Out with the golden we sew, and the lower past that crawls.
Now, to the doorway you run, to the girl that's not lost.
Now, to the doorway you run, to the girl that's not lost.
She’s on her feet at the first creak of the doorway, hands motionless by her side despite the wayward beating of her heart. It is unlike the woman to be so very nervous, and she feels the foolery of her way as Francis coaxes the skittish women back into their all-but-forgotten couch cushions. The thrum of the blood plays tricks in her ears, the tune of their first dance heard in the racing of the vital liquid.
A flighty little bird of a woman next to her swallows loudly, betraying her nerves; a more set-in-stone broad sits across the way, and Kagerus recognizes her as the woman who she saw just outside the orchard yesterday. In the silence between the women reseating themselves and Francis speaking once more, Rou notes the smugness with which the raven-haired woman carries herself, and decides it unbecoming.
Any notion of competition falls away from the lady as Francis begins his spiel; every eye in the drawing room is set on him. Rou brushes her thumb imperceptibly against the seam of her honey-yellow dress, nerves mounting ever higher the more the heir speaks, his lovely hands - hands which she has held - gesturing flightishly. A pang is felt between her ribs, and she wonders if it is for his benefit, or for hers.
I do not envy your place in this mess, Francis… There are many lovely women seated herein.
Steeling herself as the first name is called out, Kagerus bores her eyes into Francis’, though his are far too ennerved to stay stuck in only one set of his admirers’ eyes. The second name rings through the air, but it is no consolation. She resists the urge to curl her hands into fists… And the third name is called.
She is safe.
Smiling a quiet, reserved smile (unlike the broad across the way who grins wickedly and curls a lock of hair oh-so appealingly between two pristine fingers), Kagerus releases the tension in her knuckles. Her nutmeg eyes glance momentarily to the baby-blue clad woman next to her, the one who had been so nervous; and rightfully so. Tears stream across her downy cheeks, and Kagerus almost leans over to comfort the eliminated. But she does not. She is not here to make friends. Straightening, she concentrates on the congratulations Francis offers to the group of women as a whole. The black-beasty ought to be none of her concern; she is here for Francis.
Hustled neatly back into her chambers as the elimination came to a close, Kagerus passes by two whispering servants, and catches some choice words. An arched eyebrow pointed her escort’s way yields nothing as to what the two schemers were up to; and as she falls asleep that night, secure in the linens and in the knowledge that she shall be seeing the heir once more, she forgets entirely of the incident.
---
The weeks have been passing like the seasons must for God, with an incredible speed; to wit: dates are had, sneaking kisses are exchanged, and the art of diplomacy is learned. Her time with Francis becomes cherished and satisfying; more oft than not the couple finds themselves ensnared in the endless web of philosophy, each with more to say than last was said. Their debates lend each other solace, if not some fun in light of the weary ongoings.
Contrarily, however, Kagerus finds her ongoings to be far from weary. Sir Rhaego, her dear, many-faceted valet, has assumed the role of tutor for the auburn-locked lady. While Rou knows for certain that the other participants (the black-beasty comes to mind) might find their educations as stimulating as the tincture of opium, she soaks it all in like a flower would the sun. Geography, etiquette, dancing, politics, psychology, history, allegiances, you name it, Kagerus memorizes it and excels. Since having her chance at true education snatched away by cruel Father Fate, the woman wastes no time in embracing this opportunity to learn, and to dominate.
On one fine afternoon, all the selecteds have been gathered for a history class, taught by one Sir Bergamot, a bumbling fellow with a passion for his passionless teachings. Many of the women prefer to gaze out of the high windows with dreamy looks in their eyes, while others are so bold as to sleep during the man’s lecture. Kagerus, on the other hand, listens with rapt attention, and even goes so far so to jot down Bergamot’s lesson in her fine, scrawling hand. Today he is teaching them of Thurick, a strong ally of Illea, to the West. As the professor strikes a particularly boring note, Kagerus allows herself to wander just momentarily - I shall have to write to Kavi again tonight, and ask him if he’s met a Thurickan, and --
-- BOOOOOM!
It would seem that her attention is needed elsewhere - here, that is.
Spilling her journal unto the floor, Kagerus leaps to her feet and rounds on Bergamot.
