05-12-2016, 12:48 PM
I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Lagertha waits until the rest of girls rise to do the same. She brings up the end of the party, nodding a silent thanks to the servants who hold the doors open for the girls. She is the only one to do so, and while they may not acknowledge it, she likes to imagine that she makes a difference. The girls don’t really know what to do with themselves; some sink delicately into chairs, while other prefer to balance their nerves by standing. Lagertha is of the latter group’s mindset, placing her hands behind her back and steeling her spine, head up, eyes straight ahead, feet shoulder width apart. Of course, they can’t see that under her dress, but the discipline settles her wildly beating heart and allows her to fall into a familiar mindset.
And yet, despite the physical calmness of her body, her mind continues to race. Lagertha’s lips press into a thin line of displeasure. No, that isn’t how this is supposed to work. Why is her heart in her stomach, and her stomach in her throat. It’s so… unprofessional. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, she knows that it does - not just to The Resistance, but to her. She tells herself it’s just a matter of her pride, but she knows it’s more than that. They wait for what seems to be an eternity, the tension in the room growing thicker with every passing tick of the large, grandfather clock that sits in the corner of the drawing room. Francis finally enters, and those who aren’t already standing rise, but with a well-polished smile (though she thinks she detects a bit of crookedness in it, she could also be imagining things), he tries to soothe them. It doesn’t work; they are all painfully aware that several will be going home, and are all fervently hoping it isn’t them. He is diplomatic and dutiful when explaining the reasoning behind his decision, but that doesn’t make it any better. And then finally - three names, and none of them are hers!
With the pronunciation of the last syllable of the last name, Lagertha feels her body relax - as if the drill sergeant has finally left the room. She is used to being in high stress situations (and really, this isn’t much of a ‘high stress’ situation so much as a novel - and unusual - one), so why did this feel different? It should have been a breeze! No one’s life is at stake, she would emerge from this experience alive no matter the outcome, and the ‘enemy’ isn’t an enemy at all! Ah, perhaps that was it? She watches the girls who were not chosen as they depart from the drawing room; two do their best to hold back tears, and the other doesn’t even bother to try. Celine is still here, though. Their eyes meet briefly, and then Celine quickly drags them away, pretending to be absorbed in the couch’s upholstery.
It’s so petty. Lagertha rolls her eyes and when the escort arrives to take them back to their chambers, she is at the head of the group. Solitude will clearly be her friend more than any of the other Selected. So be it. With the passing of her parents, her world shrank to a fraction of what it was before; their world does not look kindly on orphans, and even though the master at arms had loved her, the rest of his family did not. Her microcosm of a world consisted of her mentor and his family, and then the merc group, and now it is expanding outward at a seemingly exponential rate. What were once idiosyncrasies are now oddities and although Francis seems to be enthralled by the fact that she is so ‘different,’ Lagertha knows that unless she conforms somewhat, they will never put a member of the Resistance on the throne.
She is their only hope. She must play the part, and do what they demand until the coast is clear. Now if only they would give her some sort of sign. Even a brief message just to let her know they were still around.
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Days pass, and then weeks, and each day that passes without an Elimination is a good one; her days are filled with what seems like a hundred different skills she must master. The private lessons are fine, but when the girls come together for dancing lessons, all too often she wonders why Francis chose to keep her, if she has so much more to learn than the other girls. And then she grits her teeth and sucks it up, because she has never quit before, and these dance steps are trivial compared to sword fighting. Infinitely more annoying, but trivial nonetheless. No one will die if she forgets a step-ball-change, but oh, how she would like to see them parry and thrust, and grapple for their lives. When they snigger at her from behind perfectly manicured hands, she imagines them flat on their asses, in the mud, with her sword point at the tip of their noses. It’s a challenge, just a challenge to resist the allure of the common folk’s freedom on the other side of the gilded gates.
After the first elimination, the remaining Selected are given more of a free reign about the castle, and the it is no more than a week before the servants no longer scramble out of her way, or stare boldly as she passes. Lagertha’s sharp ears catches tidbits of conversation, and can glean that there’s a bet going on as to when she’ll leave, but it doesn’t particularly bother her. It’s more amusing, and gives her more determination than discouragement. Even when she embarrasses herself at a public dinner by calling someone by the wrong title and using the wrong fork, she laughs it off with a ‘barbarian’ joke and the potentially offended seem appeased.
She finds the political and historical lessons fascinating; but what Lagertha truly relishes the most is the moment she is released by her tutor. She is barely able to wait until he leaves the room before she can throw on her riding pants, run down to the stables, and saddle up Blackie. Once Francis learned that she visits the stable at almost the exact same time every day, he’d taken to occasionally joining her on a ride, much like their first date. There are other, ‘official’ dates too, but these stolen bits of time and other moments in passing are precious. They offer each other encouragement: Francis on Lagertha’s studies, and she on his struggle to relate to the rest of his country. She will be first to admit that she is not the best at flirting, preferring to be blunt rather than dance about topics. Teasing, however, is a game she knows well and their brief touches seem to linger on each other's open skin. His lips travel to the inside of her wrist as he bids her farewell, and more than once she’s seen his honeyed gaze turn hungry and wolfish. She is not so innocent either, enjoying his reaction when she stands unusually close to him.
