Alarice

Her gloved fingertips brushed lightly against the cool green leaves. It was difficult to choose – especially now that her collection had grown so. The room had been put in due to the fancies of some long-ago forgotten royal; neither her mother or stepfather cared for horticulture. She briefly remembered someone mentioning that her father too had once held an extensive collection of plants, herbs and assorted greenery – some more legal than others…some of them were in her own collection now. School was starting soon…and she couldn’t very well move all of greenhouse with her.

She glanced curiously out into the bright blue sky – the room appeared as any other from the outside, but it was actually enchanted glass. Through it all the necessary sunlight filtered and fed her plants, while keeping the view of prying eyes sealed shut. The floor beneath her was a gilded marble, a masterpiece of art. Everything here was and yet she could still not bring herself to get used to it. Not even now as she strode in the simplest dress she’d been able to get away with – a white, high waisted dress that could have passed for a shift had it not been for the delicate lace along the neckline, sleeves, floor and along the train that followed two feet behind her. The long locks required of Lician nobility were braided half up, the rest trailing down her back. There was a tiara atop her head, diamonds in the shapes of spring daisies. This was the minimum standard of dress required of her…and she knew from the aghast face of the Lady who had just entered the greenhouse, bowed low and then looked up that it was not enough.

“Begging your pardon, your Highness…but the his Majesty the King….”

Even now, she knew these small rebellions would win her no victories. Dressing below her station at school she’d been able to get away with as a matter of practicality. Not having ladies’ maids was still a contentious topic; especially given that her heads of guards were male. If she wanted to fulfill her latest political inclination – a tour of the third realm, she had to play into their games a bit more. She was wanted in the small receiving room. It meant at least a few courtiers and of course the King himself. With careful wording she made it clear she would arrive within the hour…enough time to change

Her slender fingers manuevered her as far as working the tangles out of her hair and slipping into her underclothes. It took the help of one of the ever present maids to cinch up the corset – she was glad her upbringing had rendered her naturally slim enough that she could still breathe in the contraptions. The gown was beautiful really. Cream, high-necked chiffon peeked through the sturdier mint-green brocade overdress. There were intricate daisies cut out of the fabric and embellished with cream embroidery. The sleeves of both gathered just below her elbows in a bell of lace flowers. She wore shorter gloves now, cream lace that protected her bare hands from the warmth of human contact. The shoes didn’t matter – so she slipped into the most comfortable white kitten-heels she could get away with. Her daisy tiara was traded in for a simpler, but infinitely more costly yellow diamond and peridot number. The soft pastels were an attempt to tone down the sharp green of her eyes. They wouldn’t work – not with the dark hair that so strongly marked her as different among the sea of paler browns and gold that populated the halls of the Royal Palace.

When she reached the door an attendant slammed his staff down on the cold marble floor and announced her as two others opened the double doors.

“Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess Alarice.”

Courtiers rose from their chairs, everyone but the King was required to stand at her entrance but he too rose from the chair at the frontmost center of the room. As she strode in, a placating smile on her face, soft murmurs of “Your Highness” and “Princess” surrounded her. She replied to them with small nods of her head. As she approached King Orion she swept into a neat curtsey, head tilted down until he beckoned her to arise. There was a smile playing on his lips as he indicated that she take her seat at his right side; which she did silently. As the rest of the room returned to its small entertainments the older, blonde Royal leaned in next to her.

“You were improperly dressed in the greenroom again, Princess?”
“Propriety is really a matter of degree, Your Majesty.”

He laughed loudly enough that the rest of the room looked up towards them to smile.

“Well then, let us see how great a degree we can manage now shall we? I’ve arranged for some visitors that come to request your favor.”

Yeah…they come to kiss ass he means. The sarcastic voice chimed inside of her mind. It wasn’t entirely wrong – anyone knew that with Orion’s rule coming to an end it was the Princess to whom to cater to. Still, Alarice couldn’t help but feel a little pleased. She knew what this meant – third realm visitors as well. Orion had been open in public, but hesitant in private, to open his court’s doors to visitors to the “uncivilized.” Still, both seemed to recognize the importance of increased connections. She knew, from a combination of eavesdropping and gossip that a marriage to a third realm diplomat was a politically poignant move. Though Orion had fought valiantly in favor of arranging for a Lician groom. None of it mattered – she’d made up her mind not to marry at all, or if she had to, at least not until after she was queen.

She sat peacefully as one after another courtier, landowner and upper and lesser noble held the shared audience of herself and the King. She noted the respect with which her Stepfather was addressed – but also the constant glimpsing in her direction, as if trying to gauge what “worked” and what didn’t. Meanwhile around them the courtiers played chess, read, one tinkered away on a piano as another small group played a card game. Never and always alone, she thought the same sad smile playing on her features that she’d so often seen in the portraits of her mother. Every once in a while someone said something amusing and she laughed, even more often someone brought a serious complaint about this third realmer or this transplant from Deamone…only to hesitate and attempt to make up for their presumed offense. Her forgiveness came easily – it wasn’t their fault after all. No matter how much they primed and prodded her, she would always be the Queen’s bastard heir. Always half Deamone blood coursing through her veins. At least at school she had Herbert to confide in, but while she was at the palace she had told him and Robert to relax at home. They’d ‘ be busy enough come the start of the school year. No…there were no trusted guards to care for her here. From dawn until dusk she wandered the well-populated halls of the Royal Palace alone. For all the smiles and courtesies thrown her way though – she was utterly without company.

…

The guards at either side of herself and the King shifted in their boots uncomfortably. She’d been receiving guests for a few hours now, they were almost done. The guests too must have been tired for the next young man that strode up stumbled on his own feet and several rolls of papers went flying everywhere. Without thinking, or perhaps out of boredom, she rose and moved to the ground to help him gather his things. Perhaps no one saw a threat from the bumbling man, or perhaps they were all too busy being scandalized by the sight of the Princess on her knees – gathering papers. Whatever the reason, none of them seemed to notice the syringe that slid silently down the sleeve of the fallen man or his fingers as they pried the protective cap off the poisoned tip…

Robert

Robert’s pensive chocolate eyes stared at his mother’s back. She sat, mending a few of his father’s old shirts – her back to the door, facing a windowless wall. He knew better than to try to approach her when she was like this; retreated into the depths of some memories so happy that they made the present world seem like torture. He carefully set the tray of food on her vanity and returned to their small, shared kitchen. His parents had requested the three bedroom suite with the hopes of adding another child to their family. Now the master bedroom served as his father’s – his mother occupying the room that would have belonged to the little brother or sister that never came. Another tray, laden not only with food but with several medications balanced carefully on his arm as he entered his father’s bedroom.

When he’d returned for the summer the room had been clean…and that was about it. Robert had taken the time to open the window facing their small building’s backyard, bring in a few flowers, play the quiet piano music that seemed to bring life to his father’s eyes. He was tapping his foot slowly to the tune now, a vacant smile playing on his lips. “Good Afternoon!” He prompted cheerfully, to no response. “It’s time for lunch. I think I’ve managed not to bumble this too terribly…”

It pained him every time, to see his father like this. He’d once been a brave, capable man. Now he did little more than sit up. Robert had to carefully spoon each bite into the older man’s mouth – dabbing at the bits that fell out. “Swallow?” He would ask, having to resort to rubbing the man’s throat to encourage the normally automatic behavior. After an hour his father was fed. By then it was time for the older man’s bath – which Robert had to do with a warm cloth and a large tub of water; the loud noise of running water frightened Erol too much. Then it was getting him dressed and in bed for his nap. He distracted the man from the sedating and pain reducing injections with a promise…”I’ll be back to read to you in a few hours, all right dad?”

His exit was interrupted by Jennifer’s entrance, the shirts mended and folded to be put away. She glanced past her son and to her husband, a flicker of recognition passing her only to be extinguished just as quickly. “He’s doing well.” She said evenly, moving past her son to put away his father’s shirts. “He always does when you’re home.” If Robert meant to protest the necessity for him to be gone – to earn a living for the three of them, there was no need. “But I’m sure he understands…somehow. He recognized you in the newspaper during the school year – in the Princess’ end of year ceremony. I almost thought he’d say your name but he…well he faded off, as he does.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to her. She seemed to be talking through him, rather than at him. His father had made small improvements over the years…from being completely vegetative to being able to make small movements, sounds and expressions. But Jennifer reported them as she would a militaristic evaluation…cold…distant. Robert had always known how deep the love of his parents had been. That it hadn’t always been like this now seemed like a cruel joke. In many ways – Erol’s incapacitation had resulted in Robert losing both parents.

“When will you be returning to duty?”

“We’ve been asked to return a few days before the beginning of the school year. …The end of the week. I’ve arranged for them to send the majority of my paycheck directly to you. That way you won’t have to wait for me to mail it.”

“You should keep it for yourself.” Jennifer replied, closing the windows as some children ran by playing. “We get by just fine on the pension. And I take some pressing in for the cadets who live in the district…” His mother’s hands, once soft and unworn showed the beginnings of dryness from the constant use of starches and chlorine. It was true they’d struggled during his days as a Cadet…until the Queen had begun to send food, money and clothing to Ward family door. And then his appointment to the Princess’ head of guard had all but ensured that his mother didn’t need to work. But Jennifer Ward was too proud to live off the sole earnings of her son and she stubbornly refused to stop. It wasn’t an issue he wanted to press with only a week left at home.

