Round 3- The Attack

[Kirke]

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

They are ushered into the drawing room and Kirke quickly grabs a seat, arraying herself as gracefully as possible despite the anxious pounding of her heart. This is it, the first elimination. And she has no idea where she stands. Some of the other candidates look so confident, so assured of their success, but Kirke just feels worried. She’d been one of the first, and while she’d thought the date went well, many of the others could have gone well too. The memory of their time together could easily have faded in the face of all the other dates.

What will she even do, if she’s eliminated? To return home, after having gotten so far. To see that smug look on Airy’s face, the disappointment on her father’s …

And then suddenly, he’s there.

Kirke and the other selected stand as Francis enters the room, curtsying politely as he makes his way to a chair at the head of the room. He urges them all to sit and Kirke does so, heart in her throat. She can tell that the prince is uncomfortable at the prospect of the elimination and he implies as much when he explains that he had to consider the kingdom’s needs along with his own. She feels a small pang of sympathy for him, but it’s quickly swallowed up by her own nerves.

She holds her breath as he begins to list the names, and her chest clenches with every name announced. And then suddenly she realizes she was not among them. She sighs in relief, as do the other women whose names had not been called. She’s done it, she’s still in the running.

She keeps her face impassive, but she feels for the three eliminated women as they stand, stiffly, and take their exits. She can see one of the women struggling to keep her composure as she disappears through the door. She could have been one of them, but, for whatever reason, she is not. Francis had seen something in her, something he had not seen in them and she’s still in the running. Thank Khaos.

Francis stands then and moves to each of the remaining women, congratulating them in turn. She feels a touch of warmth as he turns to her and smiles. “I look forward to seeing more of you Kirke.” She can’t help but blush. “And I you Francis.” And then he's gone, and she’s suddenly being ushered back to her chambers.

The next few weeks are just as rushed. Her time is split between the occasional date with Francis, and her many lessons with the court tutor. The schedule she’s asked to keep is breakneck, but as the week progresses she begins understand their reasons. They want to make sure she’s calm under pressure, that the duties and expectations of a royal life will not break her. Well, she will make sure to not disappoint - she will rise to the challenge.

And truly, she does not mind the hustle and bustle of court life. There’s always something for her to do, something for her to see, something for her to learn. As a little village girl, she’d never had access to any of this. And she’s beginning to enjoy it - she can feel the very world opening up before her. But, she still lives for the time that she’s able to spend with Francis. They grow fonder of one another as the weeks progress, growing closer and closer as time goes on. The connection she feels with to him is so strong, so much stronger than anything she’s ever experienced. And now, she doesn’t want to win just because of her father any more (though, as always, she still wants to make him proud), she wants to win so she can be with Francis. She could see herself being so, so happy with him.

But is the connection she feels enough? She’s accidentally come across some of his other dates with the other selected, and she’s seen moments of affection there too, and not just on the part of the selected. Will their time together be enough? Or will she be overshadowed?

These concerns and more are still playing on her mind as she and the other selected sit through a lecture on Thurick, one of Illea’s strongest allies. She’s trying really hard to listen - it’s very important to be informed on Illea’s closest and most important relationships - and it’s not actually a boring lecture, but she just feels on edge, distracted.

And then suddenly the ground is shaking.

There’s a terrible crash and several voices scream out in terror. Sirens begin wailing, and soldiers being rushing about everywhere. The other selected begin to stand, looking confused. Then a maid suddenly runs screaming through the hall, blood streaming down her face. “The palace is under attack!” And the bedlam begins in earnest.

Kirke, for her part, doesn’t waste any time. As the other selected start to rush about in fear (some of them running into desks and each other in blind terror), she makes for the door. Beyond what the guards carry, the vast majority of the palace is rather light on weapons - they are supposed to be safe here after all. But, one floor up, hidden in the depths of her personal bag, is the krag bowie knife her father had given her for her birthday. Not necessarily the best defence if the attackers have guns, but it’s better than having nothing at all.