Sometimes she’ll see him off with one of the other girls, and while he looks happy, there is an undeniable twinge in her chest that betrays how she really is beginning to feel about the sandy-haired Prince. Even if she won’t admit it aloud, the truth is that she’s becoming very fond of him, especially with his desire to be a different sort of ruler than his parents are. Once, while alone in her room, she even caught herself imagining the hair color of their future children, and then promptly excused herself to splash a basin of water on her face and give herself a stern lecture. Best not to get ahead of herself, as Lagertha isn’t the best at any of the things they have to learn. This is a competition, and she has no idea how the others are doing, or how Francis feels. It is maddening to not know where she stands.
Today is unusual, because they are gathered together for a group history lesson on one of Illea’s staunchest allies. They’ve opened up one of the various reception rooms on the first floor of the Palace, in a far corner of the East Wing, the one used mostly for public events. Today is also one of the days when the King and Queen hold an old-fashioned open court to hear petitions for both major and minor issues of justice. The girls, however, cannot attend that. A former ambassador-turned-historian, who is still very active as an emissary between the courts, decided (after several failed attempts at scheduling) that best use of his time would be to talk to them today, and all at once.
Lagertha sits in the back, listening attentively and practicing her excellent posture, legs crossed at the ankles and tucked under the corner of one of the chairs. They all seem to be the perfect models of attention, with some taking studiously taking notes. Lagertha isn’t, but she has a pretty damn good memory. She’d jot the important things down when she gets back to her room.
The historian is waxing on the importance of their agricultural treaty when a sudden BOOM! shakes the building. Many of the girls shriek, while a few simply look around the room with wide, confused and terrified eyes. Celine has thrown herself on the floor, clutching the legs of her chair as if it could grow larger and protect her. Lagertha, however, after she recovers from being startled, is up and runs to the windows. “Stay down!” she commands the girls and their teacher, and those that aren’t already on the floor, quickly prostrate themselves, trembling. Sirens begin to wail, and bells toll out the alarm; there is the pounding of footsteps outside their closed door, and the soldier inside her knows something is about to happen. Lagertha peers out the window, looking left and then right, and spots a tendril of black smoke curling around from the other side of the Palace. It might be coming from one of the public entrances. Had someone tried to get through under the pretense of being a petitioner?!
She curses under her breath. Nothing to defend herself or these halfwits with. Not that she could find anything in her room either - after she’d pulled the knife on Ami, all of her knives had disappeared. Her eyes fly around the room, looking for something that she can improvise with - they land on a pair of candlesticks. She shrugs. That’ll do. Lagertha dashes to the table they’re resting on and pulls out one of the candles, giving the stick a couple of test swings. It’s ungainly and off balance, but she can definitely work with it. Without looking back to the cowering girls, she issues some quick orders. “The Palace is under attack. After I leave, tie the door handles together with several ribbons, and then prop a chair underneath them. Don’t open them unless whoever is on the other side can give proof they’re with the Palace.” And with that, Lagertha presses her ear to the door, and hearing nothing, slips quietly out into the hallway.
The immediate area is deserted, while the bright red carpet is stained with muddy bootprints; she can hear a noise in the distance and the acrid smell of smoke beckons her down the hall. She grabs her skirts in her hand and slinks along the long hallway, darting from decorative table to decorative table until she’s almost to the corner. All of a sudden, the sound of steel on steel becomes louder, as do the sound of masculine grunts. Lagertha would normally charge immediately around the corner to her left, but if it is The Resistance who’s attacking, she has to make sure the Palace side doesn’t see her. Her whole cover would be blown. So the blonde warrior presses herself up against the wall, silently cursing her goddamn skirts. They are so cumbersome, so unconducive to being sneaky. Briefly, she wonders what she would do if it were Francis who was fighting someone - better yet, where is he? Is he safe?
She pushes him from her mind, knowing that there is no room for distractions here. A few breath spans later, a liveried guard comes stumbling backwards into view, entirely focused on his opponent while blocking frenzied, unpracticed thrusts. Lagertha takes a step towards him and swings her candlestick towards the guard’s head. It connects with a sickening thunk, his head twists and spit and blood go flying, while the man topples backward - very, very unconscious. Potentially dead. But hopefully unconscious.