“I like to know you have it …. just in case…mother.” She hmm’d softly and took the tray out of the Lician man’s hands. “You should rest Robert. I’m capable of cleaning up.” She brushed him off, a mother hen remembering how to shepard a chick. Robert sighed and retired to his bedroom. He didn’t have much more there then he had at the dorms in Licia school. A small family portrait, taken during his first day at the Academy. A certificate of completion, military acknowledgements. There was a wooden shelf his father had built and designed to hold his first dagger collection, still sturdy after all these years. All of his clothes fit into a single dresser, a few uniforms and suits and the odd casual article of clothing. There were a few bonsai trees – relics of his childhood. He laid down on the small bed that only barely managed his frame and stared up at the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter where we are, Robert.” His father had said at the young boy’s fears of their move to the capitol of Licia. “As long as we’re together!”

Herbert

“Morning…” The dark haired woman purred up at him as Herbert stood in the middle of his kitchen. Sipping on a cup of coffee as he read the latest of the security reports he’d requested allowed him a few seconds to remember where she’d come from and why she was still there. Celeste City was a good enough place to live: calm, peaceful…but almost completely devoid of an open nightlife…unless you knew where to look. He’d only intended to flirt around, but the combination of liquor and pent up frustration had resulted in an invitation. Now he had to deal with it.

“Do you…want to go grab some breakfast?” She dipped under his bent arm and pressed against his bare chest. How had he managed to leave the bed, shower and make his coffee without noticing her? Eyes of darkened steel shifted down, over the voluptuous form covered in…his shirt. Well…that explained where it’d gone. Briefly, he considered another interlude…but then…today was the day he’d planned on returning to court. “I’ve got plans.” He replied, setting down his coffee and stepping away from her. One cool hand wormed its way from around his side and down his abdomen. Bold…and normally at least a little entertaining. But Herbert had already made up his mind.

“Plans that don’t require company.” He continued, turning around and removing the sole article of clothing she had on. “You’re free to use the shower if you need it. Lock the door behind you when you leave, all right?” The shirt made its way back onto its original owner who, no longer bare chested, located and slipped into the pants that had been so hastily discarded the night before. Herbert wanted to make as swift an exit as possible – so he didn’t bother with socks. The woman, whose name still escaped him, stood befuddled before him. This wasn’t the first time a woman had mistaken a one-night-stand for something more. Nor the last, if his sex love life continued on as it had since the year of the Princess’s debut.

For a second he was afraid that she would start to cry. That always managed to inspire a twinge of guilt in him – though certainly never enough to make him stay. What kind of woman thought something of substance could come from a drunken affair that begun in the back room of some underground club?

“I understand!” She replied, almost a bit too perkily. Still nude, her slender form slipped back into his bedroom. “Just give me a minute to get dressed. I ought to get to work anyway. We have a lot of prepping to do.”

“Uh huh!” Herbert called back, feeling a bit thrown aback by her quick acceptance. He spent the time finding and folding his military jacket, the one that marked him as a royal guard. It was tucked under his arm – no need for her to find out his occupation. Even though they were well away from the upper class area of the city, word traveled fast. The last thing Alarice needed was for her guard’s womanizing to do the rounds among the gossips. His side-holster was slipped on, guns already in place. Eventually she emerged and when he opened the door for her, she giggled and batted at his shoulder playfully. Not one of his better selections of the night…admittedly.

As soon as the two were out the door the woman stood up on her toes and placed a quick peck on his cheek. Before he could reply she began her retreat, her voice just barely carrying its message from the widening distance between them. “See you soon!” She’d said, making Herbert wonder what she meant.

Oh if only he’d known.

Francois

“It’s time, mon frère,” The tall, dark-skinned man murmured ominously as their ride came plunking to a heavy stop at their destination. “Are you ready?”

Francois chuckled softly as he checked, for the final time, his lace cuffs and neck-tie. As much as they may have suited him, they weren’t necessarily his style. For the time being, however—for the role he had been hired to play—he knew that it would have to be something he dealt with. In any case, Francois was confident he’d be able to wear his clothing as easily as he wore his suave, aristocratic façade. And at the Lician Palace, anything short would have been unacceptable.

“I’m always ready, mon frère,” he replied, in turn, smile playing upon his lightly tanned cheeks, framed by waved locks of tinted pinks and purples. “But was it really necessary to bring Reena?”

“Of course. She’s more memorable than your average carriage…and besides, who else do you expect to take care of her? You know how mother feels about Reena.”

“True enough.”

The elephant they rode upon let out an appreciative cry, curling her trunk to the sky as nobles left and right turned their heads to admire the animal—some with awe, and others with perplexed glances of distaste. If she were a woman, and not an elephant, Francois was sure that at this moment, she would have been batting her eyelashes in bashful delight at the attention, oblivious to the signs of blatant disapproval that dotted the crowd of her onlookers. Whether they were sneering at Reena, or the two dark-skinned men who rode high upon her back, however, was a question all on its own.

Francois had to bite back a cheeky grin at the thought. Now that they had successfully begun the first part of their mission—a small one, but an important one nonetheless—it was time to quit talking to each other as brothers. Francois was now a sophisticated young suitor from the Third Realm, and Fernand was now Edouard: the quiet savage Francois kept as his bodyguard.

Before too much longer, the two had descended, allowing a few attendants to escort Reena to (what they were assured was) the most elegant of stables, then continuing on their way—Francois in front, naturally—to the castle. The young man kept his head held high and proud as he made his way to join the rabble of suitors that had already arrived to give the Princess their well-wishes. And quite a rabble, it was. Francois supposed he should have expected no less than a line (which is exactly what it was) to wait in before he was permitted to have his audience, practically flanked with guards, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t a touch disappointed. It was going to be a long, tiresome wait.

This wasn’t an exaggeration.

Hours passed, Francois trying hard not to be disgruntled at the realization that he was one of the last to have arrived (the problem with traveling by elephant—they weren’t necessarily the fastest mode of transportation), and that by the time he actually stood before the Queen-to-be, she would have most assuredly been thoroughly and utterly bored. It dashed his hopes at being particularly memorable—or at least it would have, if they didn’t have a failsafe, courtesy of their employer, waiting to ensure Francois’ good graces (or at least familiarity).

And wouldn’t you know? The fool stepped forward as if upon cue, when it was nearly Francois’ turn to give his introduction. Tripping forward, shaking with nerves, he scrambled awkwardly to retrieve his scattered belongings amongst quiet scoffs—scoffs which were abruptly silenced when the Princess, herself, lowered herself to the polished floor in order to assist the fallen boy. Maybe it was because he was a master at sleight of hand or simply because he knew what to look for, but the needle that slipped so craftily from his sleeve was almost too painfully obvious to Francois for him to watch. But what was obvious to Francois was clearly not obvious to the guards that surrounded them—an observation made clear by the fact that none of them made a move.

The plan was simple: be the one to capture the assassin. It was a set-up to make Francois look good—whether or not the Princess was harmed was of no concern to them, as the assassin hadn’t been armed with any lethal poison to begin with.

But, regardless of simple, the plan wasn’t what happened.

Francois couldn’t quite explain it. Or rather, he could have, if he was better in tune with his subconscious, but undoubtedly wouldn’t have cared to try in either case. A shiver—no, it almost felt like a cold wave of dread—had passed through him the second he saw the scenario before his eyes. There she was: so unaware, so unprotected…her pain inevitable. And Francois knew—was the only one in a position to prevent the act from being carried out.

Before he could think for another instant, Francois’ body went into autopilot, and he launched himself forward, quickly closing the gap between where he had stood, and the two kneeling figures on the floor. And, before the would-be assassin had enough time to register the suitor that had come flying from the sidelines, his arm was already descending toward the Princess—or rather, where the Princess had been, and where Francois now dove.

Everything had slowed, something cliché but accurate. Francois hissed in a breath, instantly grabbing at the burning pain that had stabbed into his upper arm as he fell only somewhat-gracefully, but hard, upon his knees. Only somewhat aware of the hustle and bustle about them, the doorways being blocked as the assassin made a move to escape—and was quickly restrained by Edouard—Francois found his eyes going only to the Princess, his face set but filled with more genuine concern he should have allowed himself if he had been thinking rationally as he asked, “he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Alarice

Several things happened at once and in retrospect it would amaze her that she was able to register them all.

Before the chaos she had been gathering a number of papers on the floor. Next came the sound of bone hitting marble with a sickening thud. Then shoes skittering across the floor, a few gasps, metallic swords being drawn, shifting bodies, slamming doors. Immediately, her hands reached out to steady the form before her. The edge of her gloved finger found a solid cylinder, embedded unnaturally in the man’s upper arm. He was grasping at it, causing the needle to shift in its position. With a mental hiss she brushed his hand away, fearing accidentally lodging the instrument deeper. Next came his voice, rich and smooth with the faintest hint of an accent she could not quite place. The exotic nature of the tone was matched by the striking color of his eyes, which were fixated on her. The reason for his actions clicked into place with his inquiry, the cylinder, the sheen of sweat that had appeared on the tanned man’s forehead, the bumbling courtier making a break for the exit of the room. And then there were the guards, strong handedly attempting to pull her away and into a protective cocoon. Years of escaping panicky situations kept her from attempting to explain the situation – such an act would cost precious seconds of confusion that the man on his knees might not be able to afford. Instead she found the muscle of her mind flexing and their hands moving away as the wave of energy swept across the room – pushing them back. “No.” She replied, softly as she knelt back down by his side – feeling a bit faint herself now.

She could hear Herbert’s steady, even voice from the back of the room and it drew her gaze. Another man, even more out of place than the one before her, was holding onto the would-be assasin. “The dungeon.” She called out, in the ancient Deamone language that would go mostly unheard among the crowd of Licians. Herbert gave no reply, only took hold of the now-prisoner from the dark skinned stranger. His large hands grabbed the courtier’s wrists and kept them firmly behind him as he shoved him towards the exit. With several guards in tow, the doors opened and the figures disappeared from sight.