“What was that?” She demands, nutmeg eyes alight with fire - and fear. “Come, good man, do speak!”
But speak the professor does not, for it would seem that he has fainted dead away; the fat little man’s multi-coloured suit glistens wonderfully in the afternoon sun, but that is the only thing that looks wonderful about this situation.
Whirling to face the assortment of whimpering women, Kagerus quickly begins calculating her options. Illean Regulars thunder through the halls, and somewhere far away she thinks she hears swords crossing. A particularly strong beat of her racing heart is the incarnation of her fear for Francis’ well being; but she hasn’t the time, nor the means, to race headlong into battle.
Cunning eyes scouring the hullabaloo of courtesans, Kagerus meets the eyes of the black-beasty. And beasty those eyes are, glaring right into the pits of Rou’s being; a nerve frays, a shiver shimmies down her spine. That malicious look bode uneasily with her; especially when accompanied by a nightmarish grin.
I cannot stay here.
Having intentionally failed to make any friends, and having challenged black-beasty from the get-go, Kagerus knows that she holds no sway over the selecteds, and that none will follow her into whichever danger she throws herself. Surely, none of them seem ready to follow anyone anywhere; the drawing room is a chaotic disarray of colourful fabrics and screeching ladies, all red in the face and weak in the knees.
Luckily, Kagerus grew up in the streets, in the rough of it all; in the back-country, where riots lead by the resistance were not uncommon. She is not one of these weak-kneed ladies; she is the farm girl who grew up walking through the throngs of rioting men to fetch pails of water for the hens. She is the girl who washed the wounds of the Resistance when everything fell quiet, and hers was the quiet voice begging them to set aside their differences with the crown.
It would seem that none heeded her beggings.
Scouring the room for a mechanism of self-defense, her attention alights upon the cord of the luxurious curtains. A hard look of furious concentration delves into her regal visage as the mental calculations continue into the chaos of the attack.
Without any prior indication as to her intentions, Kagerus’ lithe hand snaps to the disgustingly large sapphire hanging around her throat. Breaking the chain upon which it rests with a powerful tug, Kagerus turns to the marble tea-table next to her and whips the jewel on to it.
It shatters magnificently, leaving a pointed shard of material upon its end; cheap sods, she intones mentally, giving us fake riches.
Currently too occupied with her own well being to scrutinize the insult, Kagerus turns and bounds to the curtain cord. Setting to work with her faux-sapphire blade, she cuts off a length of three-foot rope, and ties it around her waist. Figuring that the Regulars can do their job of keeping them safe for just a moment longer, Rou leaps to the next curtain cord and repeats the process.
As a final knot secures the rope about her waist, two rogues appear in the wide doorway of the drawing room. They brandish crude clubs, mouths agape with wonder at their great luck (having stumbled upon a room filled to the brim with women and all). One man’s hands are already working at the string of his britches, his club tucked between his knees; in his hasty lust, he has forgotten simple math.
The rogues are outnumbered, three-to-one.
Praying to God that the timid women would find courage somewhere in their pitiful bosoms, Kagerus raises her voice to a mighty roar, and calls for the women to charge.
For Francis!
Mouth now agape in confusion and dismay, the man with his cudgel between his knees scrambles to re-man his weapon. The moment her brandishes it, however, his britches tumble to the oak-wood flooring, leaving him as lovely as he was whence his mother birthed him.
Which isn’t all that lovely, Kagerus remarks; she can’t think of how to get them out of this mess, but of course she manages to think that.
As twelve-odd women rampage through the doorway, the unclothed man is toppled over into his friend, who manages to rap one of the ladies square on her tail before he, too, goes down. Kagerus, having been at the back of the room fetching rope, is the last to escape the drawing room; almost last, that is. The black-beasty stops next to the fallen men, and for a moment, Kagerus thinks that she will be ‘taking care of them.’ As it is, she kneels next to them and begins to take literal care of them.
When the woman notices Rou staring, she makes as if to reach for a weapon hidden in her bosom; but her eyes flash in warning, and Kagerus understands. Whirling, she scoops her dress into her hand and begins racing through the halls.
Mercy, after all, is mercy.
