XX Royal Lies [Alura and Koti~] IC M

[Koti~]

OWL & THISTLE, EVENING

“No.. I have no one to return to. They … they were killed when the king took over.” Nabooru spoke, her voice breaking into little sobs as she clutched the coins tighter, her eyes roving around the room, trained much like urchins looking for a safe place to settle for the night. She took in everything, from the leftover food, the tally of books, and even the bag of coins splayed on the table. To so carelessly leave such belongings out in the open, even when just working with a child, was sloppy. All the better for Nabooru, as no one really doubts children, especially those running from the guards, no homes to return to. Children truly were the greatest spies, as they could be anywhere and everywhere, and yet blend with the background with ease.

“Porridge and wine? No no, I don’t really need all that, its too much.” Nabooru was quick to try and dismiss the favor, yet the grumbling of her stomach betrayed her, forcing a deep blush upon the lady's face. She looked down to the coin and bread, trying to hide her embarrassment and weakness she let slip from her.

“Thank you… and the guards were chasing me, claiming me a thief. I swear, I didn’t steal this gold, I found it in the gutters. I didn’t steal nothing.” Nabooru spoke, looking up to Olivia with the most sincere gaze she could muster, a pout of resentment turning her lip before she turned to the door, the maid from before returning with a steamy bowl of porridge, a plate carrying that golden yellow cream of butter, and a small mug for her. Beckoning the girl over, Nabooru was quick to move over, eyeing the spread of food like a king his treasure.

“This .. this is too much. Please, here!” Nabooru offered the two coins to Olivia, wanting to repay the kindness so readily offered, head bowed in grace as she felt her stomach rumble once more, hungrily licking her lips as she awaited Olivia’s words.


FRIARY GROUNDS


Diana was quick to join the group, caution halting her steps just shy of Byron as she watched Horatia greet the men, a clear joy in her actions upon meeting them. She watched as that flame of happiness flickered in her eyes, a worried look passed around the two men she was flanked by, Joaquim adding a shadowy presence that did little to ease the growing tension. She could tell when horrible news was quick approaching, and even more the unease that hung in the air like morning fog. Taking a deeper breath, she stepped forward to the ground, a soft clear of her throat gaining all eyes upon her. She shuddered mentally as the men focused on her, relief clear for but a moment as she gave them a clean break from the tension. Horatia would hate her for it, but it was better to get the men talking more than anything else.

“I assume you two are part of the resistance and had a hand in getting me out of the castle, for that, you have my gratitude. As for you sire, I remember you well, and I apologize for striking you down without warning. I had feared for my safety and freedom, and did what I thought best in the moment.” Diana spoke, curtsying to the two men. They both for a moment beamed with pride before Riga shifted his eyes between her and Brand, a mirthless smile crouching on his face.

“Wait, this is the princess that felled the mighty Brand? She’s barely half your height and nowhere near your weight?” Riga spoke, finally glad to have a break in the tension as he let out a deep laugh, poking at Brands expense, hearing a few chuckles that joined around him.

“Hey, don’t doubt her, Riga. She has quite the hook on her. Please forgive him, your majesty, for he has the same smarts as the common sewage rat.” Brand spoke, bowing to the princess as Riga let out a wounded ‘hey!’ in retort, yet all in good jest. The two were glad for the minor distraction from Horatia’s questions, taking any advantage they could to not talk about the pressing weight on their backs. Diana brushed off the words though, having broken the tension some in the air. Trying to hide the pride that she felt from their compliments, her eyes studied them, noting just how tense they had remained. Despite the ease in the air, she knew there was more than just a long ride weighing down the men more than a heavy rain. Her mind raced to the commoners and city, already panicking over the peasants and what her actions must have caused.

“Alfson has remained behind at the kingdom, an inside man working for Ignatio and Olivia. He knows the risks, but he knew that he was the best to remain there.” Riga spoke up, feeling like he could finally speak his mind, at least in the small hopes. He knew it would do little to ease the woman, as they had planned for them all to return here, yet fate and war had intervened in the best laid plans of more powerful people. He began to speak again, drawing breath mere moments before Diana cut in, drawing him up short.


“Tell me, what has happened since I was taken from the Castle grounds. What has happened to my people?” Diana asked the two of them, watching them sober up hard, reality slapping them in the face. Joaquim was the first to make his move, having heard plenty of the stories and tales. He may be the best to tell the tales, though everything else would be left for the proper men to speak.

“The kingdom is … faring poorly, your Majesty. The king has truly gone mad at having his bride stolen from him. Sinal has been hauling in noble and peasants alike, questioning them who have the smallest shred of new of your whereabouts, or of Horatia. Even more, he has offered a reward of 1000 gold to any who bring him news of either of you, and a fiefdom for those who can return the two of you back to the castle. Almost all beggars without remorse have been combing every inch they can to find even a small clue for you.” Joaquim started, trying to remain on the lighter side of the daunting tales of the Castle. He could already see the pain and anger behind Diana’s eyes, hurt at what the king had done to her people. He swallowed a suddenly dry throat and continued.

“The … the men who were guarding the gates, they .. they had been punished by being placed in the stockades and flogged, deemed to stay there for three days with no food or water. I am glad to say that they survived. Mostly.” Joaquim added, his words ending abruptly, unable to continue with the information. He wanted to speak more, but his eyes shifted between the woman, suddenly afraid of what his words would do to these two women. His mouth opened and closed, a few starting words and breaths began, yet nothing could start.


“Maybe we should find a place to sit and a drink. These men have had a long-.” Byron had begun, trying to ease the men towards the main hall, yet stymied by Diana's hand, raised in defiance as she fixed her eyes to the men. She could see it in their body, the news they wished not to share, and even more, the anger and sadness that would follow it.

“No. You men are not telling it all. Tell me everything this man has done. I have sworn to end this man and bring honor to those who have fought besides me, no matter the cost. We will not move until I hear it all.” Diana spoke, mustering up all the courage and command she could throw in her voice. The men were drawn up short, looking down to the princess both in shock and pride. The princess had spine, a much different presence than from when they had first seen her at the city square and even more at the castle gates.

“Your majesty, I must ask that we at least let them rest-.” Byron began again, yet was ceremoniously drawn short by a glare from Diana, knowing that angering her further was not a wise choice. He decided to remain silent and stood upright, crossing his arms in annoyed compliance as he let out a deep held sigh.

“Yes.. of course your Majesty.” Brand was the first to cave, steeling his nerves for the news he had to deliver.

“Joaquim speaks true though. My fellow knights and I had been forced to the stockades after the king detested us for letting you through. It was a price more than worth paying for your freedom, so please do not fret on that. I can assure you the other men will live beyond this, despite the grueling punishment.” Brand spoke, waving off any future apologies she may try and pass to them.