Now her attentions were free to be focused where they were most needed. Brushing the cold sweat from his forehead she implored the kneeling man to “S..stay calm. You’ll be all right…” She promised, hoping that her eyes weren’t betraying the panicking rhythm of her heart. A quickened heart in her caused her words to fumble a little…but a quickened heart in him would only speed up the spreading of the poison that was undoubtedly housed in the tip of the needle embedded in his arm. Faintly, she could hear the King calling for medics. They would be no good if enough of the poison hit his heart.

With a warning glance at him she grasped his hand and held it down with her own keeping as much of his arm below his heart. “I’m sorry…this might hurt a little…” She murmured, as her free hand reached up – grasping the barrel of the syringe. As she pulled it out she took extra care not to toggle the plunger, no doubt enough poison had entered his system as it was. Removing it elicited only a slight tensing of the muscles in his upper arm. Her eyes went apologetically to his face, oddly calm given the circumstances. Already, he had proved himself to be braver than most.

Then there were other hands helping, taking his temperature, flashing lights in his eyes, grabbing the discarded syringe and dripping its contents into a vial. The medics had arrived and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. If anything could be said about the Lician court…it was that their medics could keep even death at bay, at least – they had for her mother for several years past when it should have arrived. Of course- there was only one thing to do about poison. And the only person with the information necessary was currently headed for the hidden dungeons on one of the bottomost floors of the palace. A necessary evil, Orion had once said to her – when she was very young. Because not all punishments needed to be public.

The young man was floating on his back, someone’s suspension charm raising him as if upon an invisible stretcher. Realizing that she was still grasping his hand, she let it go, leaving it to hang off to his side and away from the rest of his body. Depending on the poison, there were only precious few minutes of time. “Don’t let it reach his heart.” She heard her voice say, before she broke off into a run and headed for the dungeons. Too many people had been hurt, or died in her name. But for the first time, she was in a position to do something about it. Alarice cursed the cumbersome gown out loud as she hurried past guards and courtiers alike. At some point the shoes on her feet had flown off – letting her slide along the floor and causing her to nearly fall more than once. The bodies, golden, yellow, silver, blue in various degrees of dress became blurs. Her stomach was churning with a combination of nerves and the exhaustion from the sudden use of her power – which she had admittedly not trained as well as she should have over the course of the summer. Sooner than she would have believed she was standing in the middle of the dank stone room.

It was not the one she had been held in…but they all looked so alike that it gave her cause to stop and take the next few steps with more hesitation. Herbert had already chained the man to the wall; he was suspended by his arms inches above the floor. A part of her felt sick with flashbacks and memories of dislocated shoulders. The rest of her was feeling another emotion entirely; the darklore, which had remained silent until now was hissing like a predator about to strike.

“Leave us.” She commanded the guards in the room, her hand grasping Herbert’s arm fearfully as he began to protest. “Not you.” She snapped. Orion would be on his way shortly and he would not spare a second thought of ending the man’s life without getting the information she needed. Yes, there were a million questions to be asked of this man. But only one mattered right now.

“The antidote?” The Princess asked, her voice timid and unsure and eliciting a scoff and a turned head from her would-be assassin. “I serve my employer and noone else. You can kill me now half-breed…I won’t…” The rest of his sentence was interrupted by Herbert’s fist connecting with his jaw. The fury in the guard’s eyes matched only by the depth of his hatred for the slur. It didn’t seem to affect the courtier at all – he spat out a few bloodied teeth and raised his head defiantly towards them both. “You’ll get nothing.” He finished. “So you may as well kill me now.”

“Easily arranged.” Herbert growled, one large hand wrapping around the man’s neck and pulling him higher above the ground. “Let him go!” Alarice called, to immediate obedience. Thinking quickly, she found her eyes boring into those of the man now struggling for air. “I promise you Sir that you will live a long, long, life in this dungeon. As many others have. The crown is patient…we can wait as long as you for you to break. And believe me…I will make sure you break. Even if that man dies I will have the antidote…and who knows? Perhaps the years will lessen your regard for your employer? Lord Duncan certainly does not do well when willing witnesses are available…do you think his life will be spared a second time?”

Of course, it was a partial shot in the dark. Her uncle was the most likely to have sent an assassin in such a bold, calculated move. But even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone loyal to his cause. By threatening the head of her enemies she’d hoped to tear one precious piece of information from this man before her stepfather decided other actions would be more appropriate.

“The antidote!” She repeated, her voice no longer trembling. When silence was his continued response she reached for Herbert’s holster and aimed – her finger pulling hastily at the trigger and sending the bullet through the wall between the man’s legs. “There are plenty of things to be removed that will allow you to keep your life Sir do not make me show you what they are. The antidote.”

“C…C…Calabar!” He blurted out, as she’d levied the hot barrel of the smoking gun against his earlobe. Just then, a bevvy of golden-armored guards entered the room with Orion in the center of them. “Calabar!!” He repeated desperately, as wisps of lightning began to emerge from the tips of one of the guard’s fingers. “Who sent you?!” The King asked, his voice eerily cheerful amidst the subsequent howls of pain. “Who are you working for?” He repeated – and the Princess once again found herself running away. “Wait!” Herbert called out after her, but she did not hear.

—

Calabar Beans were non-existent in Licia and difficult to find even in Deamone. Her Uncle had chosen his poison, whatever it was, well. She’d never thought to need the small bush her father had bequeathed her but she was glad to have it nonetheless. Not bothering to pluck the berry-like legumes individually, she grasped the potted bush and continued her dash around the castle. Had it not been for the deep, swirling green of her eyes she was sure she would have been detained as a madwoman. Her shoes were gone, there was a tear in her skirt where it had caught on some statue or another. Her crown had gone askew in the middle of her run and the intricate braids had come undone, leaving her hair a wavy mess around the edges of her face. The berries would be most potent if picked only just before they were injected and so she held the plant like a newborn child. Finally she was able to find a maid who was sufficiently coherent in directing her towards the room where the “third realmer and his savage“ had been taken.

When she entered the room it had already picked up a distinctly medicinal smell. The normal furnishings had been pushed out into the hall as various monitoring machines, tools and at least half a dozen white-coated individuals occupied the space. They had ripped off the majority of the man’s clothing in an attempt to combat the slow swell of muscle and tissue at the injection site, along with what appeared to be a quickly rising fever and tremors. He was propped into a sitting position in the middle of the large bed, the silk sheets slowly becoming drenched in sweat. The man who’d captured the assassin stood silently in a corner of the room – his large form looming over them all but completely focused on the man now beginning to exhibit the first signs of gut-wrenching pain. She could see where fluids were being administered to dilute the poison, another drip with a label of a medicine she did not recognize…the outskirts could never have afforded such luxuries.

A part of her wanted to scream when, upon her entrance, the medics stopped working and swept into respectful bows. Certainly even the palace had breaches of protocol for situations like these? Apparently not. Muttered the darklore as a disapproving glance was directed from one doctor to the man in the corner when he did not bow. Before she could reprimand him another, female, doctor approached her with a grave expression.

“We have slowed his heart enough to buy some time, Princess. But without the antid…” It was then that a few people seemed to notice the potted plant grasped firmly in the Princess’s shaking hands. “Injected.” She managed to gasp through panted breaths. “Prepare…Injection…” When uncertain looks passed between them she tacked on a more powerfully spoken, “Now!” and the white coats began to work.

With the plant removed from her hands she was free to peel off the now dirty white gloves, baring her arms as she shoved the sleeves of her gown above her elbows. Another glance of disapproval from the doctor and she made a mental note to fire him when she was Queen. The medics of Licia were trained well, by the time she had removed her gloves sevearl red-liquid filled syringes were placed on the tray beside the poisoned man. As the critical doctor approached to begin the injections she brushed past him and grabbed the first one. Her hand moved the hair gently out of her patient’s face as she stared down at him. She sat besides him on the bed, trying not to shift its weight too much “Hello.” She said, softly…her tone as light and calming as she could manage. As she spoke, she slid the first syringe into the red-hot skin right above the wound.

“I don’t believe.” She continued, her eyes flickering from injection site to the man’s glazed-over gaze and back to the next injection site, “You’ve been at court before?” Slim, soft hands cooled the skin of his bare arm and chest as she carefully pierced a trail of liquid antidote along his upper body. With each injection she let her hands linger a little, trying to counteract what would have undoubtedly felt like an injection of more liquid fire into his veins. Poison…to counteract poison. “Might I know your name?” His reply was met with a smile, serene and as thankful as she knew she should feel for the man who’d saved her life.

When the last syringe was empty and placed back on the tray – she found one of her hands sliding into the hand of his poisoned arm. “Well then Francois…welcome to Licia. Now squeeze.”

Duncan

The floors at Deamone palace were not made of gilded marble; but smoothed basalt stone. The walls too, where they had not been upgraded to walls of dark woods were stone. The tapestries throughout the palace did much to insulate the place, but this hidden hall had no such fineries. The result was something of a cave-like echo and what was currently echoing were two sets of feet walking purposefully down the hall. One was a sure, strong stride and one a flittering, clacking series of steps. What did not echo was the whispered conversation held between the owners of said footsteps.

“The girl?”

“Has been well my Prince. The Princess has become quite enamored of the chess set you sent her most recently.”

“Lord, darling. We mustn’t forget that.” A soft chuckle. “Did I do that?”

“Yes, M’lord.”

“And the boy?”