She’s halfway to the stairs when a man pops out of the hallway ahead. At the sight of him - ripped and dirty clothes, covered in blood spatter, a piece of cloth tied around his mouth - she realizes what’s going on. The rebels are attacking. Kirke freezes, but it’s too late - the man’s already spotted her and the expression on his face sours. “Ach you’re one of those damn floozies tryin’ to marry the prince aren’t yah?” He scowls and begins walking towards her. “You’re a damn whore yah know that. Fuckin’ wining and dining the prince up here in the palace while people are starving in the streets.” He reaches her and grabs hold of her arm, beginning to twist it. “Now you have two choices here …” Kirke doesn’t wait to find out what these two choices are. With a strength belying her slight frame, she knees him in the groin. The rebel fighter drops without a sound, curling himself into the fetal position.

Kirke breaks into a run, moving as fast as she can for the stairs ahead. She needs to get to her knife in her room above before the man manages to get to his feet. Rebels or not, invading soldiers are notorious for their poor treatment of the women they come across during the battle.

She’s at the top of the stairs when the man’s voice yells out behind her. “I’ll get you for that you bitch!” Damn, the guy must have balls of steel. Kirke tries to increase her speed, but the skirts of her beautiful dress are hampering her, and she can hear the stomping of boots in the hall below. He’s going to catch up, the only question is when.

She rushes down the next hall and around her corner. She can see the room to her door! But the crashing of boots is drawing closer …

Adrenalin lends her a little extra speed, and she tumbles through the doorway. Falling to her knees, she reaches for her bag and begins rummaging around. The knife is in here somewhere …

Suddenly, there’s a tickling sensation on the back of her neck and she freezes. “Nothin’ in there gunna help yah pretty. A heavy hand clasps her left shoulder, fingers digging in. Her fingers twitch involuntarily, brushing against a wooden handle. “Don’t turn around bitch, not gunna give you another chance at me.” She can feel his breath hot against her neck. He reaches around in front of her, holding a long, pock-marked blade to her cheek. “Think you’re so high and mighty, being chosen for the contest, don’t yah? I’m gunna make you pay for kickin’ me.” He puts the point of his blade to her cheekbone and draws downward, scoring her cheek. “Won’t be so pretty now, will …” He cuts off abruptly as Kirke grabs the wooden handle at her finger tips, turns around and stabs him in the gut.

It’s really her only advantage, she thinks, as she twists the 12 inch blade in his gut and dispassionately pulls it upward through his abdominal muscles. Being female that is. Men expect her to be be weak and afraid, and while she certainly is weak, she’s not too afraid to defend herself.

She stands up, grunting as she pushes the man back with one hand and ripping the knife out with the other. Her face turns grim as intestines spill out, bloodying her dress. And it’d been so pretty too.

She’s surprised to find that she feels no regret. She’d killed once before … her mouth tightens. She doesn’t want to think about that. But this situation had been different anyway. The guy had been hurting her. And who knows how far he would have gone? Speaking of which …

She lifts her unbloodied hand to her right cheek, feeling at the cut. It’s nothing serious, but it’s deep enough that it’s probably going to scar. She feels a pang of anguish. That’s her chance at winning the contest done. There’s no way Francis will consider her now.

But now isn’t the time to dwell. She’s not safe where she is - considering how publicized the contest had been, she wouldn’t be surprised if some of the rebels seek out the rooms of the contestants, looking for payback from the women they likely see as traitors. Idiotic if you ask her - she has no doubt the men fighting would’ve leapt at the chance to join the royal family if the heir had been female. Anyone would take the opportunity to raise themselves up out of poverty.

Anyway, she needs to find somewhere safe to hide out the fighting. She moves back to the door and pokes her head out cautiously, purple eyes scanning the hallway. There’s no one in sight, and the battle sounds far off. Moving slowly so as to not create noise, she creeps down the hallway, still thinking. The servants’ quarters would probably be her best bet for a hiding place. The rebels are more likely to want to go after the rich and powerful first. Not only that, but the servants’ quarters are in the basement (she knows from a previous conversation with one of her maids) and the doors are often hidden so as to not ‘bother’ the palace elite. She could find a secluded corner and stay hidden for hours.