Her slippered feet pound through endless corridors, and for a time, all is eerily silent. During this time, she hasn’t a clue where she is going, except that she oughtn’t stop. The great tapestries and portraits pass by her in a blur, the carpet beneath her feet turning to marble and back again, and as she rounds yet another corner, she realizes just where she will be of most use.
Doubling back on herself, Kagerus begins sprinting - as best she can in this damned dress - to the northern end of the palace, down flights of stairs and further away from the noise of the fight behind her. Her breath comes loudly and without secretiveness, and her pace begins to slow; the fading of the noises lulls her into unawareness.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A gloved hand slips softly across her mouth, and the shriek which follows is well stifled. Her thrashing limbs avail nothing, and the chuckle radiating from behind her tells her that she is all but done for.
Done for, that is, until her persecutor turns her, slams her against a wall, places one hand over her chiselled throat, and begins reeling up the heavy material of her skirt.
“L-ehhh!” His name comes out as a strangled gurgle, to which he pays no mind. Panic pierces the togetherness of her sanity, and she thrashes all the more; but the pillager has a mind only for the goods lying beneath her petticoats, and thus he continued pushing through the various layers of her dress with a great determination; when one has only one hand to sift with, however, things become difficult. Growing impatient with the stubborn fabric, the rebel lifted his hand from her throat to part the final layer of her clothing from her gentle skin.
“Lion!” That get’s a start out of the man, and for the first time, he looks into her face; recognition slowly bombards his. He releases his victim, taking several steps back until half the room lays between them. She wonders delusionally whether anyone calls him by his street name any more - Lion, instead of Leo.
“What the hell are you doing here, Rou?” His whiskey-worn voice sounds muffled in the closeness of the corridor. His gold eyes glow with heat, with anger, with vengeance; she is lucky to have escaped his grasp.
Bringing a hand to softly caress the bruises which are sure to flourish upon her throat and to incapacitate her verbal prowess, Kagerus swallows with a grimace and leans into the wall behind her before replying.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Silence. Precious time ticks by.
“I was selected, Lion. This is my home for now.” Speaking irritates the damaged tissues of her neck, and she lifts a hand again to fondle the area gently. Her eyes well with tears as she replays the attack in her head, as she realizes how very close she was to losing… everything. A droplet of salt water rolls down the high planes of her face.
“Fuck, Rou, I didn’t know it was you, okay? Don’t cry, god damnit, I hate it when you cry.” Identical memories flash in the eyes of the duo, memories of her bandaging his wounds after a particularly gruesome raid, memories of her soothing his screams and slipping the tincture of opium between his lips, memories of the hardships she helped him get through. For all the strength she pretended to have, during times like those, Kagerus had always cried; and she does now, too.
Her chest heaves once, twice, and then no more; but her eyes continue to implore the man, Lion, no older than she.
“Don’t look at me like that, I have a, a duty a -” He turns and smashes his club into the wall behind them with an unprecedented ferocity, the anger bubbling out of him like lava from a volcano. “I have a duty.” His voice has hardened when he turns to face her once again, and the gold of his eyes has turned to dust. “Now get the fuck out before I perform it.”
Needing no further encouragement, Kagerus turns and flees from the man whose life has rested in her hands many times before; she finds that she does not like having the tables turned.
Without any further interruption, the girl makes her way to the scribes’ post-office. It is quiet in the north-end of the palace, it being the furthest from the main entrance. The thrum of her blood in her ears still plays the tune of her and Francis’ first dance, and it only serves to unnerve her more fully. As she surges into the room filled with bespectacled servants and pacing Regulars, many eyes and swords are drawn in her direction; but at the sight of the tears lining her cheeks and the mess of her skirts, she is taken in with many a comforting word. Before long, clarity has returned to her fragmented mind, and she seats herself at an empty desk. She has a duty, too, and a skill; she will utilize both here. She will not sit idly.
“Soldier,” She calls to a man who seems impatient to have his message written. The single word is enough to draw him to her station, thank God, and with an encouraging nod and a readied quill above a fresh sheet of parchment paper, he begins his detailing of the day's many horrific events.