“Master Rubin reports that he has been working diligently on his studies, but that the Dowager Empress has attempted to enter his quarters twice in the last few weeks.”

“Yes well…I suppose she’s still quite upset that she learnt of his existence through the announcement.”

“You’ve sent her an apologetic gift.”

“A good vintage, I imagine?”

“Yes my Lord. There is…one other matter regarding the Prince.”

“And that is?”

“Master Rubin has not wanted to push the boy too harshly…but he informs me that the Prince has yet to develop a real control over his powers. It is…a discouraging effort thus far. Though he does note that the boy is trying…merely…”

“Merely failing? No matter. They will teach him that at the school. What we need to focus on his keeping him in line…and throwing the half breed off. Tell Rubin to focus his energies on his history and lessons on protocol, behavior. The boy may be an urchin but he is still of noble blood and we cannot have him scurrying about as he did in that…place.”

“Yes my Lord.”

The footsteps came to a stop before a door. They passed through the door by activating a hidden charm along the wall, or at least the man did. The woman had flickered through on her own and by the time Duncan Deamone had entered the next hall a number of black armored men were on their knee. A least half a dozen…all guarding a single door. Without so much as a word of acknowledgement he continued his stride, opening the heavy door and entering the room behind it.

The girl, if nothing else, had excellent taste. The walls were covered in black damask, each piece of furniture had an elegant touch to it – all done in black wood. A large four poster bed was at the frontmost center of the room – with black and gray satin hanging bunched at each post. Although there were no windows, plenty of paintings a large television adorned the walls. But Duncan’s goal was not near any of them. Instead she was curled up in a large, blood-red chair with a book of chess strategy on her lap. For a second he considered the regrettability of her gender. Already she showed so much more promise than her simpering, sap of a brother. But Duncan knew which cards to play and when…she was his little fail safe.

“My darling.” He called, opening his arms as he approached her. A shudder of pride fell past him as she stood and approached him in neat, dainty steps. Her hug was neither too long, nor too tight and he managed to enjoy it a little before he bent down to press a quick kiss to the center of her forehead. “It has been far too long. Come let me look at you.”

She had inherited much of her mother’s coloring, but his superior genetics had improved them greatly. His fingers brushed down the thick, soft, fiery tendrils as they fell just above her elbows. Her delicate, if overly-youthful features looked even more prim encased in the fair skin of a lady of breeding. He stared down with pride at the clarity and crispness of her eyes – none of the swirling weakness his brother, mother and the half-breed had.

He took her two small hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them each in turn. “Such a lady. You grow lovelier by the second my sweet.” With a sigh he took his seat in the red cushioned chair, pulling the girl onto his lap with a gentle tug. “Do you know what is happening, at this very moment?”

“I do hope it involves a murder.”

Her response elicited a bark of laughter, and he cupped her cheek as he replied. “Something of the sort my dear. The two savages have arrived at the Lician palace and should be making quite the impression on the half-breed wench right about now. If all has gone according to plan she shall be suffering by nightfall. This is the first step in restoring our honor. Does this not please you, my little Princess?”

“It pleases me thoroughly, Father. I wish for nothing more than our untainted bloodline to take its rightful place upon the throne.”

“And it shall my sweet. Perhaps…once the mutt is disposed of we can arrange for your brother to…well…shall we just say I’d much rather have you on the throne?” His tone lowered in a conspiratorially friendly tone. “You are such a bright girl. Milina tells me you are enjoying your chess set?”

“Yes Father.”

“Excellent. You do know how I wish to please you. It has been such a chore arranging this entire business. With your brother off soon I shall be free to spend more time with you. He shan’t keep me from you for much longer. Would you like that? Perhaps we shall take a trip to the sea…have you ever seen the ocean? ”

He didn’t wait for her reply, instead reaching inside of his breast pocket and pulled out a long, silver chain. Attached to the end was a rose carved out of a ruby, the facets glistening in the light of the room. With a smooth smile he opened the locket showed her its contents. On one side, his visage. On the other, a miniaturized map of Deamone. “It…and all of this belongs to us, Helen. And I intend to get it back.”

Leto

Allora, qual è il valore dei desideri dei morti?

Quando saturo d’acqua sono vita fuochi freddi?

Con alghe capelli e ossa dei cirripede

Nella trono conchiglia

The smooth, husky voice – a little too deep for a man of 19 seemed to float away, carried on the breath of someone who would always have a little bit of the ocean in his blood. He hadn’t even realized he was singing until the mention of a throne – the very object he was currently striding down the halls of the Deamone palace towards. He had to stifle a laugh as guards in carbon black armor pulled their swords out, a few of them noticing his presence as a vaguely fuzzy light. He unveiled the invitation before his own appearance, ensuring they had stood down before he was able to be seen. Not that he’d needed to. His appearance disarmed the men immediately…no wonder the Prince ended up dead. With guards like these.

The nicest clothes he’d had, aside from his dealer uniform was the school uniform he still fit into, one year after graduating. Even in Deamone, where power and money spoke more than appearance – he knew his everyday clothes would not do. Still, Leto knew he looked out of place with his light hair and his aquamarine eyes. One was common enough if rare. But his eyes? They were entirely his mother’s. He remembered asking her where her coloring had come from once and being answered with a heavy sigh. The mostly-forgotten treasonous undertones of the shanty should have clued him in…but they never had. No. That disappointment had come years later – enough time for him to love his family enough to regret rejecting them.

The Deamone Council met in war rooms, protected enclosures deep in the core of the Earth. The room he was walking into was not the main throne room, but it was the one (of many, apparently) he’d been asked to come to. The guards moved aside wordlessly, swords sheathed, and he strode in. As Leto approached the occupant of the seat he stopped and bent himself over one knee. His silvery head tucked downwards as his arm crossed over and hand balled into a fist against his chest.

 

“Dowager Empress.”

 

Leto had moved to rise when he heard two more voices, one of which caused his knee to drop instantaneously.

 

“This is your man, then, mother?”

“Indeed.”

“And you vouch for him as well, Milina?”

“As far as my word carries in my Lord’s eyes.”

“Well then,” went on the amused voice. “Rise.”

 

Leto’s body did, but his gaze remained steadfastly on the ground at his feet. Anyone who lived under the looming shadow of the Deamone palace would have done the same – for this was the voice of disgraced former Prince, Lord Duncan Deamone.

 

“My Lord. I am at your command.” He heard himself say, in a tone more subservient than he had ever heard come out of his own mouth. Even the Dowager Empress didn’t command as much respect as her displaced son. And with good reason. She, in all the time he’d known her, had been a charming, agreeable sort of woman – if not a little sad. But Duncan Deamone’s cruelty was legendary…and Leto did not particularly want to experience it for himself.

 

“Oh my.” Mused the Dowager Empress, a smile playing on her ruby red lips. “Leto I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you be quite this formal!”

 

Any other day and he might have smiled. The last time he had seen the Dowager Empress he had been shoving her down a narrow alleyway, as a band of what could have been reporters just as easily as they could have been mercenaries chased them out of the Casino in which he held employment since the (illegal) age of 15. Just as his invisibility would provide no more disguising (a dead end) another one of his regulars had grabbed their hands and transported them to the basement of an old hotel. Imagine the displaced citizen of northern Deamone, finding out in almost the same instant that one of his regulars was none other than the Dowager Empress Nicolette and the other was Duncan Deamone’s personal assistant, Milina Skala. His ears had been filled with a buzzing hum as the two women thanked him for his assistance, handed him a small purse of coins and disappeared. A few days later, the invitation had arrived.

 

“Do you know why you are here, boy?” Asked Lord Deamone and Leto’s ears burned at the word.

“Not entirely, my Lord.”

“You were offered a position here in the palace, correct?”

“Yes my Lord.”

“And do you desire, to work for the Royal family?”

“I am a man who understands the value of hard work. And a citizen who would gladly die for my country. If I was to be offered a chance to fulfill both then yes, my Lord, I should desire it greatly.”

 

Gracefully, the Dowager Queen brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear. It was one of her tells; she’d won this hand. Milina too, was unconsciously showing her pleasure – a long fingertip was twisting the ruby ring she wore on her right ring finger.

 

“I understand you have some talents in the veiled arts, young man. Is this so?”

“I possess the gift. But whether I possess talent is for my Lord to decide.”

 

Duncan Deamone’s smile could have melted the flesh off a newborn child, if he’d wanted it to. Leto knew it instinctively and yet he couldn’t help but feel a flush of pride that he’d pleased him. It was strange, as if his own father was patting him warmly on the back. He couldn’t break away from the fog of joy even as the nobleman went on.

 

“I’m in need of a trustworthy young man to guard a…very special possession of mine. …However I understand you are of…mixed breeding?”

That snapped him out of it.

“Yes my lord. My mother is…”

“Yes.” Duncan continued, his lip curling in distaste. “But Milina informs me you are no longer in close contact with your family.”

“No my Lord. …I visit them sometimes…but I do not agree with their views.”

“I should hope so. Normally this process would be…more tiresome. However I am a busy man and my mother and Milina have both vouched for you. I leave the explanation of your employment to them.” The feeling of joy washed over him again as Dun…Lord Deamone approached him. It became like a fuller weight in his chest as he got closer and was near to bursting when the former Princes’ hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Your family may have the views it wants, it is of no consequence to me. But if I find that your sympathies change…”

 

Leto’s eyes rose – his sight leveling with Duncan’s chin. The implication disgusted him…and he didn’t need to hear the threat that came after it. “Dishonoring myself by adopting their…way of life would be the greatest harm that could befall me, my Lord. You have my loyalty…there is no question.”

 

“Good man.” Was his reply, before he strode out.