“The bastard had truly lost his mind though. Your personal maid … was punished unjustly for our efforts. She had been .. staked to the walls nude. Regrettably, she did not survive.” He continued, glancing his eyes to the skies as he tried to purge the image from his mind, already balking at the sight when the resistance had pulled her from the walls. He had no idea how long she had managed to survive on the wall, but knew the woman had suffered more than needed.

“And … I’m sorry Horatia. The king knew that it was your family that had helped the princess escape, and your father was the first to be dragged off. He would have made you proud, not once letting slip anything about you or what he knew.”

“The king did not take that well. He .. um .. there is no easy way to say this, but he had your father dragged to the square by horse and denounced his nobility before … I’m sorry Horatia, but there was nothing we could do to save him. Your father fell to the axe, yet not without showing his pride to the people and his hatred for the king.” Brand finished, letting the words sit heavy in the world. The tension had hit its peak, none of the men daring speak now, watching Horatia for her reaction.

What they hadn’t expected though was the heavy thud of Diana falling to her knees, skin pale as bones and eyes fixed beyond the veil. A tremble of a word sat on her lips, tears unburdened in her eyes as she slumped forward, catching herself with her hands as a tremble overtook her.


Inside, Damanius and Diana were at war with each other. Emotions rode over them, seething hatred to Sinal bastard as Diana cursed him mentally with every word she could conjure. Grief and loss fought together for Diana as she felt as though the hand of the devil had gutted her, leaving nothing but a deep cold that froze her bones. Anguish brought them together, binding them in a spiraling darkness as sound was replaced by a single keening ring, high pitched and blocking out everything. Their vision swam with tears and encroaching darkness as she stared fixated upon the ground, looking beyond its well work tracks into the deep abyss below.

For to the world, Damanius had truly died, known to live only to himself. Grueta had been his last comfort, the only person who knew who he really was, who had kept him safe for these last eight years. The one person he hoped to see most when he returned triumphant to the throne, beg forgiveness for all the foolish things he had ever done. Yet even now, Sinal had robbed him of that. One could not beg a spirit for forgiveness, nor pay respects to a woman left bare to the world, shaming her to all that walked the castle walls. He had been given time to grieve the loss of his family, able to speak words of comfort with them before they were killed. All he had with Grueta was a promise unkept to even himself. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye, and that was robbed from him.

Sinal had taken everything from him. His home, his family, his kingdom, and even now, his only friend and most trusted person. There was nothing left for Damanius, save a goal and a lie. A lie that had been forced to him for the sake of survival, and a goal that only came from his duty as the prince. Those facts did little to comfort him as his vision tunneled deeper into the ground, ignorant to the world behind him.

… Their voice spoke to them, a soft whisper barely heard.

‘He has stolen everything.’

‘He has dragged our family through the mud.’

‘He has soiled our home, desecrated our fathers room, and fouled the air with his sins.’

‘HE.’

‘MUST’

‘PAY…’

‘Pay…. Pay.. Pay for his sins with blood. Pay for every second stolen. Pay with pain for every breath he draws! PAY AS EVERY BONE IS BROKEN AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN!! PAY WHILE BLED DRY! HUNG UPON THE WALLS TO BURN UPON THE PYRE!!! PAY AS HIS FLESH IS SEARED RED, BLOOD BOILED IN HIS VEINS!!!! ORGANS FLAYED AND SPEARED UNTIL ALL HE KNOWS IS PAIN!!’


A wash of red flowed through them, anger and rage gnawing and consuming any thought and hatred as it, sending limbs a tremble with fury unchecked. Their minds locked upon that mantra, ‘make him pay’ over and over, stoking the roaring flames, hot enough to engulf logic and reason, to push past ideals and thoughts. They let themselves be consumed in the flames, let it harden their bones and flesh, a rage so bright it blotted out the son. There was no Diana nor Damanius.

There was only rage.

A thirst so consuming it would drain the seas, a need for bloodshed so strong that the individuals were lost in that seething, writhing, burning, consuming flame. Warping them into a twisted scream of pain and anger, blurring emotions into a mass of directed rage, all aimed upon one single, unhinged idea.

“HE MUST PAY!”


Diana screamed her lungs out, the words ripping through her and into the night sky. Her body shot upright, head thrown back in a scream louder than a demon possessed, strong enough to stir even the dead as her head snapped forward, eye dilated as she focused down the road, looking miles ahead towards the castle. Towards the man who had taken everything from her. The bastard who sat upon their throne, mocking them with every breath he stole.

“HE WILL PAY IN BLOOD!!” Diana screamed in pure rage, the world around her consumed in the relentless blaze, her vision tunneling as it blotted out everything before her. Her legs moved first, the heavy thud against the ground rippling through her being as she took off, wind needling her flesh as he bolted into the night, each impact upon the ground pushing her forward, each shockwave that pulsed through her body a repeat of that same mantra, driving her forward. Pushing her onwards with each step, an unrelenting fuel of desire and bloodlust forcing air through her.

She would make that man pay with her own hands, to watch him bled dry in front her. She would kill that man tonight!

[Alura]

Day 3 - Owl & Thistle, Evening

Olivia regarded the girl, her eyes studying her clothing, her bandages and her face. "That's quite a long time to be out on your own. Who's been looking after you? Any other friends you've met who might need looking after as well? Not a good time to be out there with a curfew on, is it?"

"Oh, nonsense," the big woman began as she patted Nabooru's shoulder and began to guide her towards the small table and drew out a chair for her. "You just sit right here and eat what we give you now. Just a bite and some sleep. We'll find you a bath in the morning as well when we can draw water properly for it. Still a bit of lavender saved back that'll set you to rights quick as a wink."

Moving to a set of shelves outfitted with something similar to a small apothecary's chest, she rummaged about for the dried herb. Taking up a small sachet of it, she removed her apron and folded it neatly atop the edge of the table. Her worn hands rested on the scarred wood as she studied her visitor, fingers curled around the little bundle of lavender. Before she could continue, the maid was already back and serving the girl.

"No one here intends to ask you your business, Child. Stealing is not to be encouraged, but it's hard times for foundlings and orphans alike. We measure those we meet by who they show us they are rather than what others say about them." Olivia reached out and patted the girl's hand, placing the bound lavender in her small palm and wrapping Nabooru's smaller fingers around the coins. "You just place this under your head and it'll give you pleasant sleep as well, eh? Hold on to it for me 'til morning." Her smile softened in her weather-lined face.

"We don't take coin from those who ask us for help. Eat up and get to bed soon as you can. We'll speak again in the morning and see about finding you somewhere better to stay in the town. If we are lucky we might be granted travel papers to take you to Lilybrooke. If you want to go, that is. Cleaner air, better for children to grow up in the open than the town. I know that may seem like a lot to discuss tonight, so never you mind your pretty head over it, Child."

She smiled and patted her hand again affectionately, rising and scooping up the records and the coins. The records were settled onto the same shelf from which she had taken the herbs and the coins she carried along with the apron as she headed toward the door. "Help her get settled in, will you? Once she is comfortable let's clear away the commons. I suppose we'll have to think of some way to manage our regular sots while the ban is in place."