She doesn’t have long to celebrate it though, because a hand wraps around her head, covers her mouth, and a sword slides against her throat. “Drop it,” the voice demands, breathing his hot, rank breath towards her, and Lagertha obligingly releases her hunk of metal. She stands stock still, pretending to be terrified. It’s easy to play the scared little rich girl. Much of The Resistance is anonymous, they couldn’t possibly know that this woman is one on their side. There is the hair factor, though. While Lagertha might think it’s a discerning enough factor, it may escape others who are… less detail oriented. The Rebel seems to be one of those types. “Looks like you hit the wrong guy, little lady.” Well, no, she didn’t. But she can see where he might make a mistake. She is dressed like one of the nobility. Her clothes look like they could feed his family for almost a year. He reeks of body odor, and she can see the ragged, dirty ends of his sleeves as the coarse fabric abrades her skin.
“Now dontchu scream, or I’ll cut your throat, ya hear?” he whispers menacingly into her ear. She rolls her eyes, but nods, playing along. The hand covering her mouth creeps down her neck, towards the front of her dress, clearly searching for a quick handful of soft, round flesh. Dear god. This was bound to happen with some of the recruits, she thinks - there are always casualties and atrocities in coups. She’s watched her own company members rape and pillage, knowing she could do nothing to stop it, save for claim the particularly young girls as her own spoils. At least this Rebel encountered her instead of the rest of girls. They would be helpless, paralyzed with fear.. “Touch me, and I swear, I will take that sword and cut off your balls, stuff them in your mouth, and then shove that worthless cock up your ass.” The Rebel laughs, clearly thinking she’s all bark and no bite, and starts to fumble around with her buttons. He is sloppy; the blade of the sword cuts into her neck a little, and that’s the last straw. Her right hand shoots up and grabs his right wrist, pushing it outwards while twisting it. Her left elbow drives into his stomach, and he squeals in pain, dropping his sword.
Lagertha pivots on her right foot and forces the arm that once held the sword closer to his shoulder, still gripping his wrist tightly. “I warned you, fucker.” After a moment, she releases him and he falls to his knees, trying to cradle two body parts at once. She picks up his sword, tossing it expertly by the hilt into the air and catching it. It’s poorly made and unbalanced, but it’s hers now. She hisses down at his crouched form, and there is as much scorn in her voice as their is anger at the whole situation. “I’m your woman on the inside, idiot. Get out of the Palace and find your leaders. Tell them I want intel next time. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise.” He just stares at her. “Did I stutter?” Lagertha hisses, eager to move towards the real fighting. He shakes his head. So does she, in exasperation. “Wait.” Without warning, she punches him with her left hand, leaving him clutching his face in pain, blood spurting from his nose. Her knuckles will hurt tomorrow, but it was worth it. “Now you look like you escaped something.That way!” With a jerk of her head in the right direction, she shoves him towards a side hallway that leads to a servant’s entrance. Lagertha leaves him to find his own way back to safety. Hopefully he’ll be smart enough to get out alive. If not, well, then at least no one will know that she took a guard down.
She takes a deep breath and picks up her skirts with her left hand, keeping her sword at the ready in her right. She jogs down another long hallway, and then takes a right. No one is around - no servants, no guest, nothing. She imagines they’re all hiding inside locked rooms, and for once she is grateful for their cowardice. As Lagertha approaches the Holding Room, the sounds grow louder; the clash of metal on metal, the groans of people in pain, and the garbled sounds of orders yelled over the din are all music to her ears. By this point, she’s travelled much of the East Wing and found little sign of the fight aside from those two men, which means it must be small and focused around a single area. There aren’t any Guards to stop her, so they must already be engaged… which makes things a bit trickier..
She comes to one of the doors that leads into the back of the holding chamber. It’s commonly used by servants to bring in refreshments, etc, but is rarely used by the public, because there are other, far more elegant and formal ways into the East Wing and audience chamber. The doors are unlocked because of the room’s use today and Lagertha pauses to consider just how she’s going to pull this double-agent thing off. Luck seems to be on hers side, however, because she doesn’t have to wait very long until someone comes crashing backwards through the doors, as if he were forcefully thrown against them.
It’s Philipe! Gods above, she could laugh with joy to see a familiar face, but she doesn’t have the time, as he’s pursued by not one, but two soldiers. At least that confirms her suspicions about the focus of the attack (mostly because that’s exactly what Lagertha would do if she were planning something. Open forums are the perfect opportunity for guerilla attacks). Philipe is a competent soldier, but he’s scrambling on the ground with his weapon out of arm’s reach, and Lagertha has the element of surprise. Hiding behind one of the open doors, she waits until a soldier comes into sight and then crouches down and then barrels into him, sword extended and aiming for his abdomen (somewhere lower than the ribs). This would give Philipe time to get to his feet. The soldier is taller than she is, and larger, but is only wearing his decorative uniform. There is no extra protection, and Lagertha came at him from his left side and slightly behind. With all of the soldier’s focus on Philipe, he never had a chance to see her coming.