 

Leto turned around and knelt again, not rising until the older man had left the room. By the time he was back on his feet, the Dowager Empress had slipped her arm into his.

 

“No time to waste.” She practically sung, her bright red eyes blinking excitedly. “We must present you at once! Aaah, how lovely to see her again.”

“Begging your pardon, Empress…but…who? And what job was the Lord D…”

“My son is a bit long winded, isn’t he?” Nicolette mused, her steps never touching the ground as she practically glided down the hall with Milina in tow.”

Milina chimed in, prim voiced and a bit sharp but never rude. “My Lord has many matters to attend to. Perhaps we should explain, Mr. Garth. We require the use of your abilities in guarding a rather…special individual.”

 

A guard? Well…he couldn’t do as bad a job as the fools he’d encountered in the hall. Then there was the ultimate question.

 

“To whom?”

“My granddaughter.” The Dowager Empress whispered into his ear, before winking and pulling his stunned body along with her.”

Herbert

Herbert had slipped through the high, golden gates of Celeste City’s palace without much ado. His medallion emblazoned jacket, distinctive eyes and dark hair might have given him away if his bare-minimum courtesy to the higher-up courtiers didn’t do it first. The grandeur of the palace always managed to shock him into remembering he was not in Deamone. The movement of the servants was unearthly in its precision. The whole world within the palace walls seemed to operate like a clock: golden cogs clicking precisely in to place. Today, however, there were a few stray pieces ticking to a different rhythm. He’d been made aware that the King was opening his court to third-realm visitors, a pet project of the Princess to which he’d finally given in. But Herbert had fully expected to arrive in to screen them before they actually neared his charge. Normally, this wasn’t the type of thing he would berate himself over. Today was not a normal day.

 

The first sign of trouble was the way the guards slammed the doors shut. He’d barely managed to pull himself between them in time only to have one of the younger men try to bar his entry. Cooly, he began to identify himself – but the sound of his voice drew a command from his ward. Trained eyes scanned the room, the guards pushed back by the power of their future sovereign, the King – behind a wall of even more guards assessing the situation for himself, his charge kneeling in front of a man who appeared to be quickly deteriorating in condition, one thin, sweating courtier being held by a man whose appearance immediately linked him to the man that had clearly done Herbert’s job for him.

 

By the time she’d finished telling Herbert where to take the would-be assassin he had already taken hold of him from the dark-skinned stranger’s grasp. The dungeons weren’t a place the Princess liked to think or talk about. Herbert didn’t care for them either. Ever-mindful of her experiences, he made sure to avoid the cell with the most recently replaced door, choosing one of the older rooms in the center of the dungeons instead.

 

As Herbert pulled the courtier’s arms behind him and attached them to the movable chain along the wall his eyes spotted the dark roots of the man’s golden locks. No Lician after all. It wasn’t until the prisoner was fully secured that Herbert recognized he had been surrounded by guards the entire time. His rage had been so fully focused on this man that the very sight of the men in golden armor had escaped him. “The King will want to know the man’s identity- Or who he claims to be at least. Also, summon Robert Ward…I suspect he will be needed shortly.” He spoke with an authority that belied his age and the men nodded without objection. While he may not have been a member of the Lician army, here in the palace he had the same level of authority as the King’s own head of guard and almost as much as the King himself in matters regarding the security of the heiress.

 

Suddenly, she appeared at the door, looking as if she’d walked through hurricane-force winds. Her steps were oddly silent and Herbert realized that she wore no shoes on her stockinged feet. “Leave us.” She said, raising her head in the hallmark of a royal command. Like hell. Herbert’s mind snapped only to be instantly answered by her voice and her shaking hand on his arm. “Not you.” She said, looking up at him with the same fear in her eyes that he’d seen years before.

 

“The antidote?” The Princess asked so shakily that Herbert’s mind quickly calculated the odds that the man who’d been kneeling before her was now in a hospital bed somewhere on the palace grounds. The reticence in her voice drew dismissal from the man who was still hung up by his arms. “I serve my employer and noone else. You can kill me now half-breed…I won’t…”

 

He had no intention of letting the man finish his sentence after hearing the slur that had so often been directed to the girl in her room. Herbert knew she took no offense to it…there was too much truth behind it, she’d told him. But it still boiled his blood to hear it. Whatever her lineage, she was the girl whom his truest friend had left in his care, whom he was told would view him as a brother – and who had in fact been as steadfast and loyal as her father. Pulling his fist back, he let it connect with the courtier’s jaw and delighted in the feeling of teeth popping out of their places as it did. The delight faded at the failed assassin’s imprudence, “You’ll get nothing. So you may as well kill me now.” He’d said, before spitting out blood and teeth in their direction.

 

His short-lived resolve to non-violence broke. If the man wanted to die – he would. “Easily arranged.” He growled, squeezing the air out of his windpipe with a single hand. Herbert had only just begun to apply a more lethal amount of pressure when his Princess asked him to stop. So he did.

 

When she took the gun he made no move to stop her, instead he watched with mixed emotions as she threatened her would-be murderer with a long, and painful life. He would have been proud if he didn’t notice the shaking of her arm or the way she kept adjusting her posture as if about to fall. It threat seemed to work. Just after the dangling courtier provided her with the information she wanted to know the King’s guard came into the room. He made no move to bow when the King himself joined them, he was no sovereign of Herbert’s. Alarice, didn’t bow either. Before he could stop her, she took off running once more.

 

“Wait!” He called, brushing past the guards to try to reach her. But it was too late. She was already out of sight.

 

The courtier’s screams were the next thing he heard. Deamone was much less refined in its torture. It was said that if a Deamone captive did not give the information the Council wanted he would die a brutal death and his family would be left to bear the shame, scorn and consequences. Herbert realized this was merciful compared to the slow, hidden torture that Licians practiced. Letting families wonder what happened to their loved ones while they rotted underneath the gilded halls. He kept his face a blank slate as the King approached him.

 

“Why was she here?”

“The Princess was inquiring about an antidote. Am I to assume this man attempted to poison her highness?”

“Yes. But a young man intervened and was poisoned in the progress. The medics are taking a look at him in the lesser hall. A third realmer…I believe he was here to pledge fealty. Of course, we won’t know if the young man dies. Pity. Such dedication would have been welcome, even from a third realmer. Don’t you think Mr. Dubhan?”

 

Herbert did not agree, as most Licians and citizens of Deamone did – that the third realm was devoid of culture or intelligence. He made a noncommittal grunt and reminded one of the guards to summon Robert. Orion gave him a knowing glance.

 

“I shall be meeting with the small council in my privy chambers in an hour’s time. The Princess, Mr. Ward and you will be there as well. This is the closest they’ve come to her, Herbert. We cannot be seen to be lax in our security now, it is too important a time.” Right on cue, the sounds of bones popping out of their sockets reached the ears of both men. More howls of pain followed as the King returned to his interrogation. Through a splintered tongue the courtier begged for the mercy of death, that the Princess had promised it in exchange for the antidote.

 

“Did she?” Orion’s ice blue eyes glimmered with amusement. “We cannot make our Princess a liar, can we gentleman? Very well then! Death it is! But first, who hired you?”

 

The man’s silence resulted in the sounds of chains being drawn. Herbert was thankful for his dismissal to fetch the Princess. He didn’t have an aversion to violence, no man in the Deamone army could. But he didn’t care for this brand of it. As soon as the door slammed behind him the screams became muffled murmurs. The guards that had come with him scattered, two to look up files, one to summon Robert while another accompanied him far enough to ask if he was needed before being dismissed to debrief those that had been in the room at the time of the incident.

 

Along the way to the lesser hall, Herbert was offered two yellow shoes and a pair of white gloves by a maid. He had to hold back a laugh when it was explained that they could not locate one of the two shoes the Princess had lost in her run and that she had discarded her gloves at some point during her administration of an antidote to the young man who’d saved her life. As the maid provided him with this information, a rather disgruntled looking doctor walked past them – muttering about savages. Herbert was left to wonder how many of the medics had been asked to leave when he arrived into a room with only four occupants. A doctor, with strawberry blonde hair and patient brown eyes was measuring a vial of reddish black liquid and a petrified looking ice-blonde was cleaning up several red syringes, a plant and assorted dirt that had undoubtedly fallen from the plant’s pot. His young charge was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a bit worse for wear. Her shoeless feet dangled off the edge of the bed, peeking out from under her long skirts. Her eyes never wavered from the face of the man groaning softly on the bed. Wordlessly, he knelt down and slipped the replacement shoes onto her feet.

 

“I’m afraid that yes, your Highness some of the poison remains in his system.” Began the female doctor, holding the empty syringe in one hand and the vial of bloodied poison in the other. “I do not believe it will be a lethal amount…though he will most likely still experience some symptoms until it clears his system. We can give him something for the fever and pain, though there is no telling how the poison will affect its duration…The best thing to do now is to simply let his body clear it of its own accord.”

 

“Whatever is necessary.” She replied, softly so as to not disturb the man resting beside her. Herbert wondered how best to handle this situation. The walk alone had taken fifteen minutes. Getting her in a more presentable state, the walk to the privy chamber, explaining the situation to Robert would take up most of the remainder of the hour. As he rose from the ground he noticed the way her bare hands were clasped in her lap – trembling a little with each breath. She needed to rest, not fuss over a young man (no matter how heroic.) She continued to stare pensively at his injured arm, reddened and swollen and attached to IVs as Herbert leaned in to whisper in her ear – they were needed by the King.

 

The girl seemed about to make a sound of protest when the female Doctor touched her on the shoulder, a kindly smile upon her face. “It would be better to allow him to rest, Princess. I shall leave instructions with the nursing staff for the medications he shall need and I will be available at your leisure.”