Decision made, she heads back for the stairs she’d run up before, clutching the bloody bowie knife tightly in her hand. She hadn’t exactly expected to have to use it coming here, but as she’d told Francis on their first date, she thinks it’s important to be prepared. Thank Khaos for her paranoia.

She makes her way down the stairs, through another hallway (avoiding the lecture hall, a room that big and open doesn’t seem safe), and down another set of stairs. She’s not exactly certain where the entrance to the servants’ quarters are, though she’s sure she’ll find them eventually if she keeps going down. She rounds the corner in another hallway, and comes up against a pair of rebel fighters accosting an unarmed royal soldier with a large gash in his leg. Kirke immediately slips the hand holding her bowie knife behind her back. Best to look as weak as possible.

She intentionally lets out a little gasp to distract the rebels. Both turn to look at her, mouths hidden behind pieces of cloth wrapped over their faces. “Aw shit it’s one of those contestants.” One of the men groans. “Come here girlie. No point in running.” Kirke nods weakly, widening her eyes to make herself seem afraid. She needs to get close to both of them at once - she’s too hampered by her blood-soaked skirts to cover distance quickly. “Just please don’t hurt me.” She steps closer to them on trembling legs. “Ach we won’t do that dearie.” Just a little bit closer … there! When she’s a two feet away she whips out her knife, drawing the sharp edge across one rebel’s throat, then burying the blade between the ribs of the other. Both men crumple to the ground in a spray of blood. She’s definitely grateful for the training her father had given her now.

She turns to the wounded soldier, who’s looking at her like he’s been hit over the head. She represses a laugh. The man’s probably never seen a woman fight in his life. “Where are the servants’ quarters?” The man continues staring at her, blue eyes foggy, clearly dumbfounded. She does not have the time for this. She waves a hand in front of his face. “Come on, where are the servants’ quarters?” The solider blinks stupidly at her, then the dazed look in his eyes clears somewhat. “Uh, there’s an entrance the next floor down.” Kirke pulls at his arm. “Let’s get going then.” The soldier complies without resistance, clearly still stunned by what he’d just witnessed. Kirke is tempted to try and slap some sense into him, but with the door to the servants’ quarters so close she doesn’t want to waste time.

They move through the hallway, the soldier limping slowly after her, then down the stairs, and through another hallway. She’s glad that he’s at least not too wounded to walk. Finally, after a few minutes of searching, the man raises a trembling hand to point out a wooden panel in the wall. “There’s the door.” Kirke steps toward it, reaching a hand out to rest the wood …

“Hey you!” Another rebel appears at the end of the hallway, brandishing a short sword. Once again Kirke slips the knife behind her back. The wounded solider suddenly steps in between here and the man, holding a hand out to her as if to shield her. “Stay back my lady!” Kirke fights the urge to roll her eyes. Did he just forget that she’d saved him only moments before?

The rebel fighter walks towards them, holding the sword out in a threatening posture that is nonetheless a poor defence. He stops a few feet away, clearly considering his best coarse of action. It’s obvious to her that few of these rebels have ever been in a proper fight before. Kirke sighs, takes a step to the right so that she has a clear shot at the man, then throws her knife. Unfortunately bowie knives are hard to throw accurately, and she’s had little practice, but she gets lucky - the butt of the hilt hits the man in the shoulder, causing him to drop the sword. Her ‘protector’ launches himself forward and on top of the rebel, instantly laying into the man with ferocious blows. Kirke slips around the both of them to grab her knife from where it had landed on the floor, and walks around to the rebel’s head. When the soldier sees her with the knife he leans back out of her way, and Kirke stabs the man in the eye. No point in leaving him alive to let his fellow rebels know their hiding place.

She steps back, ripping her knife out of the man’s eye socket. The soldier takes one look at the bloody cavity and stumbles back, vomiting. Kirke wrinkles her nose at the stench. Clearly the rebel fighters aren’t the only ones new to fighting. Kirke wipes her hands and knife on one of the last clean spots on her dress (though it doesn’t do much), then looks pointedly at the soldier. “Open the door.”