Her blade slides into his flesh with a little resistance and then she twists her wrist, widening the internal wound. He gasps and sputters, reaching around to find the source of this sudden, life-taking pain, and she meets his gaze calmly. She is no stranger to Death, and has sent many a man to walk its hallowed halls; it may have been a coward’s strike, but better that than let Philipe die. The soldier drops his sword, his eyes narrowing in confusion when he sees it is a well dressed ‘Lady’ behind the attack. She yanks the sword back out and intends to strike him again to ensure that he bleeds out, but before she can, the second soldier is at her side.
He seems to have leapt over Philipe and comes at her with a downward slice, which she blocks up with an upward sweep, and then, finally Philipe is able to be of some help. He sweeps the second soldier’s feet out from under him, which sends the man tumbling to the floor. Unfortunately, in his attempt to catch himself, the soldier swings his sword around wildly and it cuts Lagertha’s face from her jawline to the corner of her eye. It isn’t a deep but, but it stings like hell and will more than likely leave a mark when it heals.
While the first soldier has doubled over on his injured side and has fallen to his knees, he has also found his sword and isn’t above a last ditch effort to inflict some sort of injury before he dies. It is the only time in which Lagertha will be thankful for her skirts, as a thrust that might have sliced deep into her thigh is caught up in the several layers of fabric. She was distracted by the blade tip near her face, and committed a rookie mistake, by taking her eyes off the injured man. Well, that is easily remedied. Dead men swing no swords and tell no tales. With a massive downstroke, she slams the blade into the top of his head, blood splattering all over her. She hears a familiar squelching sound, and turns to see Philipe employing a similar move on the second soldier, his sword lodged firmly in the back of the man’s head.
Quickly, to avoid being seen (because although dead men cannot speak, she can’t do anything about someone that might see her standing over two bodies), she pushes one of the doors shut a leans against it. Philipe pulls his sword from the soldier and wipes the blood off on the man’s shirt, saying, “God, it’s good to see ya, Lag.” He spares her another glance and waggles his eyebrows at her. “Should wear skirts more often, I almost mistook ya fer a Lady.” Lagertha hmphs at him, but before she can say anything else, there are yells of ’Retreat! Retreat!’ and the sound of feet running for the exit. Damn, they’re out of time.
“They’re leaving, Philipe. Quick now, before someone finds us.” She hands him her sword and takes to ripping her skirts, trying to make it look like they were the cause of her failure. “Knock me out and leave me here. Cut my left hand so it looks like a defensive wound.” Lagertha steps away from the door and turns her back to him, continuing with her instructions. “Go down to the end of the hall and take a right, then an immediate left. There’s a hallway leading to a servant’s entrance and it can get you out of here if you hurry.” Philipe starts to protest, but she turns around and glares at him fiercely. “Just fucking do it. I’ll be fine. Keep me in the loop next time, I could have helped you win this one.” She turns back to face the door, and a couple of seconds later her world goes black.
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Lagertha wakes with a throbbing in her head and a dull ache in her left palm. Upon further, tentative and tender inspection, she finds that there’s a lump the size of a goose egg on the back of her head, and her left hand is wrapped in a white linen bandage. Maeve bustles in through the the door without knocking, but when she notices that Lagertha is awake, she hastily curtsies and apologizes. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss! I would have knocked, but you’ve been out like a light for the past twelve hours or so. Just assumed ya’d still be sleepin.’” Lagertha waves away her apology with a shake of her head. “really Maeve, it’s fine.” Lagertha touches the knot on the back of her head. “Guess I took quite the hit, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Miss. But you were awfully brave, going out there and trying to help. There was so much blood on you... And that cut to your face… ” Her gaze switches between one of admiration and pity, until it seems that the maid doesn’t quite know what to think of her. She's used to that look. Lagertha shrugs at this, playing it off as humility. “Just what I was trained to do. Tell me, what happened? I came upon one unconscious guard, and then two more men fighting with two soldiers. We started to fight, but one of them tripped me in that dress… I’m afraid after that it’s all black.” Maeve takes a step closer, clearly eager to provide her charge with juicy gossip. “Well, Miss, you won’t believe it! The Resistance attacked the Palace, though they didn’t do a very good job of it. The King and Queen are ok.. The holding room’s a heck of a mess, though. Blood everywhere.” Maeve visibly shudders. “I ain’t good wit blood, it made me queasy. But several Rebels and Guards were killed. They’ll be given a hero’s burial tomorrow.” Lagertha presses her for more, “And Prince Francis?” Maeve blanches a bit, her voice going softer. “Oh… I don’t know, miss. No one’s said anything about him.” But Maeve’s face betrays her lie and Lagertha’s heart flip-flops in her chest.
“I see. That is… that is not good.” It’s all rather confusing. The Resistance is a cause she’s worked tirelessly for for almost a year, and Francis is someone she’s known no more than a few weeks. And yet she finds herself almost ready to pray for his safety, when she should be wishing that the attempt had been successful. It’s enough to make her head ache again. Time to be alone with her thoughts. Time to send Maeve away on a mission. “I’m kind of hungry. Think there’s anything in the kitchens right now?” Maeve hits her forehead with her palm, as if she couldn’t believe she forgot. “Of course! I’ll be right back. You just rest right there.” The blond woman scurries out of the room with a bounce in her step, leaving Lagertha alone, wondering if Philipe and the unknown Rebel made it back ok, and whether or not Francis could be dying because of her.