 

“It will not do to leave the King waiting, Princess.” Herbert added, still not able to reach the Princess’s distracted gaze. The doctor and nurse bowed and exited the room, leaving just himself, his ward, the man on the bed and…the rather fearsome looking creature lurking in the corner. Recognizing him as the man who had apprehended the assassin, he gave him a nod of his head before touching the Princess’s arm. “Sweetheart…we have to get going.” Herbert continued to urge, offering Alarice his arm.

 

“We’ll post guards in the hall, outside the doors, outside below and above the room. The nurses will tend to him. There is nothing more you can do.” This seemed to do little to comfort her. Finally, Hebert reached for her jaw and tilted her head to look at him. “Come now, Orion will undoubtedly be making some decision regarding your security and you might want to be there to give your input.” The downward twist of her lips indicated he’d won this battle and his bent arm was offered to the young royal once more. But, before he could lead her out of the room the third realmer reached towards her and she moved back to his side. Normally he would have gone for his gun – clearly, today had proven that anyone was capable of attacking his charge. Seeming to recognize his thoughts, the teenager now hovering over her savior shot him a glare. Thus, Herbert instead stood and watched as the Princess covered the extended hand with her own and moved it gently back down to. “…Mr. Moreau…”’s side. Even standing next to her, Herbert could barely hear her as she leaned over and brushed her other hand along “Mr. Moreau’s” forehead as she gently asked him to “Please rest.” Herbert cleared his throat, and raised his brows in a barely perceptible manner. Regardless of the actions the well-wisher had taken – he was still a man, shirtless with his fingertips entwined in his ward’s as she hovered precariously close to his face. The subtle cough that he elicited served to remind the Princess of her position. With a bit of color returning to her cheeks she murmured her goodbyes and took hold of her guard’s arm. As they left she offered both third realmers a nod before closing the door gingerly behind her. The door had been closed, thank the realms. Or the nurse and doctor standing outside of the room might have witnessed the little interlude. Herbert had no plans of assisting his charge in disguising a blossoming romance – or indeed, of allowing her to experience one at all.

 

“The staff will talk.” He chided, walking far enough that they would not be late but stopping in a place discrete enough that he could begin fussing over her. She shot him another glare as he smoothed her hair into place, his hands surprisingly gentle as they redid the loosened braids that had crowned her head. “The staff talks either way.” Alarice all but grumbled, reaching up to straighten her crooked tiara. He chortled and offered her the replacement gloves before kneeling down to fluff out her flattered skirts. “That they do.” Herbert didn’t fully understand the limitations of behavior placed on the future-Queen. But he knew all too well how kindness could be misinterpreted as romance. Not yet of age, it would be unseemly to the Lician court for their Princess to engage in such behaviors. Even her lack of gloves when comforting the young man could cause a scandal. In a way he pitied her – but secretly, it eased his mind a great deal to know that boys were not on the list of his charge’s worries.

 

There was nothing they could do about her ripped skirt or the redness of her nose from an apparently close-call with a bout of tears. But she looked near enough to her version of proper decorum that he felt confident enough in leading her the rest of the way. It took a great deal of walking, looping, stair climbing and secret hall navigating to reach the entrance to the King’s private meeting rooms. By the time they reached it, a familiar blonde was waiting for them…

Robert

The only telephone in Robert’s house was in the kitchen, as far away from his father’s room as they’d been able to manage without it being out of earshot. The sudden noise tended to upset the older man – though their number often went blissfully unrung for weeks at a time when he was home. It was the unusualness of the event that caused Robert to spring from the phone when its trilling rung down the halls. He could feel the presence of his mom behind him as he listened intently to the events that had transpired; the lines of his face tightened with every detail until he was frowning thoughtfully. The only words that left his lips before he hung up the phone were “I will be ready in five minutes.”

 

As he rushed for his uniform he spared a glance for his mother, who followed him and was already preparing a selection of daggers for him to loop around his waist and chest. “The Princess was attacked a few minutes ago. The King is calling for a meeting of his privy council.” Jennifer Ward’s face, as always, remained a mask of impassivity. “Was her Highness harmed?” She asked, as if inquiring about the weather or the color of a bolt of fabric. Robert’s head shook to the negative and he saw her shoulders lower a bit in relief. The Ward family owed much to the Princess’ mother – and their loyalty had wholly transferred to her child upon the late Queen’s death.

 

He was ready earlier than five minutes and, as he stood in the entrance hall of his family’s small home he realized that he might very well be leaving for several weeks – that the King might determine it was necessary to send the Princess away, that he would be leaving without saying goodbye to his father. As any good mother might have been able to, Jennifer immediately grasped him by the shoulders. “There’s no time for goodbyes then. Your father will be fine. You will perform your duty as is required of you and the world shall spin on.” Robert had to agree, if only in action. “I will return if I can to bid a proper goodbye to him…and you.” Jennifer gave no response, only patted his shoulder once and turned to leave him to his thoughts. She’d been prepared, he knew, from the beginning to say goodbye to him forever one day. Such was the life of a royal guard and his family. Still, as the teleporter arrived and grasped Robert’s arm – the swirling disappearance of his family’s home caused a twinge in his chest.

 

The teleporter deposited him at the entrance to the King’s Privvy chambers. The knowledge that the Princess was unharmed soothed him – but only a little. Robert Ward was a loyal soldier in every way. He hadn’t wanted to take the vacation, he told himself. He’d disagreed, though understood the reasons that the King had believed it inappropriate for the female heir to spend more time than necessary with her exclusively male guards. And while he’d readily volunteered to stay on as a regular guard – Alarice had all but threatened to dismiss him in order to get him to leave the palace grounds. Now the absence of himself and Herbert had resulted in a close call. The guilt he felt seemed almost insurmountable.

 

It was only a matter of minutes, but it felt like forever before Herbert arrived with their mutual charge on his arm. Robert tried to remain calm as he bowed and began his profuse apologies to the Princess – for having failed her. These were promptly interrupted by Herbert (who rolled his eyes and began a quick debriefing of the situation) and the Princess (who sympathetically assured him she was perfectly well.)

 

“So…” Herbert ended, patting Robert’s slumped shoulder. “Do you think they’re going to can us?” When the remark was met with horrified looks from both Alarice and Robert, Herbert raised his hands defensively. “I’m pretty sure not. Geez. Relax.”

 

“Oh yes.” Retorted Robert, offering the Princess his arm as two attendants opened the doors to the King’s privy chambers and ushered them in. “An attack on the heir on the palace grounds and you believe relaxing is the appropriate response?”

 

King Orion’s private meeting rooms consisted of several connected chambers. At present, he was sitting at the head of a long table in one of the back most rooms. When they entered, the various occupants of the room rose and bowed before their future sovereign. The King then rose as well, indicating that the Princess should take her seat next to him. Robert bowed deeply, Herbert inclined his head as a sign of respect and the Princess curtseyed before she did as he asked. Seated around the table were several of the King’s private advisers, the elder members of the Lician court and several military heads. Standing around the room were their respective guards, and lesser military and court members – all of whom had received personal invitations from the King.

 

It seemed as if they had interrupted a heated discussion, Robert’s eyes scanned the red faces of several of the older military members – most of whom seemed quite angry at the court members.

 

“The audacity!” Shouted one older man, his double chin wobbling in his cravat. “To suggest that the palace guards are insufficient to ensure the safety of our…”

“The problem is, Lord Quoa that the guards HAVE proven to be insufficient today.”

“The most reasonable solution is to increase the number of guards on the palace grounds.”

“But such a thing may very well hinder their movement and prove in-efficient in the future.”

“I must inquire,” Began a middle-aged woman, whose hair had already begun to show sprinklings of white-blonde in her otherwise golden hair. “As to why the Princess was unguarded in the first place? Even the King has a private detail within the gates.”

 

Several heads turned towards Robert and Herbert, but where Robert might have begun to defer to the council’s better wisdom for an appropriate punishment – Herbert crossed his arms defiantly over his chest.

 

“If I may speak freely, your Majesty?”

“Please do, Mr. Dubhan.”

“It was this council and you – King Orion, who insisted that it would be inappropriate for the Princess to be on constant guard by this detail while she resided in the palace – due to it’s…gender construction.”

 

A few soft murmurings were his reply, the opinions apparently mixed. Some seemed to have conveniently forgotten the conversation had at the end of the last school year – where they had begun to express concerns for the chastity and honor of their heir should she continue to spend all of her alone time surrounded by two young men. The commentary had caused the Princess to fluster noticeably – which had only exacerbated matters. Others, particularly the military members of the council grumbled that they had not raised such concerns.

 

“It is clear.” Began Orion, immediately silencing the rest of the room, “That the Princess requires an increased guardship.” He held his hand up before Alarice could protest and she shut her parted lips respectfully. “At the very least – until she is crowned and most definitely while she attends Licia school. If this attack was perpetrated within the security of the Palace there is no telling what opportunities might be made available to imitators outside of it.”

 

“The Princess currently has a detail of four guards, in addition to young masters Robert and Herbert.” Began General Sewe – a man whom Robert recognized at once. “Yes.” Replied Herbert, rubbing his forehead as if speaking to children. “But the four men at our command are not allowed, due to decorum, to enter the Princess’s dorm or to touch her person unless Robert and I are unavailable. Perhaps if you would…see fit to loosen the restrictions that have kept the Princess’s guards three paces behind her.”

 

This statement caused another uproar among the starched collars of the courtiers.