The maid signaled her understanding and with a slight grin and a nod to the pair, Olivia went on her way. There was plenty to be done, but for now the night would keep them confined.



Day 3 - Friary Grounds, Night

Brand was not one to hold a grudge, and easily forgave the princess, though he did flush slightly at Riga's goading. Horatia stood between them, uneasy eyes shifting around their little circle. For all the world it might seem like typical teasing, Riga had been far too gentle. He also had not even bothered to flirt with the woman - a princess at that - right before his face. She wished she could stop the flow of conversation, but it was good news to see them, to know they were well. She tried on a smile, but it only seemed to half take.

"You let him stay-?" Horatia had barely begun to chide the others even as Riga began speaking to counter her protest. Diana's measured, but firm voice cut through the prelude to their bickering.

“Tell me, what has happened since I was taken from the Castle grounds. What has happened to my people?”

The horsewoman wriggled her nose in annoyance and tucked her hands under her arms to listen. When Joaquim spoke of the reward, she scoffed, looking between Riga and Brand to see if what he said was true. They did not make any move to correct him, and when they were told of the floggings, Brand simply raised his head and remained silent. Horatia fell back a step, pacing a little and combing her hands through her hair to vent her agitation.

The princess made sense. Diana was the lynchpin in Balaser's plans to further humiliate the kingdom and bring it under his control. It was no surprise that they had guessed at Diana's disguise, but how had they seen through hers? She was one of a hundred women in silks and brocades and other rich fabrics. Who beyond her own people, the Resistance, would even have remembered her? She felt her heart drop into her stomach. If they had known who she was before the reward was offered and the interrogations began, how had Riga, Brand, and Alfson managed to escape? What of those who knew their families from court? Were any of them safe? And where was the Duchess Epona who she had stood beside through the night? Where was...

She gripped her hands into fists at Diana's words, a chill running the length of her spine as she looked across the profiles of her friends and the worried face of Joaquim. The princess seemed collected as she spoke, but the reactions around them seemed to bear up what she said. Byron's compliance was blood-curdling.

For a moment - gods forgive her - Horatia had felt a brief relief at the news of Grueta. She had thought it might be something worse. All lives lost in these efforts would be mourned, but a maid the princess likely barely remembered would, she hoped, be bearable to the other woman. She lifted her eyes sympathetically toward Diana, but before she could make any move to console her, Brand continued and her heart plummeted again.

She turned to Brand with her nose stinging before he had even managed to fully share the news, willing her ears to make out the suddenly strange warble of words that morphed on his lips. She watched his face, but what he said barely penetrated, though their meaning slowly broke through the haze her mind tried to pull around her like a shield. She shook her head, the act somehow not changing the things he had spoken.

"He... he didn't know anything." Horatia spluttered hoarsely, looking around at the others in disbelief. "He-"

Diana's outburst had the immediate effect of silencing those gathered around her. Even Byron watched as she seemed to wrestle with herself, murmuring curses low until they exploded from her in a hideous scream. Joaquim fell back a step and the brother who had summoned Byron made a gesture of blessing. Before any of the others who stood both horrified and fascinated by the princess's turmoil could react, she had streaked off through the night still fuming.

The silence stretched on until the crickets began to sing and with a faint shuffle on the dry path, Horatia caused them to go still once more.

"You were there." She said tentatively, voice raw and faint.

"What?" Riga asked. "You," She said, looking to Brand. "You said you heard him. You know what he said when... when..." Her throat convulsed and her nostrils flared as she looked between then, a stab of betrayal lancing through the hurt and confusion.

"Yes, but we did what we could. I promise you. I promise, Horatia. Look," Riga interjected, waving to the cart. Horatia looked at him wide-eyed, her own pulse like thunder as she turned and made her way stiffly to the back of the carriage where wine and other goods were stacked and tied. Amongst the supplies was, surreally, the long linen-wrapped outline of a figure. A torch was held over so that she could see, but she could not have said who held it. She took a shaky breath and reached forward, pulling the covering away and unwinding the sheet enough to see the drawn, still face of her father. The weight was light in her hands as she cradled his head and her stomach lurched as she realised the full impact of what she had been told. Beheaded, an axe. He had not even been given a proper death.

Her head barely cleared the side of the cart before she lost the uneasy contents of her stomach. A hand tried to touch her back and more whispered words swirled around her, but she threw her arm sharply to force them away and heard nothing but the high drone of her own blood rushing, head pounding and spinning. Spitting and wiping her mouth she ran her free hand through her hair and rocked onto her heels with a whimper.

Forgive me. I'm so sorry. Forgive me. The words beat a tattoo in her mind and the lethargy in her movements worried the friends who hung about her as real as shadows to her at that moment. In her narrowed world, she was alone.

She fell forward onto her knees, forehead resting on the feet of the fallen knight. For a span that seemed an eternity she felt limp, lifeless. Her shoulders shook, but she made barely a sound. She had ended her own line. She had been careless, impatient. She should have known it was not the way to address this, running off in the heart of the lion's den. If she had followed the plan, if she had simply let the princess go or remained with the Lady Epona then none of this would have happened. One of the others would have found Diana. Or perhaps she simply had not been meant to be found. Horatia had ruined it all. She had ruined everything. The interaction at the gate had doomed them. She should have waited in the room... Done something, anything differently. And now... Now it could never be undone. Had her father really ever asked so much of her?

She thought that her heart would stop. She wished that it would. She had promised herself that she would never feel this way again. Never cry over things that could not be changed, over those who had left her. He had faded long before, never truly recovering the death of her mother and brother, but much as they loved each other they had repelled one another - perhaps too much alike to share the same space comfortably. She should have been the one to fold. She would do it now, if only that were a choice. Her mind jumped across a hundred memories, the last lingering on his surprise and delight when she had asked to attend the engagement with him, of his expression when she had worn her mother's ornaments.

The heels of her hands slammed into the bed of the cart and she blew out a heartbroken breath. She had done this. Where had the rest of them been? Riga was supposed to remain within sight of her that night. Alfson had seen it all, had watched her go and said nothing - encouraged her even! What good were his schemes when they ended this way? She replayed every moment of that night, then back again to when her father had escorted her inside the castle, smiling as she hadn't seen him smile in years. He had seemed so proud, happy. She had lost one of the hairpins he had given her along with her mother's necklace and earrings, a sin that seemed unforgivable now. She slammed her hands into the bed again, levering her body up and from the cart. It was all her fault.

"Tend to him, then. What are you waiting for?" She snapped to the brother waiting near Byron. He responded quickly, going to fetch a few others. For many years they had provided burial rites and the like for the surrounding villages. She knew of course, as it finally sank in that he had been stripped of his rank as much as the family's sword which he had worn to the celebrations, that she could not take him home. She had failed him, had been everything he feared she might become and then killed him as surely as if she had done it with her own hands. After all of this, she could not even pay him the respect of a proper burial in his familial lands. Balaser had murdered him, but she had delivered him to the executioner herself.