And yet, despite the physical calmness of her body, her mind continues to race. Lagertha’s lips press into a thin line of displeasure. No, that isn’t how this is supposed to work. Why is her heart in her stomach, and her stomach in her throat. It’s so… unprofessional. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, she knows that it does - not just to The Resistance, but to her. She tells herself it’s just a matter of her pride, but she knows it’s more than that. They wait for what seems to be an eternity, the tension in the room growing thicker with every passing tick of the large, grandfather clock that sits in the corner of the drawing room. Francis finally enters, and those who aren’t already standing rise, but with a well-polished smile (though she thinks she detects a bit of crookedness in it, she could also be imagining things), he tries to soothe them. It doesn’t work; they are all painfully aware that several will be going home, and are all fervently hoping it isn’t them. He is diplomatic and dutiful when explaining the reasoning behind his decision, but that doesn’t make it any better. And then finally - three names, and none of them are hers!
With the pronunciation of the last syllable of the last name, Lagertha feels her body relax - as if the drill sergeant has finally left the room. She is used to being in high stress situations (and really, this isn’t much of a ‘high stress’ situation so much as a novel - and unusual - one), so why did this feel different? It should have been a breeze! No one’s life is at stake, she would emerge from this experience alive no matter the outcome, and the ‘enemy’ isn’t an enemy at all! Ah, perhaps that was it? She watches the girls who were not chosen as they depart from the drawing room; two do their best to hold back tears, and the other doesn’t even bother to try. Celine is still here, though. Their eyes meet briefly, and then Celine quickly drags them away, pretending to be absorbed in the couch’s upholstery.
It’s so petty. Lagertha rolls her eyes and when the escort arrives to take them back to their chambers, she is at the head of the group. Solitude will clearly be her friend more than any of the other Selected. So be it. With the passing of her parents, her world shrank to a fraction of what it was before; their world does not look kindly on orphans, and even though the master at arms had loved her, the rest of his family did not. Her microcosm of a world consisted of her mentor and his family, and then the merc group, and now it is expanding outward at a seemingly exponential rate. What were once idiosyncrasies are now oddities and although Francis seems to be enthralled by the fact that she is so ‘different,’ Lagertha knows that unless she conforms somewhat, they will never put a member of the Resistance on the throne.
She is their only hope. She must play the part, and do what they demand until the coast is clear. Now if only they would give her some sort of sign. Even a brief message just to let her know they were still around.
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Days pass, and then weeks, and each day that passes without an Elimination is a good one; her days are filled with what seems like a hundred different skills she must master. The private lessons are fine, but when the girls come together for dancing lessons, all too often she wonders why Francis chose to keep her, if she has so much more to learn than the other girls. And then she grits her teeth and sucks it up, because she has never quit before, and these dance steps are trivial compared to sword fighting. Infinitely more annoying, but trivial nonetheless. No one will die if she forgets a step-ball-change, but oh, how she would like to see them parry and thrust, and grapple for their lives. When they snigger at her from behind perfectly manicured hands, she imagines them flat on their asses, in the mud, with her sword point at the tip of their noses. It’s a challenge, just a challenge to resist the allure of the common folk’s freedom on the other side of the gilded gates.
After the first elimination, the remaining Selected are given more of a free reign about the castle, and the it is no more than a week before the servants no longer scramble out of her way, or stare boldly as she passes. Lagertha’s sharp ears catches tidbits of conversation, and can glean that there’s a bet going on as to when she’ll leave, but it doesn’t particularly bother her. It’s more amusing, and gives her more determination than discouragement. Even when she embarrasses herself at a public dinner by calling someone by the wrong title and using the wrong fork, she laughs it off with a ‘barbarian’ joke and the potentially offended seem appeased.
She finds the political and historical lessons fascinating; but what Lagertha truly relishes the most is the moment she is released by her tutor. She is barely able to wait until he leaves the room before she can throw on her riding pants, run down to the stables, and saddle up Blackie. Once Francis learned that she visits the stable at almost the exact same time every day, he’d taken to occasionally joining her on a ride, much like their first date. There are other, ‘official’ dates too, but these stolen bits of time and other moments in passing are precious. They offer each other encouragement: Francis on Lagertha’s studies, and she on his struggle to relate to the rest of his country. She will be first to admit that she is not the best at flirting, preferring to be blunt rather than dance about topics. Teasing, however, is a game she knows well and their brief touches seem to linger on each other's open skin. His lips travel to the inside of her wrist as he bids her farewell, and more than once she’s seen his honeyed gaze turn hungry and wolfish. She is not so innocent either, enjoying his reaction when she stands unusually close to him.