 

“The Princess’s virtue…”

“Absolutely not! It is unheard of for a female heir to…”

“For men to be allowed access to…”

 

 

The protests went on for a minute, loud voices on either side of the argument grumbling their case. “Gentleman…” Interrupted one of the many standing guards in the room, calling enough attention that they ceased. “If I may, your majesty?” Orion nodded, while a courtier whispered the man’s identity into his ear. Robert didn’t hear it – it didn’t matter what the man had to say so long as he wasn’t contributing to the childish bickering. “You may, Mr. Russel Lindval.”

 

Suddenly it mattered.

 

“Why isn’t the Princess simply supplied with an additional female guard?” Orion’s head tilted, his hand propping it up as his elbow rested on the table. Robert’s gaze remained straight, but he could feel the edges of the man’s shape moving around his peripheral vision. The name Lindval had been burned into his consciousness years ago and he hadn’t realized how intensely until now. The exemplary young girl sitting in the barber’s chair…

 

“It is quite a deal more common now” He went on, “for Licia and Deamone to train females in combat. The Deamone Dowager Empress herself only accepts female guards.” “Handmaidens.” Supplied Herbert, looking a little less irritated than he had only a few seconds ago. “Handmaidens.” Confirmed the older Lician,

 

“I must concur with Mr. Lindval.” Robert said, offering him a short nod before returning his attention to the King. “A handmaiden is an ideal solution to the matter of maintaining the Princess’ security along with her…honor.” He concluded, remembering the last time the matter of her virtue had come up with her in the room with a shudder. “And what Deamone lady would you suggest protect our heir?” Orion inquired, to no one in particular.

 

“None.” Herbert replied. “Handmaidens are only trained to work with other handmaidens, in groups. Even if you could find someone capable of overlooking that tenant, there is the matter of assuring their willingness to work with a Lician partner.” Robert followed his partner’s train of thought. “The handmaiden in question must be Lician, then – Mr. Dubhan?” To which Herbert answered by touching the tip of his finger to his nose. “One, preferably, who is free to accompany the Princess both as a companion here at court and at Licia school. Perhaps near of age to the heir herself.” Finished General Sewe.

 

“Excellent suggestions, gentleman.” Orion finally spoke, a light smile playing on his lips. “It would then please us to arrange for interviews and inspection of suitable candidates…”

 

“With all due respect, your Majesty.” Robert said, clearing his throat as he wondered whether he really wanted to say what he was about to say. “I do not believe that will be necessary. With her father’s permission…I would like to nominate former Cadet, Eirian Lindval for the position.”

 

Robert struggled to ignore the soft chuckle Herbert made then, before seconding his recommendation. “I agree with my partner. If the lady’s father does not object- Miss. Lindval would be an excellent candidate for any position Mr. Ward suggests for her. I’m well aware of the lady’s qualifications and believe she would make an excellent companion and guard for her Highness.”

 

“Princess?” Asked Orion, of the young woman seated at his right-hand side, who had as of yet said not a word. Robert noted with pride the way that her shoulders and pose remained straight and risen as all eyes turned to her. “Miss. Lindval is held in high esteem by Mr. Ward. I too, am aware of her excellent standing both in the Academy and the high regard in which Licia school’s headmistress holds her. With Mr. Lindval’s permission – I would be most glad if the court were to offer the position to the young lady.”

 

“I’m quite convinced then.” The Lician King murmured, looking intently at Russel Lindval as he spoke. “Mr. Lindval, this court asks your permission to present the position of the Princess Alarice’s Handmaiden to your daughter, Miss. Eirian Lindval.”

“Of course, your Majesty. I am sure my daughter would be honored by the offer.”

“Perhaps,” Interrupted the Princess, glancing conspiratorially at Herbert before continuing. “Mr. Ward could present the offer to Miss. Lindval himself, along with her father? As her former mentor and potential future partner I believe he would be ideally suited to the task. Wouldn’t you agree, Robert?”

 

“If it pleases the court, highness.” Robert said, feeling a rush of heat throughout his body and settling uncomfortably in his hands.

 

“The matter is settled then! Mr. Lindval, please escort Mr. Ward to your residence where he will present this court’s offer to your daughter. We shall reconvene tomorrow morning with the lady’s decision in place and an interview taking place if she consents. After all, recommendations aside we cannot have an untested guard in place. Now then, if you’ll excuse me – there are other matters that require my attendance.” As Orion stood, the rest of the room did with him – their backs turned away from him until he was gone before the older men and women began to file out of the room themselves. Only Robert, Herbert, Russel Lindval (who received a pat on the shoulder from General Sewe) and the Princess remained.

 

Alarice, already holding onto Herbert’s arm smiled at the two Lician men remaining. “I shall look forward to meeting your daughter, Mr. Lindval. Her reputation among my guardship is…very impressive. Please, excuse me. Robert – I shall see you again when you return. Good day gentlemen.” And with that she too – glided out of the room accompanied by a guard (which soothed Robert’s concerns for her safety greatly.)

 

Now alone, Robert bowed his head respectfully towards his elder. “Forgive me Sir, if my recommendation was impertinent. I fully believe E..your daughter will be perfect for this position. But perhaps it was not my place for me to recommend her. She is…so young.”

 

Of course, it had been three years – Robert’s brain reminded him. By the time he and Mr. Lindval arrived at his home (and after its position relegated him to mind-numbing shock) he realized just how much Eirian Lindval had grown.

Francois

Things became increasingly harder to keep track of after the poison had started to work its way through his bloodstream. Even before it had gotten too far, Francois was beginning to feel its effects. The Princess, to his thankful surprise, had taken the liberty of yanking the needle out of his arm—something he would rather not have done himself, and Edouard clearly had his own hands full at the moment. Francois tried to focus, truly he did, as guards scrambled every which way and medics burst forward, the Princess staying by his side momentarily as he was lifted from the ground as if on an invisible stretcher.

Francois supposed it was the fogging of his mind, but he found himself unable—practically unwilling—to take his eyes off of her. It was even more difficult than that to let her slip her hand from his as she left running at full speed. Of course, it wasn’t as if Francois was in a position to put up much of a fight.

But it was even harder to focus once he had gotten to the infirmary, due to the white-washed faces amongst white-washed walls bustling to and fro, injecting him with who-knows-what to sustain him. The only things he really kept track of were the cold sweat that drenched his chest, which rose and fell in shallow puffs , and his brother, who stood looming in the corner. They locked eyes—it was the only thing that kept Francois completely calm, the panic of the hospital setting unable to fully set in. To the average individual, Edouard appeared indifferent, if a touch protective, a frightening and out-of-place figure. But to Francois, the one person who knew the man behind the mask, he was the only thing keeping fear at bay.

But soon, even that wasn’t enough. The poison steadily dulled Francois’ mind in waves as it increased in painfulness, until the young man found himself in a waking nightmare. Nothing but white coats—nothing but pale faces prodding him without comfort. He rolled his head to the side. Edouard wasn’t there—Fernand wasn’t there—just a man. A dead man, eyes lowered in sympathy.

“Bell…” Francois was half aware of himself attempting to calling out to the imagined phantom, but it was nothing much stronger than a weak mumble. Was he dying? Was he already dead? That would explain Bellamy, standing there as if completely unaffected from the times past. Perhaps he was there to guide his brother to the afterlife…or whatever lay beyond. Frightened and incoherent, Francois closed his eyes. Not yet, Bellamy, he wanted to say, it isn’t my time yet; I have too much left I need to do. I’m sorry.

He wanted Fernand to be by his side, but even as disoriented as he was, Francois was aware of the impossibility. Nonetheless, he remembered the last time he had been in a hospital, frightened and in pain. Fernand had been there, at his bedside as often as he could manage, squeezing Francois’ hand and offering words of encouragement.

“You’re the bravest person I know,” Fernand had said, his small face more serious than it ever should have needed to be. “Never, ever forget that.”

Francois didn’t feel brave. He wanted to disagree then, and he wanted to do so now. How could a man be considered brave when he felt so helpless? So cornered?

Gently, a hand graced his brow, brushing away the wet strands that had fallen there, and Francois opened his eyes. The face that hovered above him he hadn’t expected, but regardless he felt himself relax, a weak smile forming as if he had all but forgotten the terrors of his mind.

“Hello,” the princess said.

She was sliding needles into his arm, one by one as easily as if his skin were made of butter—but he hardly noticed. It was one dull stab after another; what was more pain, at this point? Nothing I can’t handle, Francois told himself, nothing that makes saving a life less worth it. Her hands punctuated each needle, driving away the unpleasant sensations with gentle pinches. At least for a moment.

“I don’t believe you’ve been at court before?”

Francois shook his head in response. At least, he attempted to shake his head, but the effort made him dizzy so he vied to vocalize an answer instead. “It’s quite a ways from home.”

“Might I know your name?”

Francois searched her eyes. She was smiling, so kindly, but a mixture of emotions welled behind those trademark greens he was far too exhausted to completely separate. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel. One thing at a time, anyway.

“Francois,” he answered obligingly, “Francois Moreau.”

She slipped a hand into his, and beneath the tremors Francois was halfway aware of his heart swelling in appreciation. Despite the pain, a wave of relaxation flowed through him with the action. She filled the place reserved for her brother—it wasn’t the same, but it was a good enough substitute for its purpose. “Well then, Francois…welcome to Licia. Now squeeze.”

“Thank you, Princess. I’m glad that I came.”

Following orders, Francois managed to clench his fingers around hers, grimacing at the feel of black blood oozing from the infected wound. He closed his eyes—not from disgust, but flashes of bruises and fractures and blood that he thought he had escaped. And, besides that, the burning was only getting stronger. If the young man hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that the Princess was trying to finish him off. Despite himself, Francois could feel the hospital closing in around him. Images—memories—childish pleas of Fernand, don’t leave me alone! What if he comes back after me? What if he comes for Mother, again? We’ll die! He’ll kill us!—and then the Princess’ hand, the one comfort left, slipped out of his.