Sniffing and dashing a wrist across her face to hide any tears despite her red eyes, she staggered a little. She placed her hands on her hips and tried to breathe, but it was almost as if all the air in the world was gone and she struggled to do such a small thing. She paced, and as she paced she grew more angry. She could not afford to do it again, not like... She couldn't let herself fall there. So she lashed out, doing anything to avoid the dreadful, cold quiet. She knew that she was out of turn, but she barreled into her hurt and it overflowed towards those around her.

"Should get after her." Byron tried his usual way of dealing with the woman, but it missed its mark.

"Oh, yes. Is this what comes of the 'what manner of man' speech, hm? Be ready to chase screaming princesses down the high road in the dead of night. Don't ask questions, just do! That's me. That's Horatia, the idiot. Wet nurse of the last shred of hope for the resistance. Future knight of nothing! Shield bearer with no name! Excellent, great!"

"Well, Uncle, I've thought about it. Do you know what sort of man I want to be? The man I've paid in blood to be. They've told us to be patient. I've been patient. They've told us to wait, so I've waited. I've waited so long here, for days, with no word that they-" Her voice broke and she swallowed, stabbing her arm towards the cart. "We'll all be dead by the time the old knights hobble off their widening asses and actually do something. For what? What is it all for if none of us live to even get her to a coronation, let alone see what comes after it? You fetch her, Old Man."

Lips quavering as hot tears threatened her vision again, she jabbed a finger into the air towards her long-time mentor. "You watch her, while we finally do something about this bastard Balaser. No more waiting."

Riga held up a hand to touch her shoulder in an effort to intervene as she stepped towards Byron. She lowered her eyes to the hand, knowing that this sort of behaviour was exactly the problem she created. She always made things worse... Her eyes lifted and met Riga's and in that moment her target shifted, mind letting go of its warnings. Before he could dodge she swung and caught him full across the socket of his left eye, lunging after so that they both went down in a flurry of fists in the dust. He managed to get on top of her, but she angled her hips and regained the advantage, raining down sharp blows as he struggled in the dirt. He kept his arms up, but at some point stopped throwing back. Brand, grunting from his healing wounds, tried to pull her off of her friend; but it took Amberlin to aid him in pulling the brawling pair apart. Horatia managed a parting kick to the stomach that doubled Riga and he leaned back against the cart nursing it and gasping as his eye began to swell and blood dripped from his nose. Horatia had a gash across the cheek and two split lips that matched her raw knuckles, but she looked as though she could breathe fire as she accused him from where she struggled against the surprisingly strong friar's restraint.

"Where were you, Riga? You chase every skirt you see, but missed the princess leaving the engagement feast? Too busy collecting feathers and paste? I hope they were worth it."

Riga rolled his tongue around his mouth, but stayed silent.

"No? Who was it then? That sweet, daft little kitchen maid who doesn't have the time of day for a thief like you?"

"Leave it."

"Like you left an innocent man to die?! A man who practically raised you, you ungrateful!" She spat blood into the dirt at his feet to conclude her accusation.

Her breath caught in a sob and her body sagged a moment. She struggled again abruptly, managing to get under Amberlin's hold, leaving her coat in his hands as she and Riga flew back into each other. Prepared for their spat, it was an easier job of separating them again, both looking even more disheveled and bloody for it. When it was clear the fight was ended, they were released and they stood face to face in tense silence. Horatia snatched her coat and jabbed a finger into Riga's chest, eyes blurry with tears and teeth gritting as she spoke in a low gravelly voice only for his ears.

"I will never forgive you, you miserable, worthless rake."

She glared over his shoulder, skewering Brand with the same quiet anger. Shouldering past Riga roughly and ignoring Byron's voice, Horatia did not look back as she headed resolutely toward the stables shouting, "Amberlin, bring me my sword!"

Amberlin was silent, and when she turned he was looking to Byron for approval. "Bring me my godsdamned sword, Amberlin, or when I find it we'll make sure your oaths of silence and celibacy are permanent."

Amblerin did not fear such a thing from the woman, but with a deep sigh, Byron nodded behind her departing back. If she were going to get herself into trouble, better at least that she was armed to defend herself if it came to it.

As the brothers carried away Shango Hast's body for preparation, another saddled Byron's horse. To his credit and despite his long travel, Joaquim valiantly offered to ride along with him and bring a spare horse for the princess. Surely she had not gotten far. Patrols this far along the high road were rare, but not impossible. They only hoped their luck held.

Before Byron and his little search party could get underway, Capilet blew past like the north wind with Horatia high in the stirrups and headed for the road leading to the outer territories of Hymnascal. Riga watched her departure and spit angrily in her wake, torn between riding after her and remaining. Byron laid a hand on his shoulder and the younger man sighed before surrendering both horse and weapons to the friars. Brand did the same and the two went to find their cottage as Byron's search began. It was a bad turn of events when their little party was cracking before the true fighting had even begun.

Byron lifted his head as he led his party, suspecting that Horatia would return to them in time to bury her father. She was wild, but she was loyal when it came to it. He waved to one of the brothers who had accompanied them and pointed ahead along the road where he thought he saw a figure. "The princess?"

The monk, who was a competent horseman in his own right eased ahead of the group in an effort to draw even with her. The rest quickly caught up and Byron offered a tentative, “My Lady… Your Majesty?”

[Koti~]

SOMEWHERE ON THE ROADS

Rage had only fueled him so long, pushing him further and further down the road. Anger and determination kept him going longer, a steady dip in speed as he pushed onward, tears having dried up as he moved, the cold night air stinging the salty trails left on his skin. His thoughts had turned into a jumbled mess, his desire for revenge tempered by the limits he could move. No human could run on anger alone, and despite the distance, Damanius and Diana were reaching their limits. They continued to power through the building pain, not heeding the pain in their feet, nor the groan of their shifting bones as they continued to ran, their determination focused and pushing every emotion towards one goal.

Not even when forced off the road by Horatia and Capilet, did they dare stop, ignoring the furious rider in their own red haze. Time had lost meaning as she stumbled and jogged through the grassy side, chest heaving in desperate attempts to collect air. She didn’t even stir when Byron had pulled up close to her, calling out to her as she continued to drive forward. She moved through and around the riders even when the brother tried to stymie her momentum, sharp eyes of malice driving them back just enough. Nor did Byron attempt yet to stop her, figuring it best to allow the princess to burn herself out, save a patrol that would force his hand.

Diana didn’t last much longer, a small divot in the ground catching her foot. She stumbled, flailing her arms with flagging strength before falling to her knees, catching herself with her arms alone. The men drew up tight to her, each ready to move in as Byron dismounted, hurrying over to check that the woman had not been injured badly. He made it just a few seconds before Diana’s head shot up, puffy red eyes glaring pure malice into his soul.

