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The Iron King

Summary:

[X-Men Fantasy AU]

The land of the Iron King is a place of violence. It was before him, and surely shall be after.

The latest war has been over for six years. The bloodshed earned the kingdom of Genosha peace – or so it seemed from the outside. Inside, matters are far more complicated. The Iron King is aptly named for his harsh rule. Any dissent is crushed with haste; it is the only way to keep the throne. The more blood he sheds, the more the people grow to hate him, a vicious cycle of uprisings and violence to quell them.

The violence is nothing new to Erika. Now a young woman, Erika hopes desperately that perhaps now that the war has been over long enough, peace will finally prevail. She believes that the king can be good, if given the chance. And the quiet prevailing in the kingdom seems to hint that it might be so.

But her quiet and ordered life swiftly tumbles into chaos. Strangers from foreign lands, a troubadour contest, the first whispers of trouble; forces tangle around her, drawing her ever deeper into the eye of a swiftly coming storm. Will blood be spilled again, or can the violence be stopped before it truly begins?

And is there any hope of redemption for the Iron King?

Notes:

While I of course don't own Marvel or any of their characters, I did come up with the places in this story - with the exception of some locational names (Genosha, namely, I took from the canon). Also, the character of Erika is entirely of my creation, as are some other characters that appear in this story; the character of Vendetta however belongs to a friend of mine (SapphicNosferatu) and I am using her with permission.

Chapter 1: The Forest's Glen

Summary:

Erika is a simple girl with simple routines - but a foreign stranger disrupts the usual flow and leaves her curious.

Chapter Text

            The note rang crystal clear in the air, vibrating among the glowing chandelier in all its candles and crystals.  The teeming sea of dancers came to a halt, fine clothes swirling against the floor, skirts pooling as the ladies bowed.  The last swell of music echoed along with her voice, and both eased to silence as one.  The songstress smiled to herself as her fingers stilled over the strings of her lute; another performance well done, the royal guests adoring every liquid note that poured from her.  Unparalleled talent, almost entirely natural; the king was lucky–

            The raucous cheers for an encore shattered the illusionary dream, drunk voices calling out in revelry.  Erika’s eyes jumped open, lips parted as she caught back the breath startled from her lungs.  She put on a quick smile, shaking her head in protestation of the eager pleas.  Clutching the elderly instrument to her chest, she hurried off the low stage that dominated the far end of the tavern.

            “Best voice in all of Einsemar!”  “No, the best in the kingdom!”  “She could make a fortune somewhere other than this old tavern.”

            The words elated the young woman as she ducked through the crowds, even as they bogged her down.  Perhaps they were right that she could make a fortune outside of the tavern, a wandering minstrel who would travel with her own troupe of fellow performers.  They could sing, dance, perform plays and sleights of hand for the amusement of audiences across the many kingdoms.

            But what would her parents do?  She cast a glance to the man and woman who were working together, one at the casks of wine and ale, the other at the pot over the fire.  The tavern had been in the family for generations.  The family name, Deforest, was even alluded to in the tavern’s name:  The Forest’s Glen.  A silly name, considering that they were separated from the forest by a respectable wall, but it had lasting power.  Everyone in the town of Einsemar – which was quite a large town itself – knew of the tavern and hailed it for its fine drinks.  Erika’s father, Charles, had told her that the recipes came from Frankia, the original home of her ancestors.  That kingdom was far away, separated from them by the sea.  The Deforest family had fled long ago, for reasons forgotten by the family long since.

            Erika was the only child.  The tavern would likely not go to her, and rather be exchanged to her uncle Christophe, and then to his son, and to the son he would surely have.  But Erika had little doubt her uncle would wish her to stay, to sing.  The patrons would miss her voice. But perhaps if she married a man with no trade, he could learn to run the tavern as her father did, and then it could pass to her and her family that would follow. The thought terrified her. Though Erika was a woman grown at eighteen, marriage was not something she was ready for yet.

            Having finally freed herself from the congratulatory crowd, Erika hurried up the stairs to the upper level of the tavern.  The second floor was where her family slept and kept their private possessions.  The space was the same size as the tavern below, sectioned off into semi-private rooms.  The largest of these was where the family spent their time when not working the tavern below, and it was there that the chest where the two heirloom instruments were kept.  The lute was not Erika’s favorite, but it performed better with the songs their patrons expected.  She much preferred the harp, with its delicacy and elegance, the sweetness of its notes.