Attack began at 4:03. One-hundred Rebels stormed the castle. Illean Regulars sent as the first line of defense, followed by our gunmen. Many injuries, rapes, and twelve deaths; eight soldiers, four servants, to wit: Gerald Winston, Peter Redding, Nihlus Coriden, Darcy Ray, Terrance Debruin, Daniel Prescott, Alexander Scott, Toni Scor, Betty Lou, Henrietta Nesbitt, Noori Spring, and Kora Winter. Queen and King have been secured. Castle retaken by Illea an hour after the first strike from the Rebels. Seventeen casualties dealt to the Rebels; twenty-four successfully imprisoned. All others escaped. Wanted posters to be published shortly; the situation is under control.
And on, and on, and on she worked, until her writing became scribbles and the sun became the moon; man after man after man, all in need of a letter written; her hand aches but she dare not stop for fear of her terrors returning. As a particularly monotone doctor hammers out the exact scientific names of the wounds received during the conflict, Kagerus can no longer evade the exhaustion which wholly consumes her; her forehead slumps to the damp ink upon the paper she had been writing on, thereby ruining the entire document.
A servant hastily comes to resurrect the situation, apologizing on behalf of the tired lady. She assures the doctor that she will finish his documentation, but not before summoning a couple of maids to lift Kagerus from her seat.
Her eyelashes flutter, and noises meant to be words slip from the crease between her lips. The two maids murmur softly, agreeing with the unknowledgable jargon spewing from the emotionally fraught woman. They tread at a slow pace, supporting Rou until they finally meander into the lovely depths of her chamber. They set her on the bed, but do not allow her to sleep. Her tears begin streaming then, and she leans towards her pillow, desperate for the embrace of sleep and the dispelling of her horrific memories. With one servant holding Rou fast, the other spoons a gently warm porridge into her silent crying mouth. With some coaxing, the pair manage to slip a small portion of the bowl into the girl’s stomach, and they deem her safe to bed down for the night.
Maneuvering the limp bundle of flesh beneath the sheets, the two maids tuck her in gently, and whisper soothingly to her. Kagerus wants to beg for them to stay, as she knows she will have night-terrors tonight, but her voice has long since left her swollen throat. As the last candle is blown out, Kagerus is left to her silent keening, to the violent contracting of her sobbing stomach, and to the memory of Lion’s hands molesting her body.
When at last Fate beseeches her to be calm, Kagerus’ last conscious thought is of Francis.
Where were you when I needed you?...
Where are you now…
A flighty little bird of a woman next to her swallows loudly, betraying her nerves; a more set-in-stone broad sits across the way, and Kagerus recognizes her as the woman who she saw just outside the orchard yesterday. In the silence between the women reseating themselves and Francis speaking once more, Rou notes the smugness with which the raven-haired woman carries herself, and decides it unbecoming.
Any notion of competition falls away from the lady as Francis begins his spiel; every eye in the drawing room is set on him. Rou brushes her thumb imperceptibly against the seam of her honey-yellow dress, nerves mounting ever higher the more the heir speaks, his lovely hands - hands which she has held - gesturing flightishly. A pang is felt between her ribs, and she wonders if it is for his benefit, or for hers.
I do not envy your place in this mess, Francis… There are many lovely women seated herein.
Steeling herself as the first name is called out, Kagerus bores her eyes into Francis’, though his are far too ennerved to stay stuck in only one set of his admirers’ eyes. The second name rings through the air, but it is no consolation. She resists the urge to curl her hands into fists… And the third name is called.
She is safe.
Smiling a quiet, reserved smile (unlike the broad across the way who grins wickedly and curls a lock of hair oh-so appealingly between two pristine fingers), Kagerus releases the tension in her knuckles. Her nutmeg eyes glance momentarily to the baby-blue clad woman next to her, the one who had been so nervous; and rightfully so. Tears stream across her downy cheeks, and Kagerus almost leans over to comfort the eliminated. But she does not. She is not here to make friends. Straightening, she concentrates on the congratulations Francis offers to the group of women as a whole. The black-beasty ought to be none of her concern; she is here for Francis.
Hustled neatly back into her chambers as the elimination came to a close, Kagerus passes by two whispering servants, and catches some choice words. An arched eyebrow pointed her escort’s way yields nothing as to what the two schemers were up to; and as she falls asleep that night, secure in the linens and in the knowledge that she shall be seeing the heir once more, she forgets entirely of the incident.