“LEAVE ME!” She screamed at him, voice hoarse as she struggled to even out her breathing, chest heaving painfully in a broken rhythm as she rested on hands and knees. Her body trembled with pain and exhaustion combined, pain rumbling through her feet in a steadily increasing attentive need. She didn’t bother with it, struggling between her need to heave up her last meal, and trying to catch even the smallest breath.

“It’s my fault… It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have done this.” She began, her voice fractured as she slumped into herself, shrinking into a ball of pain and misery. There was nothing left for her, just an empty throne ruled by a bastard king. Only her sense of duty and broken desire for revenge and bloodshed now resided in her, a raw feeling that left her jagged and broken within. She valiantly failed to push herself upright, her legs having given out from exhaustion and barely unable to support her weight.

“Your Majesty, you must stop thinking like that. None of this is truly your fault, but the fault of --” Byron moved to comfort her, approaching her like a wild bear cornered. He knew the fury of women when angered, yet never truly expected it from a noble woman. They held themselves with poise and grace, never letting their nobility falter in public. Horatia’s rage was something he could come to grip with, yet Diana was an unknown, and that made him wary.

“YES IT IS! Every time I do ANYTHING! Some else suffers! People have died for my name! People have died for what I have done, families torn apart, and innocent people slaughtered for nothing!” Diana screamed, her voice much tamer than before, ringing raw and hollow into the night as she stared deep into the ground.

“You cannot think like that, Your Majesty. This is the cost of war, people will--” He tried to start again, but was cut short with another glare, this one filled with cold hatred at his very words.

“THIS IS NO WAR! This … this is a mindless slaughter at the hands of a bastard! I’ve read the stories, heard the tales of great conquest and hard fought battles uphill. I HAVE SEEN THE FALLEN SOLDIERS! I HAVE SEEN WAR!” Diana screamed, throwing all her rage and hatred into the man, fresh tears streaming down her face.

“This … this is nothing more than old men looking to find the honor and glory they left on the ground 8 years ago, and young men with their pride in their hands willing to die upon a blade for their praise! Every move I have made, every attempt to escape, has caused another to suffer. Now … I have caused the death of a noble, of a friends father who had nothing to do with any of this … and my last family member, a woman with no legacy to leave …. They are dead because I let the resistance bring me here.” Diana spoke, her voice fractured as she stared at her hands, unwilling or unable to move just yet.

“If this is war, then why did they have to die for us. Why do the commoners have to suffer and bleed for my sakes, and all I do is sit back, like some delicate china that needs to be protected.” Diana whispered, letting anger whittle down into pity and despair for her own states.

“I should have done something more … fought against him or something. I sat by for eight years, and even longer, and let others suffer for me, for my ignorance.” She continued to berate herself, agreeing with Damanius that those 8 years of waiting were worthless, guilt riding high as her vision swam watery and black.

“Don’t think like that my lady. People know that you will return to take the throne. The battlefield is no place for a queen.” Byron spoke, feeling brave enough to move closer, gently laying a hand in comfort on Diana’s shoulder. A mental sigh escaped him as he wasn't immediately thrown off, glad his words had sunk in some. He moved closer, another hand moving to help her upright. She barely contested the help, allowing herself to be guided onto Morgan, the smoke gray horse that Joaquim had brought with for the woman to ride.

“We’ll get back to the monastery and have someone treat your wounds.” Byron offered up quietly, noting the small trails of blood from various rocks having broken the skin, gravel and dirt stuck to the bottoms. Diana barely acknowledged him as the small party turned, a much slower trot as Joaquim handed the lead to Byron, allowing him to guide Morgan as Diana slumped motionless in the saddle.

Inside though, Damanius was fuming with anger. He wanted more to scream, to fight and lash out, but more than anything, to redeem himself. Diana had worked too well, and now he would be forced to watch others die as the knights took their time. He had been moved from one gilded cage of finery and decadence, to a cage of duty and responsibility. He felt bile rise through his body, both a visceral need to hurl as he clutched onto the reins. His mind didn’t remain silent though, burning through the mistakes he had made, and the pain he had caused by letting others decide what was best for them all.

He had to take charge, to force these people to listen to him, to march himself onto the field and challenge this man who burned and destroyed his legacy. No knights of old would pity him, they would trumpet their praise and glory as he was placed back on the throne. Damanius couldn’t stomach that idea, knowing it would be bathed in the blood of innocent lives, as the knights sat on their laurels and waited, poking away at the king while others bled in his response. He knew Sinal would continue to kill soldiers and civilians alike, snapping out at any who dare oppose him, and destroy those who would speak against him, regardless.

“This .. won’t go on. The resistance is not who I need.” Diana whispered mentally as she was assisted back to the cottage she had been given earlier. The brothers had already attended to her feet, washing and dressing them up. Despite the exhaustion settling deep in her bones, sleep never came to her, and she knew why. Already her mind was at work, picking through her actions and needs while she mentally moved forward, leadened arms and legs barely keeping her upright as she let her mind burn a path forward. She would need allies first, and an army second. Only two people came to mind for that, yet neither in reach. She would have to wait for the first to return, and would venture to the second after.

When Horatia returned, hopefully alive, Diana would do her damndest to convince the woman to take her to the north, to the Subrosian mountain men. They had been allies before, but with Sinals takeover, they had been cut off from the rest. Diana sat curled up on the bed, legs curled under her as she forbade any to come in, letting resentment at her weakness, and determination keep her awake and lying in wait. She had no idea how long it would be, but she had waited long enough, let others do everything for her.

It was time to take command.

[Alura]

As Old Byron had anticipated, Horatia did return within the allotted sennight for the funeral of her father. She knew that burial could not wait and the habits of the brothers enough not to tempt fate. What Byron had not predicted, perhaps, was the manner of her return. She had been of much the same mind as Princess Diana in her refusal to wait any longer to spring to the attack against the Usurper King. The woman had ridden hard and far, and the strain of her efforts reflected in the feverish eyes that floated above the dark half-moons that spoke of sleep that would not come. Her time away had been spent in pursuit of a singular purpose: to prepare and make her peace for war. Through the haze of grief and regret that wrapped like fog around her brain, that alone remained fixed and clear.

She had gone through the provinces, beyond most of the villages, until she had reached the outer edges of the kingdom's maps. There she found the Armen territories. The Armen House was old and far-branching, but even many of the noble families might easily forget of their existence. While their coffers were considerable, most prefered the life of ploughshare over sword. However, their love of peaceful life did not change that their holdings were positioned in the precarious borderlands of Hymnascal. For this reason many were well familiar with combat and were known for their skill with pole, pike, and sword. They were the first line of defense for the realm and their lineage was well-favoured by the common people as men who had raised themselves to prominence on their own merit from the peasantry.