            She opened the chest, smiling at the instrument that rarely left its storage.  She set the lute inside carefully and wrapped both instruments snug into the cloth kept with them.  She closed the trunk, stood, and crossed the room to stand before the small, stained looking glass that hung on the wall.

            Her dark hair had started to break free of its braid, but it was an easy fix.  In moments, her nimble fingers had undone and braided the black curls back into order, though stubborn flyaway strands still floated around her head.  Her pale face was already flushed from performing, and a low sparkle danced in her blue eyes.  Her fantasy from her performance still hung in her mind, blazing with the wildness of the impossible.

            Erika did not want to be spend the rest of her unmarried life singing for drunkards in a tavern.  Nor did she particularly wish to be a minstrel, dressed in gaudy clothes cut to surely entice her audience to linger a bit longer.  The tavern was claustrophobic in its perpetual sameness; wandering minstrels’ reputations left much to be desired.  What Erika wished for, desperately, was the esteemed title of troubadour, to be chosen by the king to recite long, beautiful poems of love and chivalry, tell epic tales of long gone heroes, sing songs for the royal court and guests.  What finer life could a performer aspire to?

            But, impossible.  She was but a lowly citizen of Genosha, barely ranking above a serf in the social hierarchy.  She was little more than dirt to the nobility.  Her dreams were impossible.

            Shaking off her thoughts, Erika turned and hurried back to the stairs.  She hitched up the skirt of her dress before racing down the steps.  She hurried behind the counter that separated the casks and fireplace from the patrons.  Before she could grab a pitcher of ale and take it around, her mother caught her in a quick embrace.

            “You were beautiful tonight!” Marie declared, holding her daughter close.  “You sing better and better every night it seems.”

            “Thank you,” Erika replied, her voice shrunken in her modesty.  “But really, I do nothing different.”

            “Except daydream,” her father said as he filled a few drinks and passed them back over the counter.  “I know that look about you; the artist’s look.”

            “Is that not what we are?” Erika replied with a smile, turning as he mother released her.  “You’re the greatest artist I’ve ever seen!”

            “And you inherited the talents and cloud-filled head that comes with it,” he replied, a forlorn note creeping into his voice.  “It will get you nowhere in such a world as this, little songbird.”

            “Such idle things are for dreamers and nobility.  I know.”  Erika gave out a brisk sigh as she turned away from both parents and picked up a pitcher.

            Her mother cut the conversation off briskly, taking up a bowl of the stew she had been cooking and passing it to Erika.  “Take that to the man seated in the corner back there,” she urged, nodding towards the lone figure that was tucked away from everyone else.  There was a warning look in her mother’s eye; she thought the man a bit odd, and Erika had to agree.  His head was bowed, hiding his face in shadow.

            Erika moved ahead anyway, brushing past the visitors of the tavern, careful not to spill the bowl.  After a few near accidents, she skipped out at the table.  With a sigh of relief, she moved around to the side the man occupied.  He wore a long cloak that pooled on the floor; it twisted enough for her to note the purple silk lining.  At his throat, a fleur-de-lis gleamed in gold, pinning the cloak to his clothing.  She recognized it as the royal crest of the southern kingdom Orleen, and while she knew the color purple had significance, she couldn’t place it.

            Pushing her thoughts aside, she topped off his drink and set the bowl down before him.  “Is there anything else I could get for you?”

            “No,” the man replied, his voice coming out in the typical southern style: a slow, honey sweet drawl.  “I’m jus’ fine, merci, chere.”  He inclined his head just enough for Erika to see his mouth curve in a brief smile; his eyes stayed hidden under the long fall of his hair.

            As much as Erika wanted to linger and investigate the stranger further, she knew her parents would miss the extra hands.  It was with reluctance that she moved away, cutting a different path to fill any requested drinks before returning to her parents to continue with fresh ale.

            It was well over an hour later when she noticed that the strange southerner had left – yet he lingered in her mind like a warning bell from the cathedral.