Sometimes she’ll see him off with one of the other girls, and while he looks happy, there is an undeniable twinge in her chest that betrays how she really is beginning to feel about the sandy-haired Prince. Even if she won’t admit it aloud, the truth is that she’s becoming very fond of him, especially with his desire to be a different sort of ruler than his parents are. Once, while alone in her room, she even caught herself imagining the hair color of their future children, and then promptly excused herself to splash a basin of water on her face and give herself a stern lecture. Best not to get ahead of herself, as Lagertha isn’t the best at any of the things they have to learn. This is a competition, and she has no idea how the others are doing, or how Francis feels. It is maddening to not know where she stands.
Today is unusual, because they are gathered together for a group history lesson on one of Illea’s staunchest allies. They’ve opened up one of the various reception rooms on the first floor of the Palace, in a far corner of the East Wing, the one used mostly for public events. Today is also one of the days when the King and Queen hold an old-fashioned open court to hear petitions for both major and minor issues of justice. The girls, however, cannot attend that. A former ambassador-turned-historian, who is still very active as an emissary between the courts, decided (after several failed attempts at scheduling) that best use of his time would be to talk to them today, and all at once.
Lagertha sits in the back, listening attentively and practicing her excellent posture, legs crossed at the ankles and tucked under the corner of one of the chairs. They all seem to be the perfect models of attention, with some taking studiously taking notes. Lagertha isn’t, but she has a pretty damn good memory. She’d jot the important things down when she gets back to her room.
The historian is waxing on the importance of their agricultural treaty when a sudden BOOM! shakes the building. Many of the girls shriek, while a few simply look around the room with wide, confused and terrified eyes. Celine has thrown herself on the floor, clutching the legs of her chair as if it could grow larger and protect her. Lagertha, however, after she recovers from being startled, is up and runs to the windows. “Stay down!” she commands the girls and their teacher, and those that aren’t already on the floor, quickly prostrate themselves, trembling. Sirens begin to wail, and bells toll out the alarm; there is the pounding of footsteps outside their closed door, and the soldier inside her knows something is about to happen. Lagertha peers out the window, looking left and then right, and spots a tendril of black smoke curling around from the other side of the Palace. It might be coming from one of the public entrances. Had someone tried to get through under the pretense of being a petitioner?!
She curses under her breath. Nothing to defend herself or these halfwits with. Not that she could find anything in her room either - after she’d pulled the knife on Ami, all of her knives had disappeared. Her eyes fly around the room, looking for something that she can improvise with - they land on a pair of candlesticks. She shrugs. That’ll do. Lagertha dashes to the table they’re resting on and pulls out one of the candles, giving the stick a couple of test swings. It’s ungainly and off balance, but she can definitely work with it. Without looking back to the cowering girls, she issues some quick orders. “The Palace is under attack. After I leave, tie the door handles together with several ribbons, and then prop a chair underneath them. Don’t open them unless whoever is on the other side can give proof they’re with the Palace.” And with that, Lagertha presses her ear to the door, and hearing nothing, slips quietly out into the hallway.
The immediate area is deserted, while the bright red carpet is stained with muddy bootprints; she can hear a noise in the distance and the acrid smell of smoke beckons her down the hall. She grabs her skirts in her hand and slinks along the long hallway, darting from decorative table to decorative table until she’s almost to the corner. All of a sudden, the sound of steel on steel becomes louder, as do the sound of masculine grunts. Lagertha would normally charge immediately around the corner to her left, but if it is The Resistance who’s attacking, she has to make sure the Palace side doesn’t see her. Her whole cover would be blown. So the blonde warrior presses herself up against the wall, silently cursing her goddamn skirts. They are so cumbersome, so unconducive to being sneaky. Briefly, she wonders what she would do if it were Francis who was fighting someone - better yet, where is he? Is he safe?
She pushes him from her mind, knowing that there is no room for distractions here. A few breath spans later, a liveried guard comes stumbling backwards into view, entirely focused on his opponent while blocking frenzied, unpracticed thrusts. Lagertha takes a step towards him and swings her candlestick towards the guard’s head. It connects with a sickening thunk, his head twists and spit and blood go flying, while the man topples backward - very, very unconscious. Potentially dead. But hopefully unconscious.
She doesn’t have long to celebrate it though, because a hand wraps around her head, covers her mouth, and a sword slides against her throat. “Drop it,” the voice demands, breathing his hot, rank breath towards her, and Lagertha obligingly releases her hunk of metal. She stands stock still, pretending to be terrified. It’s easy to play the scared little rich girl. Much of The Resistance is anonymous, they couldn’t possibly know that this woman is one on their side. There is the hair factor, though. While Lagertha might think it’s a discerning enough factor, it may escape others who are… less detail oriented. The Rebel seems to be one of those types. “Looks like you hit the wrong guy, little lady.” Well, no, she didn’t. But she can see where he might make a mistake. She is dressed like one of the nobility. Her clothes look like they could feed his family for almost a year. He reeks of body odor, and she can see the ragged, dirty ends of his sleeves as the coarse fabric abrades her skin.