He tried to smile as he turned his gaze toward the beautiful woman standing over him once more. But there was desperation as he blurted softly, before he could stop himself, “…stay?”

Of course, she couldn’t stay. He knew that, and if he was in a better state of mind he never would have asked—and he would most certainly have been ashamed or embarrassed at such juvenile behavior. But regardless, she met his weak simpering with nothing but kindness, pleading him gently to rest before following the rest of the staff out the door, and Francois was left alone. Well, alone with Edouard.

A long, tense moment of silence (that felt more like ten) passed. Francois couldn’t bring himself to meet the gaze of his lone companion, but that hardly mattered. Fernand, assured they would not be disturbed, dropped the act. His face contorting in anger as he stepped out of the corner.

“What were you thinking?”

“Mon frère—”

“That was not part of the plan!”

“I…had an idea. I improvised.”

“We don’t improvise! That’s what gets people like us killed.” Fernand took in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let the air out slowly. His frustration was palpable. “You didn’t have an idea, Francois. I know what happened, you’ve done it before—but never to this compromising of an extent. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your small heroics over the years. But why? Why now? Why do you always have to be so selfless!”

“I wasn’t being selfless…”

“You’re right. You were being careless.”

Francois was silent, save for the raspy rise and fall of his chest. Now, he actually wanted to rest. But he knew this was something he needed to face. He couldn’t risk Fernand wanting to switch places for the remainder of the mission, out of anger and apprehension. It was too risky…and, as it was…

“I thought…if I took the poison…it would endear her to me. You saw the way she looked, didn’t you? When she sat here? She’ll be back…and she’ll…”

Quickly, Fernand grabbed a waste basket that was sitting nearby and rushed to Francois’ side, just in time to catch the sickness that Francois had been trying hard to hold back. He curled there, on his side, trembling, and didn’t finish his explanation. Fernand softened, finding a cloth to hand to his brother to wipe his mouth with.

“I saw, mon frère.” With a sigh, he added, “and it was a good plan. Your intuition has always been spot on. You just…know that I hate seeing you this way.”

Francois nodded, but before much longer, with Fernand’s understanding acquired, he found himself once again dozing into a fitful sleep.

At one point, probably not much after he had managed to find a shaky peace, Francois awoke to the sound of the door. He rolled over, practically causing the maid who entered in the room to throw the tray she was carrying into the air. She took one brief look at him—her face pale and eyes wide—before putting the tray at his bedside as quickly as she could manage and darting back out. Fernand rolled his eyes.

“Close-minded Lician pawns,” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortable from the position he had once again leaned himself against in the corner. Francois simply stared at the plate. Just looking at the simple salad adorning it gave Francois the urge to be sick again.

“You can have it,” the invalid offered dully, to which Fernand merely snorted.

“No, thanks.”

Francois squeezed his eyes shut once more, pleading under his breath for rest.

***

She wasn’t screaming, only pleading.

S’il vous plaît, je suis désolé, I didn’t mean to anger you. Don’t hit me again, don’t—

They were watching from the door. Two small heads stacked over each other. Fernand held Francois by the hand while Francois cried silent tears. They knew they shouldn’t have been watching but they couldn’t help it.

And there was so much blood. And he wouldn’t stop hitting her—not even when she fell to the ground. The tall, dark, angry man.

You’re hurting her! You’re killing her! Stop it! She’ll die!

Francois ran forward, slipping away from Fernand before his brother could hold him back…and then the bloodied hands were tight around his neck as his father dragged him to the window—

***

“Mr. Moreau…? Mr. Moreau?”

Francois’ eyes snapped open with a start, causing him to jolt as his consciousness tried to catch up to his vision. If her hand hasn’t been resting (gently) upon his chest, Francois more than likely would’ve sat up so fast he would have smacked into the Princess. Underneath her cool fingers, his warm flesh heaved from its battle with the unseen enemy.

“Francois…shh…shh…It’s okay. Everything is all-right now…”

After a long moment of staring desperately into her eyes, he relaxed, falling heavily back upon the bed, his eyes lidded heavy, but out of exhaustion as opposed to ease. Regardless, she smiled, seeming relieved as he cleared his throat.

“…Princess. You…came back.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, Mr. Moreau,” she explained with a nod, “But you seemed to be having some….restlessness. Can you stand? I’d like to change your bed sheets and I’ve some food coming.”

“Yes…I…I can try.” Weakly, Francois shifted himself closer to the edge of the bed and swung his legs down. He managed to stand about halfway when a sharp pain ran through his side from the awkward angle he managed to step on his bad leg, and barely managed to grab onto the Princess (who had quickly moved to support him) before he would have fallen to the floor. Thankfully, Edouard took over for the young woman, whom he more than likely would have ended up taking down with him, and she busied herself with changing his sheets as Francois was brought carefully to the single chair left in the room.

“I’m not used to being this…in need of assistance,” Francois breathed as he sat heavily, putting a hand to his head with a weary sigh. “I’m truly sorry for all the trouble.”

But Alarice simply shook her head, never breaking from her folding. “Mr. Moreau…you saved my life. There is no way you could trouble me. In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask…why did you come?” Then, before Francois could reply, she added, “And if there is anything I could do for you, please name it.”

This time, Francois was the one to smile…if a bit weakly. “I came to offer my support,” he lied brilliantly, “I suppose…it isn’t of much consequence; loyalty from someone like me hardly means much—but having been given the honor of speaking with you, I know now more than ever I want to give it. All I can ask is that you accept it.”

It would have been an appropriate place to bow, he noted mentally, but he was afraid that if he tried such a move, he’d somersault into a heap on the floor.

There was a moment of silence. The Princess finished changing the sheets, and then straightening herself, she admired her handiwork with what appeared to Francois as a bit of accomplished pride before she spoke again, firmly and like a true royal. “Prince Dwayne once said,” she began, “that the loyalty of one man meant more than the falsity of a thousand.” Flashing a smile, her voice softened as she assured, “Mr. Moreau no one who pledged their support to me could ever be of no-consequence. I am honored to receive, “someone like you.” to court.”

Then, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear and averting her gaze bashfully, the Princess amended, “The court…I mean.”

As Francois watched her, he suddenly found himself breaking into a toothy grin beneath his haggard eyes. “You…aren’t wearing gloves,” he observed, more matter-of-fact than anything else (although one may not have been totally imagining things when hearing the subtly coy hint to his tone). “Now that I think of it…you weren’t wearing them before, either, were you?”

Almost immediately after he had managed the rhetorical question, the door opened, revealing a set of maids and attendants carrying trays and furniture alike. Francois watched as his bed was moved to one side of the room while another was brought for his brother (guilt seeped in as he realized exactly how long Fernand had been standing), along with food for both of the brothers and a chair for the Princess.

Once everything had been arranged, the group hovered awkwardly for a moment before Alarice curtly dismissed them with the promise that “Mr. Dubhan will be joining me shortly.”

As soon as they were gone, the Princess prepared a needle that had been brought along with a bowl of oatmeal, using a damp napkin to gently wipe his shoulder in preparation. She hesitated—but only long enough to bring a hand to his forehead. “I’m afraid you’re still a bit feverish, Mr. Moreau. This will help, I promise.”

“Thank you,” he breathed as the needle slid quietly into his skin.

He swallowed the quick flash of Bellamy dead on the floor, blood spread beneath him in a cool puddle—the shot was for the fever. There was nothing to be afraid of. Before he could stop himself, his eyes flickered to the tall man sitting on his cot, munching his meal appreciatively (but quietly and as politely as possible). There were no ghosts of the past to haunt him. Or hurt him.

Francois didn’t know if she noticed anything; she was busy pouring a powder into his oatmeal, explaining how it would help him sleep. He would pray for a dreamless sleep, at that, devoid of the demons that had followed him into the immaculate room. As he reached for the bowl, the Princess rested her hand gently on his, lowering it. “There’s no reason to waste any energy Mr. Moreau,” she chastised, taking the spoon in small, bare hand. “Save it so that you may recover.”

Brows furrowing, the young man began to protest, but was halted by the spoon full of oats entering his half-open mouth. Francois sighed internally, supposing there was no real need to protest, especially if it was something that the Princess wanted to do. If nursing him to health attached her to him, than he would be more than willing to let her feed him like a child. And, if he was being quite honest, Francois supposed his arms were rather tired.

Before too long, Francois could feel the effects of the powder setting in, the warmth from his stomach traveling up and making his brain a delightfully peaceful haze. He was only half-conscious by the time a guard—the same dark-haired one from before—appeared at the door, exchanging a brief dialogue with his charge before going out of sight once more, and even less so when another appeared—this one as strikingly Lician as he was wholly unfamiliar. The blonde came in only to provide the Princess with further clothing (a shame; he had been quite enjoying the view), before leaving with a respectful nod. She seemed to notice how much effort it was beginning to take him to keep his eyes open, and once she had slipped on her robe and gloves, set the oatmeal aside and (with the help of Edouard), dragged Francois back into bed. “Good night, Mr. Moreau,” the Princess Alarice bid, in gentle formality, and Francois nodded sleepily as her figure blurred and retreated before his eyes.

“Good night…your highness…” he mumbled in response, eyes shutting of their own accord while he fell limp against his pillow.

“Peace be with you, mon frère,” was the last thing Francois heard before he finally drifted into a dark and quiet slumber.