---
The weeks have been passing like the seasons must for God, with an incredible speed; to wit: dates are had, sneaking kisses are exchanged, and the art of diplomacy is learned. Her time with Francis becomes cherished and satisfying; more oft than not the couple finds themselves ensnared in the endless web of philosophy, each with more to say than last was said. Their debates lend each other solace, if not some fun in light of the weary ongoings.
Contrarily, however, Kagerus finds her ongoings to be far from weary. Sir Rhaego, her dear, many-faceted valet, has assumed the role of tutor for the auburn-locked lady. While Rou knows for certain that the other participants (the black-beasty comes to mind) might find their educations as stimulating as the tincture of opium, she soaks it all in like a flower would the sun. Geography, etiquette, dancing, politics, psychology, history, allegiances, you name it, Kagerus memorizes it and excels. Since having her chance at true education snatched away by cruel Father Fate, the woman wastes no time in embracing this opportunity to learn, and to dominate.
On one fine afternoon, all the selecteds have been gathered for a history class, taught by one Sir Bergamot, a bumbling fellow with a passion for his passionless teachings. Many of the women prefer to gaze out of the high windows with dreamy looks in their eyes, while others are so bold as to sleep during the man’s lecture. Kagerus, on the other hand, listens with rapt attention, and even goes so far so to jot down Bergamot’s lesson in her fine, scrawling hand. Today he is teaching them of Thurick, a strong ally of Illea, to the West. As the professor strikes a particularly boring note, Kagerus allows herself to wander just momentarily - I shall have to write to Kavi again tonight, and ask him if he’s met a Thurickan, and --
-- BOOOOOM!
It would seem that her attention is needed elsewhere - here, that is.
Spilling her journal unto the floor, Kagerus leaps to her feet and rounds on Bergamot.
“What was that?” She demands, nutmeg eyes alight with fire - and fear. “Come, good man, do speak!”
But speak the professor does not, for it would seem that he has fainted dead away; the fat little man’s multi-coloured suit glistens wonderfully in the afternoon sun, but that is the only thing that looks wonderful about this situation.
Whirling to face the assortment of whimpering women, Kagerus quickly begins calculating her options. Illean Regulars thunder through the halls, and somewhere far away she thinks she hears swords crossing. A particularly strong beat of her racing heart is the incarnation of her fear for Francis’ well being; but she hasn’t the time, nor the means, to race headlong into battle.
Cunning eyes scouring the hullabaloo of courtesans, Kagerus meets the eyes of the black-beasty. And beasty those eyes are, glaring right into the pits of Rou’s being; a nerve frays, a shiver shimmies down her spine. That malicious look bode uneasily with her; especially when accompanied by a nightmarish grin.
I cannot stay here.
Having intentionally failed to make any friends, and having challenged black-beasty from the get-go, Kagerus knows that she holds no sway over the selecteds, and that none will follow her into whichever danger she throws herself. Surely, none of them seem ready to follow anyone anywhere; the drawing room is a chaotic disarray of colourful fabrics and screeching ladies, all red in the face and weak in the knees.
Luckily, Kagerus grew up in the streets, in the rough of it all; in the back-country, where riots lead by the resistance were not uncommon. She is not one of these weak-kneed ladies; she is the farm girl who grew up walking through the throngs of rioting men to fetch pails of water for the hens. She is the girl who washed the wounds of the Resistance when everything fell quiet, and hers was the quiet voice begging them to set aside their differences with the crown.
It would seem that none heeded her beggings.
Scouring the room for a mechanism of self-defense, her attention alights upon the cord of the luxurious curtains. A hard look of furious concentration delves into her regal visage as the mental calculations continue into the chaos of the attack.
Without any prior indication as to her intentions, Kagerus’ lithe hand snaps to the disgustingly large sapphire hanging around her throat. Breaking the chain upon which it rests with a powerful tug, Kagerus turns to the marble tea-table next to her and whips the jewel on to it.
It shatters magnificently, leaving a pointed shard of material upon its end; cheap sods, she intones mentally, giving us fake riches.
Currently too occupied with her own well being to scrutinize the insult, Kagerus turns and bounds to the curtain cord. Setting to work with her faux-sapphire blade, she cuts off a length of three-foot rope, and ties it around her waist. Figuring that the Regulars can do their job of keeping them safe for just a moment longer, Rou leaps to the next curtain cord and repeats the process.