Without a word he stands up and moves to the wood panel, leaning his weight against the door and pushing to the right. The panel slides away revealing a hidden stone corridor. The soldier steps back, gesturing for her to go through first. Kirke resists the urge to argue and steps through, then turns back to wait for the soldier. He smiles apologetically. “I’m useless I know, but I can’t abandon my post. I won’t take the coward’s way out. Thanks for saving me, my lady.” Then without giving her the chance to protest, he slides the panel shut.

She pauses for a moment, looking at the panel in the darkness. It makes sense, she supposes. The poor man would likely be executed for cowardice if he were to be found hiding out the battle in the servants quarters. Better to die a poor soldier than to die in dishonour. There’s nothing she can do for him.

She turns away from the panel and begins to follow the corridor, trying to move as quietly as she can. After a few minutes, and after going down another set of stairs, she comes out into what looks like a dormitory - a plain stone room with a row of plain wooden beds against the wall. A slight movement catches her eye, and she just manages to spot the top of a head disappearing behind the farthest bed.

She walks over, knife held in front of her, and discovers a pair of maids hiding behind the bed. The closest one screams, while the second gasps at the sight of her. “Miss, are you alright?” Kirke looks down at her self. Her once pale purple dress is stained dark red with blood, the skirt portion behind particularly drenched. She’d known it was a mess, but ugh. She shrugs and looks back at the maids. “I’m fine, it’s not my blood.” The maid looks perhaps even more disturbed and says nothing, seemingly lost for words. Kirke doesn’t bother to add anything else, instead slipping onto the bed beside them with a heavy sigh. She lets her knife drop onto the linen bedsheet, surprised to realize the muscles in her hand and arm are a bit sore.

She looks up for a moment, glancing about the room. This place will do just fine until the fighting ends. It’s better for her to stay out of it, better for her to leave it up to the trained soldiers. While the one soldier she’d run into had been a poor fighter, she has no doubt that the royal family’s elite force will make quick work of the rebel fighters, most of whom are likely malnourished, and have probably never been in a proper battle in their lives. She’d just get in the way.

She and the two maids wait in silence for what seem like hours. Every once in a while, they catch the faint sound of the fighting. Quiet as it is, she finally has time to think properly and her thoughts can’t help but drift to Francis. She hopes he’s alright wherever he is. Please Khaos let him be alright.

After an age, the sound of boots coming down the hallway catches her attention. She stiffens and reaches for her knife, hand clenching tight over the sticky wooden handle. But it’s only another maid, who gasps at the sight of her sitting on the bed. “Oh my goodness are - ” Kirke cuts her off with a wave of her hand. “I’m fine. What’s happening out there?” The maid doesn’t look like she believes her, but she doesn’t argue. “The … the fighting’s over. The rebels tried to kill the king and queen, but the royal bodyguard fought them off. They’re sending all the contestants back to their rooms.” Kirke’s eyes narrow. “And what of the prince?” The maid cringes at the tone in her voice. “I don’t know miss. Please, the king wants all of the contestants back in their rooms” Kirke sighs, though inside she’s suddenly full of worry. “Fine.”

She stands up, grimacing slightly at the muscle soreness in her arm, back and legs, then makes her way back through the corridor, up the stairs, and out the panel door. She’s immediately swept up in a flurry of activity, rushed along by a variety of servants until somehow she’s back in her room. One of the maids pours a bath, and pushes Kirke over to it. She strips and climbs into it without protest, and sighs as she leans back in the steaming water. But, try as she might, she can’t relax. None of the servants assigned to her know anything about how Francis is doing, and she can’t help but think the worst …

A maid comes in to help scrub her clean, and tuts over the cut on her face and the fingerprint bruises on her shoulder. The maid does the best she can, then pulls her out, thrusting a linen nightgown at her. Once she’s dressed, a doctor comes in to stitch the wound and confirms what she already knows - she’ll be scarred for the rest of her life.

In a daze she moves back to the bedroom and climbs into the bed. But, even though the soft mattress feels wonderful against her sore muscles, she knows she’s not going to be able to sleep much tonight. She’s still too wired after everything that’s happened. And too worried about Francis. As she snuggles deeper under the covers, she whispers aloud. “Please, please Khaos, let Francis be alright.”

kirke