What many also forgot, if they ever knew, was that once upon a time a skilled rider had saved the life of a young farmer-turned-foot soldier in a war nearly as well forgotten. That poor youth had gone on to become the patriarch of the Armen family, using the rewards of his service to king and country to invest in his family's holdings and expand them into an agricultural empire. Horatia's great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather had been the horseman, and before Hymnascal was little more than a thought had helped to establish the Armen legacy. They had become such fast friends that the Hast of eld had even helped Armen clear lands and fend off counter-claimants to the holdings that by the time of the King Aminan had flourished with vegetation and livestock and brought healthy and prosperous trade to the simple foot soldier's line. In many ways they had exceeded the successes of Horatia's family.

She had gone to them upon leaving her father's body at the holy enclave between the rivers and invoked the promise that their founder had made: to repay protection and aid as it had been paid to them and remain a fast ally of the Hasts, if and when ever the Hast descendants might call upon it. Similarly, the Hasts were prepared to lend their skill with horses and arms to any conflict the Armens might wish not to meet alone. While the Hasts lineage was composed of knight after parading knight, it was a rare thing for one of the pacific Armen men to bother with such an honour. They were so far removed - happily so - from the influence of castle life, that it was little to them the turnings and vacillations of the royals and their simpering aristocracy.

When Horatia had arrived to them and given her news, she had feared that the Armens might not answer her call to arms. Had it not been for Oren Armen she was unsure if the eldest members of the household would have heard her at all, in fact. Still, he was one of the rare knights and, despite his current service, was elated to hear the rumours of the princess confirmed. He had been one of the young knights who had sworn his allegiance to the Usurper, more concerned with swearing fealty to the throne and less about who sat upon it. Those youths, barely of an age to serve as real soldiers, had retained their lives for their oaths given to Balaser. Still, even here so far away from the Castle Town the reputation and impact of the false king could be felt.

Horatia had spent time in the villages between the friary and the centre of the Armen estates, garnering support slowly with the promise of vengeance for those who had been lost in the overthrow of the rightful king and reward for those who cast off his over-reaching policies. Many felt as her father had, that the affairs of the crown were for those of rarer blood than they. Some, however, those of her own generation, saw in it a mixture of adventure and righteousness: a chance to win glory and perhaps even to reform the manner of governance.

When she was not avoiding sleep and in conversations with the tradespeople and men of fighting age, Horatia spent her time in the growing camp with Oren brushing up on her sword skills. He had mocked her for being rusty, and she had taken it silently. She did not flail back or laugh, either of which he might have expected from her. Whether at the death of her father or her break with the old knights into the new resistance, a change had begun in the woman. He said nothing, but entertained her sudden interest in swordplay. As a knight sworn to Balaser, his involvement was tantamount to treason. Still, he acted in good faith and honoured the old pacts before the promise he had made to the king under duress - though it was something he conveniently did not send word of to the king. When the castle was locked up tight and the castle town put under restrictions, Oren had been away in his familial lands to usher in the birth of his first child with his wife Nadine. It was a pity to draw him away from the joy surrounding the boy's birth, but necessary.

It was with all of this jumble about her that Horatia returned to the friary with a small army of tents and soldiers who made their camp near the high road before the path turned toward the little hall and chapel where the brothers and Old Byron made their home. Horatia rode the rest of the way with Oren and two tradesmen - one of whom she had commissioned to create a replica of her father's sword and shield to be placed with his body until she could restore his own and see him home. It would not be ready in time for... Well, she would do what she could.

Brushing the thought away she reined in Capilet and deposited herself on the ground. Her footfalls were echoed by her companions dismounting as well. Riga was the first to see them from where he leaned against the stone wall of the friary hall, surprise lifting his brows as he came forward to greet the others. Byron and Brand quickly followed and met with the hollow-eyed, intense young woman who only days before had been too busy stuffing apple cakes down her gullet to hold a serious conversation. It felt like an eternity to her. It was all still disjointed, none of the pieces quite fitting together.

Horatia handed Capilet's reins to the brother who came to her, nodding to him as he moved towards the stables, but looked to the second brother who held his hands out for her weapons for a long moment before giving her head a shake. The brother hesitated, but Byron moved forward and laid a hand on his shoulder with a nod. The older man said yet to his old protegee, a little quicker to interpret the situation than the younger men present. Horatia raised her voice and called after Riga, "Marchain is in the camp. He sends his regards and says something about your being a debtor. If any wandering silver has made it into your possession you might want to settle accounts before he comes to settle them for you."

Riga turned only to give a grin that was half-grimace before slinking off sheepishly. Marchain was an old friend, but Riga had actually left a bit of an unpaid wager between them. It would be good to see the man, despite the oddity of seeing him here.

Turning her head back to her mentor, Horatia and Byron sized each other up quietly before he finally asked, "How far have you gone, then, Horatia?"

In answer, she held out a hand and accepted a heavy coin purse and a scrap of fabric from one of the tradesmen with Oren. Allowing it to drop heavily into Byron's outstretched hand, she gave a little nod. "The Usurper sends his regards and wishes to make a donation to the work of the brothers. He made a similar donation to our efforts as well."

Old Byron seemed suddenly a little older, the scrap under his thumb bearing the mark of a captain of the patrols Balaser had sent on their interrogations along the high roads and settlements beyond the castle walls. Horatia's gaze was impassive as she saw the realisation dawn. It might have made her laugh once, and she had often been amused at her own mischief. This was not mischief, though, a rowdy trick she and Riga and Alfson had concocted, no. This was an open declaration of war.

"What now?"

"Now we ready for a fight. We shall not trouble you or the brothers long. A small detachment will remain in case of trouble and only for defense, but they will stay out of the friary grounds and garb themselves as brothers. They will respect all rules, save the demand to disarm. Until I am killed or Balaser is dead my sword stays at my side. I can't expect any less from those who fight with me. They have been instructed not to brandish or draw a weapon unless they are attacked first."

Byron clearly was not best pleased with the idea, but it was clear that arguing with Horatia now would yield little result. Scratching his chin, Byron waved a hand around her little entourage. "You'll need feed for the horses I expect. Let's see what you've got and what you need."

They already had a quartermaster, but Horatia knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth and nodded to Oren and the tradesman to accompany the man. She ducked into the hall and searched for Amberlin. She found him in the little chapel in prayer - a place she had rarely gone of all the times she had visited, and they spoke quietly for some time. It was late in the night before she had scrubbed the dirt of travel from her and attired herself to bear final witness to her father's funerary rites. His bones had been prepared for burial and so for later transport, and were arranged with flowers and the stand-in sword and shield she had commissioned.