As a final knot secures the rope about her waist, two rogues appear in the wide doorway of the drawing room. They brandish crude clubs, mouths agape with wonder at their great luck (having stumbled upon a room filled to the brim with women and all). One man’s hands are already working at the string of his britches, his club tucked between his knees; in his hasty lust, he has forgotten simple math.
The rogues are outnumbered, three-to-one.
Praying to God that the timid women would find courage somewhere in their pitiful bosoms, Kagerus raises her voice to a mighty roar, and calls for the women to charge.
For Francis!
Mouth now agape in confusion and dismay, the man with his cudgel between his knees scrambles to re-man his weapon. The moment her brandishes it, however, his britches tumble to the oak-wood flooring, leaving him as lovely as he was whence his mother birthed him.
Which isn’t all that lovely, Kagerus remarks; she can’t think of how to get them out of this mess, but of course she manages to think that.
As twelve-odd women rampage through the doorway, the unclothed man is toppled over into his friend, who manages to rap one of the ladies square on her tail before he, too, goes down. Kagerus, having been at the back of the room fetching rope, is the last to escape the drawing room; almost last, that is. The black-beasty stops next to the fallen men, and for a moment, Kagerus thinks that she will be ‘taking care of them.’ As it is, she kneels next to them and begins to take literal care of them.
When the woman notices Rou staring, she makes as if to reach for a weapon hidden in her bosom; but her eyes flash in warning, and Kagerus understands. Whirling, she scoops her dress into her hand and begins racing through the halls.
Mercy, after all, is mercy.
Her slippered feet pound through endless corridors, and for a time, all is eerily silent. During this time, she hasn’t a clue where she is going, except that she oughtn’t stop. The great tapestries and portraits pass by her in a blur, the carpet beneath her feet turning to marble and back again, and as she rounds yet another corner, she realizes just where she will be of most use.
Doubling back on herself, Kagerus begins sprinting - as best she can in this damned dress - to the northern end of the palace, down flights of stairs and further away from the noise of the fight behind her. Her breath comes loudly and without secretiveness, and her pace begins to slow; the fading of the noises lulls her into unawareness.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
A gloved hand slips softly across her mouth, and the shriek which follows is well stifled. Her thrashing limbs avail nothing, and the chuckle radiating from behind her tells her that she is all but done for.
Done for, that is, until her persecutor turns her, slams her against a wall, places one hand over her chiselled throat, and begins reeling up the heavy material of her skirt.
“L-ehhh!” His name comes out as a strangled gurgle, to which he pays no mind. Panic pierces the togetherness of her sanity, and she thrashes all the more; but the pillager has a mind only for the goods lying beneath her petticoats, and thus he continued pushing through the various layers of her dress with a great determination; when one has only one hand to sift with, however, things become difficult. Growing impatient with the stubborn fabric, the rebel lifted his hand from her throat to part the final layer of her clothing from her gentle skin.
“Lion!” That get’s a start out of the man, and for the first time, he looks into her face; recognition slowly bombards his. He releases his victim, taking several steps back until half the room lays between them. She wonders delusionally whether anyone calls him by his street name any more - Lion, instead of Leo.
“What the hell are you doing here, Rou?” His whiskey-worn voice sounds muffled in the closeness of the corridor. His gold eyes glow with heat, with anger, with vengeance; she is lucky to have escaped his grasp.
Bringing a hand to softly caress the bruises which are sure to flourish upon her throat and to incapacitate her verbal prowess, Kagerus swallows with a grimace and leans into the wall behind her before replying.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Silence. Precious time ticks by.
“I was selected, Lion. This is my home for now.” Speaking irritates the damaged tissues of her neck, and she lifts a hand again to fondle the area gently. Her eyes well with tears as she replays the attack in her head, as she realizes how very close she was to losing… everything. A droplet of salt water rolls down the high planes of her face.
“Fuck, Rou, I didn’t know it was you, okay? Don’t cry, god damnit, I hate it when you cry.” Identical memories flash in the eyes of the duo, memories of her bandaging his wounds after a particularly gruesome raid, memories of her soothing his screams and slipping the tincture of opium between his lips, memories of the hardships she helped him get through. For all the strength she pretended to have, during times like those, Kagerus had always cried; and she does now, too.
