the royal wedding to finally happen. It’s a much quieter affair in the end, with far less pomp and circumstance than had originally been intended, but neither Kirke nor Francis care. They’re simply happy to finally have the chance to tie the knot. And, adding to Kirke’s happiness, their wedding coincides with the removal of her family from the palace, their villa having finally been built. Even though they’d somehow all survived the battle (well, she shouldn’t really be surprised), she won’t have to deal with them much ever again.
The royal wedding though is just a jumping point, a stepping stone in Illea’s path to peace. The weeks up to the event are peppered with talks between Francis and representatives of the people, paving the way for a new system of government that will hopefully keep everyone happy. They call it a ‘constitutional monarchy’, with Francis and Kirke as the symbolic heads of the new government - the perfect union between the royal family and the people of Illea. Kirke hopes that it will be a good compromise and that the fighting will finally end, but only time will tell.
What she does know though, is that she is happy. Truly happy, for perhaps the first time in her life. With Francis at her side, she feels like she can take on anything. No matter what happens with Illea, she knows that they will face it together. And that will make all the difference.