Hollow-eyed still, Horatia found herself shoulder to shoulder between the companions of her youth, absent only Alfson, staring at the altar. The yellow gown she had worn to steal away a princess hugged her frame, a little looser for her lack of appetite and single-mindedness. Her mothers necklace around her neck with hair swept up and adorned with pins. One of the village women had even managed ribbon and flowers that matched those surrounding her father. She felt small, like a child. As she gazed on the outline where eyes had been that watched her grow, lips that smiled and scowled as he argued with her by turns. She would take him laughing or shouting now for anything in the world. Her lips twitch, face fallen as they just stood, just witnessed. Letting out a shaky breath, she felt the familiar ache between her eyes that had followed her. She would do what she could.

Candles burned in rows in the front of the little chapel and along the windows like holiday mass and finally, after a long while, Horatia really saw them. The room felt close and hot, the lights suddenly too bright. With tentative steps she moved to the altar and knelt in prayer before rising to brush the back of her hand through the air as if she might stroke the familiar cheek that had dimpled in amusement at her only weeks before. Teardrops slipped through her lashes, falling in two lines before falling to the silk of her gown. With one last look, she straightened, hand falling to the hilt of the sword belted at her waist true to her word, and left her last traces of youth amidst the bones and flowers.

[Koti~]

For two days straight, Diana did not sleep, driven by smoldering fury and guilt. The weight of her life had begun to collapse on her, and the dull ache that followed her muscles didn’t abate. She didn’t know if it was due to her exhaustion, or the pain that wracked her chest whenever she tried to breath, but her mind kept burning away; flowing with ideas and plans and acts of violence and revenge. She needed to keep going, to push herself in repentance for everything, and to find somehow to fix all of this. She couldn’t

… no…

Wouldn’t allow more people to die for her, to let others blood be shed for her actions. So, instead, she listened, she questioned, and she learned. She talked with Riga and Brand, listened to the stories that Byron told all travelers, and read the histories that Amberlin had written for her requests. She studied them for everything that she could get out of them, writing them down for reference later. Diana didn’t care about the stories, nor the heroics they claimed for them. What she was after, was battle, was how they fought. Diana and Damanius had never seen a battlefield, and their father had never instructed them on it, training them in information about politics and numbers, having been chosen for the life of a scholar. He needed to make plans, to study and exploit his enemy weaknesses. Writing and detailing is what he knew best, and it would be what he would carry out.

When no new stories were forthcoming, he sequestered himself away, barring the door to all. He didn’t leave the cottage during the day, sleep evading him like the plague as he worked, his only demands being for ink and parchment. He spent hours on end, resorting to candlelight as he worked from memory, drawing maps of the castle, scribbling and tracing back over again as he worked. He had spent years studying the castle grounds, learning the guards patterns and all his routes needed. Even before, he had wandered the halls, testing the stone for the servant passages, hidden alcoves and byways to let the servants remain hidden and out of sight. Those were the hardest to recall, but he poured over them, the scratch of his quill echoing his own breathing as he worked tirelessly.

When not drawing, he was writing, putting to parchment everything he knew of the grounds. Of the weapons the guards were equipped. The larders and stock of the kitchen. Water reserves and the winery in the basement. Anything that could be used to turn a battle, any piece of information he could drag from his head. It didn’t matter what importance it had, from the simple fact of a window being just a few inches higher than its brothers, to the fact that the throne room had no more than 3 separate entrances that could be used, outside of the main hall one and the grand chambers behind it. Anything that he could drag from his skull went down to paper. The piles of parchment decorated the cottage walls, permeating the air with drying ink as they were tacked to the wall by bits of wood, or anything he could use to hold it in place. The scraps that were ruined by exhaustion and tears were kindling for the fireplace as he worked.

During the night though, he would emerge, dead-eyed the world as his mind just couldn’t find peace. He was driven by determination, by fuel to prove that he existed, by a single promise that was his tether to the world. He would steal away to the stables, silently avoiding waking the brothers as he rode with Morgan, bullheaded to learn to ride with ease. The lack of Horatia had begun to dawn on him, someone who he had begun to rely on with some degree since having been pulled from the castle. He didn’t care how much Morgan would buck him off, or the number of carrots he needed to bribe the old mare with, but he would learn. While no where near the mastery of Horatia, the two had grown closer as allies, as by the 7th night, Diana was able to ride the horse at a decent trot without risking falling down, despite the heavy darkness under her eyes, or the numerous times she had nodded off while riding.

Diana had remained sequestered away for the entire time Horatia was gone, letting guilt finally eat away and leave her raw inside, burning with the need for the destruction of the man who had stolen everything from him. To see him bled dry for everything he had taken from his people, those innocent who had been punished for his own actions, or inactions at this point. No plan was violent and gruesome enough yet, and every plan was poured over, counters and responses poured over until Damanius felt as though he stood before a chasm, ready to throw his life in with the devil if it meant saving his people and the death of Sinal.