Her chest heaves once, twice, and then no more; but her eyes continue to implore the man, Lion, no older than she.
“Don’t look at me like that, I have a, a duty a -” He turns and smashes his club into the wall behind them with an unprecedented ferocity, the anger bubbling out of him like lava from a volcano. “I have a duty.” His voice has hardened when he turns to face her once again, and the gold of his eyes has turned to dust. “Now get the fuck out before I perform it.”
Needing no further encouragement, Kagerus turns and flees from the man whose life has rested in her hands many times before; she finds that she does not like having the tables turned.
Without any further interruption, the girl makes her way to the scribes’ post-office. It is quiet in the north-end of the palace, it being the furthest from the main entrance. The thrum of her blood in her ears still plays the tune of her and Francis’ first dance, and it only serves to unnerve her more fully. As she surges into the room filled with bespectacled servants and pacing Regulars, many eyes and swords are drawn in her direction; but at the sight of the tears lining her cheeks and the mess of her skirts, she is taken in with many a comforting word. Before long, clarity has returned to her fragmented mind, and she seats herself at an empty desk. She has a duty, too, and a skill; she will utilize both here. She will not sit idly.
“Soldier,” She calls to a man who seems impatient to have his message written. The single word is enough to draw him to her station, thank God, and with an encouraging nod and a readied quill above a fresh sheet of parchment paper, he begins his detailing of the day's many horrific events.
Attack began at 4:03. One-hundred Rebels stormed the castle. Illean Regulars sent as the first line of defense, followed by our gunmen. Many injuries, rapes, and twelve deaths; eight soldiers, four servants, to wit: Gerald Winston, Peter Redding, Nihlus Coriden, Darcy Ray, Terrance Debruin, Daniel Prescott, Alexander Scott, Toni Scor, Betty Lou, Henrietta Nesbitt, Noori Spring, and Kora Winter. Queen and King have been secured. Castle retaken by Illea an hour after the first strike from the Rebels. Seventeen casualties dealt to the Rebels; twenty-four successfully imprisoned. All others escaped. Wanted posters to be published shortly; the situation is under control.
And on, and on, and on she worked, until her writing became scribbles and the sun became the moon; man after man after man, all in need of a letter written; her hand aches but she dare not stop for fear of her terrors returning. As a particularly monotone doctor hammers out the exact scientific names of the wounds received during the conflict, Kagerus can no longer evade the exhaustion which wholly consumes her; her forehead slumps to the damp ink upon the paper she had been writing on, thereby ruining the entire document.
A servant hastily comes to resurrect the situation, apologizing on behalf of the tired lady. She assures the doctor that she will finish his documentation, but not before summoning a couple of maids to lift Kagerus from her seat.
Her eyelashes flutter, and noises meant to be words slip from the crease between her lips. The two maids murmur softly, agreeing with the unknowledgable jargon spewing from the emotionally fraught woman. They tread at a slow pace, supporting Rou until they finally meander into the lovely depths of her chamber. They set her on the bed, but do not allow her to sleep. Her tears begin streaming then, and she leans towards her pillow, desperate for the embrace of sleep and the dispelling of her horrific memories. With one servant holding Rou fast, the other spoons a gently warm porridge into her silent crying mouth. With some coaxing, the pair manage to slip a small portion of the bowl into the girl’s stomach, and they deem her safe to bed down for the night.
Maneuvering the limp bundle of flesh beneath the sheets, the two maids tuck her in gently, and whisper soothingly to her. Kagerus wants to beg for them to stay, as she knows she will have night-terrors tonight, but her voice has long since left her swollen throat. As the last candle is blown out, Kagerus is left to her silent keening, to the violent contracting of her sobbing stomach, and to the memory of Lion’s hands molesting her body.
When at last Fate beseeches her to be calm, Kagerus’ last conscious thought is of Francis.
Where were you when I needed you?...
Where are you now…
Kagerus
sweet nothing
word count: 3055
![[Image: kag]](https://78.media.tumblr.com/2e8039018ce4dff6112c167ec23e886a/tumblr_p72zjit7wC1s5a0qvo1_100.png)
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