“Now dontchu scream, or I’ll cut your throat, ya hear?” he whispers menacingly into her ear. She rolls her eyes, but nods, playing along. The hand covering her mouth creeps down her neck, towards the front of her dress, clearly searching for a quick handful of soft, round flesh. Dear god. This was bound to happen with some of the recruits, she thinks - there are always casualties and atrocities in coups. She’s watched her own company members rape and pillage, knowing she could do nothing to stop it, save for claim the particularly young girls as her own spoils. At least this Rebel encountered her instead of the rest of girls. They would be helpless, paralyzed with fear.. “Touch me, and I swear, I will take that sword and cut off your balls, stuff them in your mouth, and then shove that worthless cock up your ass.” The Rebel laughs, clearly thinking she’s all bark and no bite, and starts to fumble around with her buttons. He is sloppy; the blade of the sword cuts into her neck a little, and that’s the last straw. Her right hand shoots up and grabs his right wrist, pushing it outwards while twisting it. Her left elbow drives into his stomach, and he squeals in pain, dropping his sword.
Lagertha pivots on her right foot and forces the arm that once held the sword closer to his shoulder, still gripping his wrist tightly. “I warned you, fucker.” After a moment, she releases him and he falls to his knees, trying to cradle two body parts at once. She picks up his sword, tossing it expertly by the hilt into the air and catching it. It’s poorly made and unbalanced, but it’s hers now. She hisses down at his crouched form, and there is as much scorn in her voice as their is anger at the whole situation. “I’m your woman on the inside, idiot. Get out of the Palace and find your leaders. Tell them I want intel next time. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise.” He just stares at her. “Did I stutter?” Lagertha hisses, eager to move towards the real fighting. He shakes his head. So does she, in exasperation. “Wait.” Without warning, she punches him with her left hand, leaving him clutching his face in pain, blood spurting from his nose. Her knuckles will hurt tomorrow, but it was worth it. “Now you look like you escaped something.That way!” With a jerk of her head in the right direction, she shoves him towards a side hallway that leads to a servant’s entrance. Lagertha leaves him to find his own way back to safety. Hopefully he’ll be smart enough to get out alive. If not, well, then at least no one will know that she took a guard down.
She takes a deep breath and picks up her skirts with her left hand, keeping her sword at the ready in her right. She jogs down another long hallway, and then takes a right. No one is around - no servants, no guest, nothing. She imagines they’re all hiding inside locked rooms, and for once she is grateful for their cowardice. As Lagertha approaches the Holding Room, the sounds grow louder; the clash of metal on metal, the groans of people in pain, and the garbled sounds of orders yelled over the din are all music to her ears. By this point, she’s travelled much of the East Wing and found little sign of the fight aside from those two men, which means it must be small and focused around a single area. There aren’t any Guards to stop her, so they must already be engaged… which makes things a bit trickier..
She comes to one of the doors that leads into the back of the holding chamber. It’s commonly used by servants to bring in refreshments, etc, but is rarely used by the public, because there are other, far more elegant and formal ways into the East Wing and audience chamber. The doors are unlocked because of the room’s use today and Lagertha pauses to consider just how she’s going to pull this double-agent thing off. Luck seems to be on hers side, however, because she doesn’t have to wait very long until someone comes crashing backwards through the doors, as if he were forcefully thrown against them.
It’s Philipe! Gods above, she could laugh with joy to see a familiar face, but she doesn’t have the time, as he’s pursued by not one, but two soldiers. At least that confirms her suspicions about the focus of the attack (mostly because that’s exactly what Lagertha would do if she were planning something. Open forums are the perfect opportunity for guerilla attacks). Philipe is a competent soldier, but he’s scrambling on the ground with his weapon out of arm’s reach, and Lagertha has the element of surprise. Hiding behind one of the open doors, she waits until a soldier comes into sight and then crouches down and then barrels into him, sword extended and aiming for his abdomen (somewhere lower than the ribs). This would give Philipe time to get to his feet. The soldier is taller than she is, and larger, but is only wearing his decorative uniform. There is no extra protection, and Lagertha came at him from his left side and slightly behind. With all of the soldier’s focus on Philipe, he never had a chance to see her coming.
Her blade slides into his flesh with a little resistance and then she twists her wrist, widening the internal wound. He gasps and sputters, reaching around to find the source of this sudden, life-taking pain, and she meets his gaze calmly. She is no stranger to Death, and has sent many a man to walk its hallowed halls; it may have been a coward’s strike, but better that than let Philipe die. The soldier drops his sword, his eyes narrowing in confusion when he sees it is a well dressed ‘Lady’ behind the attack. She yanks the sword back out and intends to strike him again to ensure that he bleeds out, but before she can, the second soldier is at her side.