All had begun to worry about her, from the feverish exhaustion that followed her, to the stiff pain of muscles that had yet to find sleep. They tried to intervene, to pull her away from the cottage for even moments to rest and recover, but she drove them away with the fury of a devil. They couldn’t say what had taken hold of the once sweet princess, but they dare not pull her away, for fear mostly of being struck again.

~~~

“Done… it’s done.” Diana finally spoke out, her voice broken as she sat back on the small chair, the last piece of furniture not covered in scrolls and parchment. The stench of ink and ask filled the room, the flickering candles the only source of light as curtains had been drawn shut. She wiped her forehead, smearing ink and sweat across her skin while peering down at the plans. Her eyes traced the lines of men staked out, wrapping around the castle walls with stills of flames burning away at the stone. She could picture it in hazy images, watching the men camped out in the hovels and homes abandoned by her people, letting the king burn himself out. Ruse upon diversions lined the sides, written in the neatest script she could still manage as she felt her fingers shake, the stale crusts of bread laying besides wine that she had stolen from the larders.

Her grand scheme was finished, written with every piece of knowledge she could garble together, to turn the haystack into a readable bale that would make sense to any man or woman. She had the groundwork started, and was now faced with the next task. While she could plan and write, an army she did not make. She would need one loyal to her, not to the throne or her father. The men under the old crown were wasting their time, telling her time and again that she need just wait while they cleared the way for her. What good would that do, to just tear down one man to replace with another they know nothing about. Where would be the faith in her, if not for the honor and glory of the old knights who had already fled once from the man's forces.

Fate would gift her that day though, as she finally emerged from the room, blinking in the pain of the sunlight. She looked down the robe she still had on, smeared with ink splatters and stale wine when she had drifted off in the chair. Time held no real meaning to her though as she hobbled off, bruised flesh from her recent ride and weary bones dogging her step as the sounds of thunderous hoofbeats had brought her about. She was slow to approach, wary from her own self isolationism while she approached the people now milling not far from the main road. It was a gift she had never expected, and could tell right away who had brought her chance. She watched in burning joy as Capilet was taken to rest, the other men of the army milling about as she caught the tail ends of Horatia entering the chambers where her father had been entombed for his rest. She could hide the joy that broke her face, letting it wash away the gnawing hunger and thirst as she picked up the pace.

She fell into a broken run, pain buried under her joy as she rushed to the chambers, her pace slowed enjoy that Horatia would be granted more than enough time to pay her farewells. Diana found the woman shortly after, and with no hesitation, ran full force into her, wrapping arms around the woman as her body sagged with physical relief, to see a face she had been hoping would survive.

“We .. need to talk..” Diana spoke, her voice echoing hollow and broken, her throat raw with the alcohol and lack of sleep. Fate had given her a chance to seize command and take control of her fate, and she was not going to throw away her shot.

“I have plans … to kill the king, and save… my .. people. I need … your army. I told you .. once that.i would listen to your leaders. Before I would join .. The resistance is not for me, they waste time . while others die for me. I will take action. Come hell or high waters, I will see the man dead by my hands, but I need. An army.” Diana spoke to her, having to force her throat to work as she had yet to move, a mixture of relief and her body having finally given out on her, the edges of exhaustion playing on her hard.

[Alura]

As she left the little chapel, the night breezes fanned the heat from her cheeks and caused a draft to eddy about the little chapel. The candles through the windows dipped and danced in response, a few guttering to nothing. The brothers would be her father's caretaker for now, until it was time to take him home. Horatia would have to put such things out of her mind and continue to focus on the tasks at hand. As she walked, the footfalls of Brand and Riga soon following along the dirt paths, a light sound of movement preceded a running set of footfalls outside of their own. Tensing, Horatia readied herself to draw her blade, jaw tightening.

As she came around the bend, bedraggled from her seclusion and looking more haunted than Horatia herself, Diana flung herself out of the dark and wrapped her arms around the soldier. Startled, Horatia quickly removed her hand from her weapon and held it awkwardly aloft for a moment before allowing her arm to circle around the princess's shoulders. Her breath hitched and the burn of tears stung her nose for a moment before she blinked, clearing her throat and stiffening her spine. Byron was right about one thing at least: they were not children anymore.

The horsewoman would have asked Diana to walk with her, but the state of the woman made it seem ill advised and so she called to one of the brothers for food and clothing to be readied for the princess and for one of the boys with the encampment to bring one of the village women to help look after her. One hand bracing Diana's upper arm steadyingly, Horatia released her and gave her a nod.

"We have much to discuss, Majesty, but it will keep while you eat and bathe." A middle-aged, motherly woman with her grey hair in the thick plait was bustling towards them with an intent look fixed on the princess along with a warm smile. "Amarie will see you sorted properly and serve as your handmaiden of sorts until we have you back to the castle. When you've a good night's sleep, come see me at daybreak. I'll be in the tent with Brand in front of it: can't miss him. You can tell me your plans and perhaps you will be interested to hear ours also. On one thing at least, we are agreed: Sinal Balaser cannot be left on the throne of Hymnascal any longer."

Wrapping her arms about the weakened young princess, Amarie began to chatter to her in the way that mother's do, guiding her towards the dining common gently.

[Koti~]

“No!”

That one single word stopped Amarie, a voice burning with conviction and lust. Diana drew herself tall, unconsciously leaning against the woman to steady herself as she struggled to keep calm. Frayed nerves and raw emotions kept the wobbly girl from falling over, just shy of being blown over by a stiff breeze. While the thought of a hot bath and meal were more than the most pleasing thoughts of running Sinal through with a rust pike, she couldn’t stop, couldn’t let another guide her away any longer. It was her time to take charge, even as her mind cautioned against such reckless actions.

“Your majesty, please. You are nearly dead on your feet and smell of the dead. At least let me make you presentable-”

“That is not what I have objected to Amarie. Horatia, I will not be pawned off to another hand while others busy themselves with war. We will talk tonight, before I ever rest again. I will speak to your generals before I lose another day, before this kingdom loses another person in my absence of the throne.” Diana spoke with iron in her voice, despite the hoarse cracks and dips. With sleep deprived eyes and hunger driven body, she looked like a woman possessed, a force ready to unleash feral hell upon those who may levee a blade at her. She stared directly into Horatias vision, not allowing herself to waver as she allowed her words to sink in, despite the objections of those around her.

“Your Majesty!” Amarie spoke, ready to scold the uppity princess into something more befitting one of her position. Diana held up a hand to silence the woman yet again, almost falling over in the process as she lost some of her support. Still she did not let her dignity waver in this regard, allowing her body a few moments to regain her stance.

“Call your generals to the tent tonight, and I will meet with them before the midnight bell. While I tend to my needs, I will have one of the brothers gather all the scrolls that I have in the cottage. Promise me that you will not sneak off while I do so.” Diana spoke, letting herself relax into the older womans grip again, the tension in the area easing some as the princess allowed her new handmaiden guide her towards the bathhouse, intent on making the future ruler a small bit presentable once again.

“Ya know, she can be quite imposing for one of her stature.” Brand was the first to really break the silence, watching Amarie quietly berate the princess for her current state of appearance. Riga chuckled himself and let loose a soft whistle.

“With how sheltered she’s been most of her life, she has some real fire to her when it’s needed. May god bless any man brave enough to try his hand with her. I dare say she’s turning into small version of you, Horatia.” Riga spoke with body awe and interest as the princess finally rounded the corner, cutting them off from view. Having remained behind for the time, it was surprising to see the more subdued girl they had rescued from the castle bear her fangs as such. One couldn’t deny that the woman had spirit.

[Alura]

Horatia stood still, watching Amarie and the princess vye with each other before Diana addressed her directly. A flicker of different feelings moved through her. Anger, at the imposition of the young woman who felt that she could let herself go in this manner - disgraceful for a royal - yet call her a sneak for mourning her own father on the road while she gathered an actual army. Who did she think that she was, to dictate to her? Sorrow, because she understood single-mindedness in her course, and respected it in Diana. That much they did have in common. Worry: if the princess was cracking now, would she hold up to a protracted war for the throne? Even if they saw her there, if she was in this state then what good we should be to anyone? Disgust at herself for allowing the girl to be alone long enough to fall to this place. Apathy, a piece of her clinging to the bones in the chapel though she continually forced that part of her heart and mind back to the chaos she had begun to drum up with the border Houses.

Atypically, Horatia stood through all of Diana's demands and said nothing, hands balled into loose fists and eyes glinting hard in the dark as the younger woman finally allowed herself to be guided away from them. When Brand and Riga spoke, Horatia did not bother to look at them through the night before snapping out, "Organise the watch, Brand, and get to your post. Riga, settle your debts and tell the others to meet us before the princess joins us. Your distractions with women have cost us enough without your meddling with the future queen. If I want opinions from either of you otherwise, I'll beat them out of you."

With that, she moved off towards Byron's cottage on her own, the pulse of a headache growing at her temple. The road ahead would be daunting for all of them, perhaps Princess Diana most of all.