He seems to have leapt over Philipe and comes at her with a downward slice, which she blocks up with an upward sweep, and then, finally Philipe is able to be of some help. He sweeps the second soldier’s feet out from under him, which sends the man tumbling to the floor. Unfortunately, in his attempt to catch himself, the soldier swings his sword around wildly and it cuts Lagertha’s face from her jawline to the corner of her eye. It isn’t a deep but, but it stings like hell and will more than likely leave a mark when it heals.
While the first soldier has doubled over on his injured side and has fallen to his knees, he has also found his sword and isn’t above a last ditch effort to inflict some sort of injury before he dies. It is the only time in which Lagertha will be thankful for her skirts, as a thrust that might have sliced deep into her thigh is caught up in the several layers of fabric. She was distracted by the blade tip near her face, and committed a rookie mistake, by taking her eyes off the injured man. Well, that is easily remedied. Dead men swing no swords and tell no tales. With a massive downstroke, she slams the blade into the top of his head, blood splattering all over her. She hears a familiar squelching sound, and turns to see Philipe employing a similar move on the second soldier, his sword lodged firmly in the back of the man’s head.
Quickly, to avoid being seen (because although dead men cannot speak, she can’t do anything about someone that might see her standing over two bodies), she pushes one of the doors shut a leans against it. Philipe pulls his sword from the soldier and wipes the blood off on the man’s shirt, saying, “God, it’s good to see ya, Lag.” He spares her another glance and waggles his eyebrows at her. “Should wear skirts more often, I almost mistook ya fer a Lady.” Lagertha hmphs at him, but before she can say anything else, there are yells of ’Retreat! Retreat!’ and the sound of feet running for the exit. Damn, they’re out of time.
“They’re leaving, Philipe. Quick now, before someone finds us.” She hands him her sword and takes to ripping her skirts, trying to make it look like they were the cause of her failure. “Knock me out and leave me here. Cut my left hand so it looks like a defensive wound.” Lagertha steps away from the door and turns her back to him, continuing with her instructions. “Go down to the end of the hall and take a right, then an immediate left. There’s a hallway leading to a servant’s entrance and it can get you out of here if you hurry.” Philipe starts to protest, but she turns around and glares at him fiercely. “Just fucking do it. I’ll be fine. Keep me in the loop next time, I could have helped you win this one.” She turns back to face the door, and a couple of seconds later her world goes black.
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Lagertha wakes with a throbbing in her head and a dull ache in her left palm. Upon further, tentative and tender inspection, she finds that there’s a lump the size of a goose egg on the back of her head, and her left hand is wrapped in a white linen bandage. Maeve bustles in through the the door without knocking, but when she notices that Lagertha is awake, she hastily curtsies and apologizes. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss! I would have knocked, but you’ve been out like a light for the past twelve hours or so. Just assumed ya’d still be sleepin.’” Lagertha waves away her apology with a shake of her head. “really Maeve, it’s fine.” Lagertha touches the knot on the back of her head. “Guess I took quite the hit, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Miss. But you were awfully brave, going out there and trying to help. There was so much blood on you... And that cut to your face… ” Her gaze switches between one of admiration and pity, until it seems that the maid doesn’t quite know what to think of her. She's used to that look. Lagertha shrugs at this, playing it off as humility. “Just what I was trained to do. Tell me, what happened? I came upon one unconscious guard, and then two more men fighting with two soldiers. We started to fight, but one of them tripped me in that dress… I’m afraid after that it’s all black.” Maeve takes a step closer, clearly eager to provide her charge with juicy gossip. “Well, Miss, you won’t believe it! The Resistance attacked the Palace, though they didn’t do a very good job of it. The King and Queen are ok.. The holding room’s a heck of a mess, though. Blood everywhere.” Maeve visibly shudders. “I ain’t good wit blood, it made me queasy. But several Rebels and Guards were killed. They’ll be given a hero’s burial tomorrow.” Lagertha presses her for more, “And Prince Francis?” Maeve blanches a bit, her voice going softer. “Oh… I don’t know, miss. No one’s said anything about him.” But Maeve’s face betrays her lie and Lagertha’s heart flip-flops in her chest.
“I see. That is… that is not good.” It’s all rather confusing. The Resistance is a cause she’s worked tirelessly for for almost a year, and Francis is someone she’s known no more than a few weeks. And yet she finds herself almost ready to pray for his safety, when she should be wishing that the attempt had been successful. It’s enough to make her head ache again. Time to be alone with her thoughts. Time to send Maeve away on a mission. “I’m kind of hungry. Think there’s anything in the kitchens right now?” Maeve hits her forehead with her palm, as if she couldn’t believe she forgot. “Of course! I’ll be right back. You just rest right there.” The blond woman scurries out of the room with a bounce in her step, leaving Lagertha alone, wondering if Philipe and the unknown Rebel made it back ok, and whether or not Francis could be dying because of her.
Lagertha
Warrior Queen of the Amazons